The Time In Between (Sira Quiroga, #1)

by María Dueñas

How could we have known that with that simple act, with the mere fact of having taken two or three steps and crossed a threshold, we were signing the death sentence on our time together and irreparably twisting apart the strands of our future.

I discovered that there are substances you can smoke or inject or snort that will jumble your senses, that there are people capable of gambling away their mother at a baccarat table, and that there are passions of the flesh that allow for far more combinations than just those of a man and a woman horizontally on a mattress. I learned, too, that there are things that happen in the world that my dim education had never touched upon: I found out that years earlier there had been a great war in Europe, that Germany was being ruled by someone called Hitler who was admired by some and feared by others, and that someone who one day occupied a given place with a feeling of permanence could the following day vanish in order to save his skin, to avoid being beaten to death or ending up in a place worse than his darkest nightmare. And I discovered to my utmost dismay that at any moment and with no apparent cause, everything we believe to be stable can be upset, derailed, twisted from its course. Unlike what I had learned about people’s political leanings, about European affairs and the history of the countries of the people who surrounded us, this wasn’t a piece of knowledge I acquired because anybody taught me, but because I happened to experience it myself.

“If you talk about this damned war in this blessed house one more time, I’ll throw you all into the street and toss your suitcases off the balcony!” Reluctantly, and exchanging murderous glances, they all furled sails and concentrated on finishing their first course, struggling to contain their fury. The mackerel of the second course was devoured in near silence; the watermelon for dessert threatened danger because of its crimson color, but the tension never exploded. Lunch ended without any further incident; for that, I would only need to wait till dinner. It would all come back then, the ironic comments as a starter, and the double entendres, then the poison-tipped darts and the exchange of blasphemies and people crossing themselves, and finally the untrammeled insults and flying crusts of bread aimed at the eyes of the person opposite. And as a coda, we again heard Candelaria’s warning of the imminent eviction of all the guests if they persisted in reenacting the two sides of the conflict. I learned then that it was normal for this ritual to play out at the three daily meals at the boardinghouse, day in and day out. Never once, however, did our hostess cut a single one of the guests loose, despite the fact that they all kept their war nerves on the alert, their tongues sharp, ready to assail the opposing side mercilessly. Those days of scant trade were no time for the Matutera to voluntarily give up what each of those poor homeless devils was paying for room, board, and...

My health improved at the same rate as my spirits, a snail’s pace. I was still all skin and bones, and the pallid tone of my complexion contrasted with the faces around me tanned by the summer sun. My emotions were still taut, my soul weary; I still felt as torn apart by Ramiro’s abandonment as I had on that first day. I was still pining for the child whose existence I had only been aware of for a few hours, and I was once again consumed with worry over what had become of my mother in Madrid. Still frightened by the charges against me and by Don Claudio’s warnings, terrorized at the thought of being unable to make restitution and the possibility of ending up in prison, I had panic as my constant companion.

One of the effects of being crazily, obsessively in love is that it dulls your senses, your capacity for perception, till you no longer notice what is happening around you. It causes you to focus your attention so much on a single person that it isolates you from the rest of the universe, imprisons you inside a shell, and keeps you at a distance from other realities, even those right in front of you.

Propriety and honor were lovely concepts, but they didn’t give you food to eat, or pay your debts, or take away your cold on winter nights. Moral principles and irreproachable behavior were for another kind of creature, not for an unhappy pair with battered souls.

In the previous few months I’d slammed the door on my entire yesterday; I’d stopped being a humble dressmaker and transformed myself successively into a whole heap of different women. A civil-service candidate, heiress of a major industrialist, globe-trotting lover to a scoundrel, hopeful aspirant to run an Argentine company, frustrated mother of an unborn child, a woman suspected of fraud and theft in debt up to her eyebrows, and a gunrunner camouflaged as an innocent local woman. In even less time now I’d have to forge a new personality for myself, since none of the earlier ones would do. My old world was at war, and my love had evaporated, taking with him my possessions and my illusions. The child who had never been born had dissolved into a puddle of congealed blood as I got off a bus, there was a file with my details circulating through the police forces of two countries and three cities, and the small arsenal of pistols that I’d transported attached to my skin might already have taken a life. Intending to turn my back on such pitiful baggage, I decided to confront the future from behind a mask of security and courage, preventing people from seeing my fear, my miseries, and the dagger that was still piercing my soul.

