The Time in Between: A Novel (70 page)

“It’s too hot here. Shall we try our luck on the roulette wheel?”

Again I pretended to be unimpressed by the opulence of the hall. Magnificent chandeliers hung from golden chains over the tables, around which swirled hundreds of players speaking as many languages as there used to be nations on the map of the old Europe. The carpeted floor muffled the sounds of people’s movements, which emphasized the other sounds that best befitted this paradise of chance: the clicking of the chips against one another, the buzz of the roulette wheels, the clattering of the ivory balls in their wild dances, and the cries of the croupiers closing play with a
Rien ne va plus!
There were a lot of people throwing away their money sitting around the green baize tables, and even more standing around them watching the games. Aristocrats who in another time had been regular losers and modest winners in the casinos at Baden-Baden, Monte Carlo, and Deauville, Da Silva explained. Impoverished bourgeois, paupers who had become rich, respectable beings who’d been transformed into riffraff, and true riffraff disguised as gentlemen. They’d all dressed up in their finery, triumphant and sure of themselves, the men stiff-collared and with their shirt fronts starched, the women arrogantly displaying their dazzling jewelry collections.
There were also some decadent-looking individuals, fearful or furtive in their search for some acquaintance to touch for a bit of cash, perhaps clinging to the more than improbable hope of a glorious night; others prepared to gamble the last of their family jewels or the following morning’s breakfast on the baccarat table. The former were moved by the sheer emotion of the game, by the desire to enjoy themselves, by dizziness, or covetousness; for the latter it was, simply, the barest desperation.

For a few minutes we wandered around, watching the various tables; he continued to dispense greetings and exchange friendly words. I barely spoke: all I wanted was to get out of there, to shut myself in my room and forget about the world. I just wished that this accursed day would come to an end once and for all.

“You don’t look like you fancy becoming a millionairess tonight.”

I smiled weakly.

“I’m exhausted,” I said. I tried to put a bit of sweetness into my voice; I didn’t want him to sense my concerns.

“Would you like me to take you to the hotel?”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Just give me a moment.” He took a few steps away from me to hold out his hand to an acquaintance he’d just seen.

I remained still, absent, not even bothering to distract myself with the fascinating bustle of the hall. And then, almost like a shadow, I realized that he was approaching. He passed behind me, stealthy, almost touching me. Surreptitiously, without even stopping