Behind me was a complicated past, and in front of me, like an omen, I could see a space opening out, a great empty space that time would take care of filling up. But with what? With things, and affections. With moments, sensations, and people: with life.

As I regarded her in silence, unexpectedly I saw the shadow of my mother pass in front of her face. Dolores had very little in common with the Matutera. My mother was all rigor and temperance; Candelaria was pure dynamite. Their modes of being, their ethical codes, and the way they faced up to what fate offered them were quite different, but for the first time I saw a certain similarity between the two of them. Each, in her way and in her own world, belonged to a stock of brave women who fight their way through life with the little that luck gives them. For myself and for them, for all of us, I, too, had to fight to make that business stay afloat.

On top of that were a couple of glasses, a cocktail shaker, a pack of Turkish cigarettes, and an ashtray. In one corner, balancing on a big stack of wooden crates, a portable gramophone played Billie Holiday singing “Summertime.”

“Baroness de Petrino—of Romanian origins. Maiden name, Elena Borkowska. Married to Josef Hans Lazar, head of press and propaganda for the German embassy. Her husband is one of our top targets for acquiring information: he’s an influential man with immense power. He’s very capable and extremely well connected in the Spanish regime, in particular with the most powerful of the Falangists. On top of that he’s extremely gifted in public relations: he organizes wonderful parties at his Castellana mansion and invites dozens of journalists and businessmen whose support he buys by regaling them with food and drink that he brings over directly from Germany. His lifestyle is scandalous in a Spain that’s suffering so much right now; he’s a sybarite and a lover of antiques—he’s probably been able to get hold of the most valued pieces, paid for by other people’s hunger. Ironically it would appear that he’s Jewish and of Turkish origin, something he’s careful to hide. His wife is completely a part of his hectic social life and is just as showy as he is in her incessant public appearances, so we have no doubt that she’ll be one of your first clients. We’re hoping that she’s one of the ones who’ll bring you the most work, both in sewing and when it comes to passing us information about her activities.”

“Gloria von Fürstenberg. Of Mexican origin in spite of her name. Be very careful what you say in front of her because she’ll be able to understand everything. She’s an incredible beauty, really elegant, the widow of a German aristocrat. She has two children and somewhat catastrophic economic circumstances, which is why she’s constantly on the hunt for a new rich husband or, in the absence of one of them, any gullible man with a fortune who might offer her enough support to maintain her grand lifestyle. Which is why she’s always attached to powerful men; she’s linked to various lovers, including the Egyptian ambassador and Juan March, the millionaire. Her social activity never stops, always within the Nazi community. She’ll give you a lot of work, too, you can count on that, though she might also take some time to pay her bills.”

“Elsa Bruckmann, born the Princess of Cantacuzène. A millionaire, passionate admirer of Hitler though much older than him. They say she was the person who introduced him to Berlin’s lavish social scene. She’s given an absolute fortune to the Nazi cause. Lately she’s been living in Madrid, in the ambassador’s residence, we don’t know why. That notwithstanding, she seems to be very comfortable here, and she’s another who never misses a social event. She’s known to be a bit eccentric and quite indiscreet, so she may be an open book when it comes to divulging relevant information.

The last of the German ladies: the Countess Mechthild Podewils, tall, beautiful, about thirty, separated, a good friend of Arnold, one of the top spies active in Madrid and high up in the SS; his surname is Wolf—she calls him Wölfchen, the diminutive, Little Wolf. She is extremely well connected with both Germans and Spaniards, the latter belonging to the aristocratic and governmental circles, including Miguel Primo de Rivera y Sáenz de Heredia, brother to José Antonio, who founded the Falange. She’s a fully fledged Nazi agent, though she may not know it herself; they say she doesn’t understand a word of politics or espionage, but they pay her fifteen thousand pesetas a month to tell them everything she sees and hears, and in Spain today that’s an absolute fortune.”

“Now we’re onto the Spaniards. Piedad Iturbe von Scholtz, Piedita to her friends. The Marchioness of Belvís de las Navas, married to Prince Max of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, a rich Austrian landowner, a legitimate member of European royalty, though he’s spent half his life in Spain. In principle he does support the German cause because that’s his country, but he’s in regular contact with us and with the Americans because we’re important to his business interests. Both are extremely cosmopolitan and they don’t seem to like the Führer’s ravings one bit. The truth is, they’re a charming couple and very well regarded in Spain, but they’re still on the fence, if I might put it like that. We want to keep an eye on them to learn whether they’re leaning more toward the German side than to ours, you understand?”

“And the last of the highest-valued targets, Sonsoles de Icaza, Marchioness of Llanzol. She’s the only one we’re not interested in for her consort, who’s a soldier and aristocrat thirty years older than her. Our target here is her lover: Ramón Serrano Suñer, minister of governance and secretary-general of the movement. The minister of the Axis, we call him.” “Franco’s brother-in-law?” I asked, surprised. “The very same. Their relationship is quite brazen, on her part especially—she boasts publicly and without the slightest hesitation about her affair with the second most powerful man in Spain. This woman is as elegant as she’s arrogant, and very tough, so be careful. She’ll be of v...

They arrived together, Dora and Martina, with an age difference of two years. They looked alike, and yet different at the same time, as though complementing each other. Dora seemed to be in better shape, Martina won out on features. Dora seemed smarter, Martina sweeter. I liked them both.

“Thank you for asking me here, Beatriz. Please, there’s no need to be afraid: no one in Lisbon will ever know about this conversation.” It was a few seconds before she replied. When she did it was with her eyes still fixed on her lap and her voice barely audible. “You work for the English, don’t you?” I lowered my head slightly in assent. “I’m not really sure that this will be of any use to you, it’s not a lot. I only know that Da Silva is in negotiations with the Germans over something related to the mines in Beira, a region in the interior of the country. He’s never had any dealings in that area before. It’s all recent, just over the last few months. Now he goes almost every week.” “What’s it about?” “Something they call ‘the spit of the wolf.’ The Germans are insisting on exclusivity, for him to cut off his dealings with the British altogether. And on top of that he is to get the owners of the adjacent mines to join him and stop selling to the English, too.”

“Who are these Germans?” I whispered from under my veil. “Weiss is the only one who’s come to the office—three times. He never speaks to them on the telephone; he thinks the line might be being tapped. I know that outside the office he’s also met up with another one, Wolters. This week they’re expecting a third one to come from Spain. They’re all going to be having dinner at his estate tomorrow—Thursday night: Don Manuel, the Germans, and the Portuguese owners of the neighboring mines in Beira. That’s where they’re expecting to close the deal: he’s been in discussions with the mine owners for weeks to get them to supply only to the Germans, nobody else. They’ll all be there with their wives and he’s anxious to treat them well: I know that because he made me order flowers and chocolates to welcome them.”

“He’s alerted us”—she went on, her head bent down again—“not to put through any calls from certain Englishmen he used to be on good terms with. And this morning he had a meeting in the basement with two men, two ex-convicts he sometimes uses for protection; from time to time he’s found himself in trouble. I was only able to overhear the end of the conversation. He ordered them to deal with these Englishmen, and, if necessary, to neutralize them.” “What did he mean, ‘neutralize them’?” “Get them out of the way, I guess.” “How?” “Use your imagination.” The congregation stood up again, and again we joined them. They began to chant with fervent voices, and I felt my blood thundering in my temples. “Do you know what the names of these Englishmen are?” “I’ve written them down.” Stealthily she pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. “I promise I don’t know anything else.” “Send someone again if you hear anything new,” I said, thinking of my open balcony doors. “I will. And please, don’t use my name. And don’t come by the office anymore.” I couldn’t promise her that I’d do as she said because like a black crow she immediately took flight. I remained a short while longer, sheltered between the stone columns, the off-key chants, and the murmur of the litany. When I had finally managed to get over the impact of what I’d heard, I unfolded the piece of paper and confirmed that my worst fears were not unfounded. Beatriz Oliveira had given me a list of five names. The fourth was Ma...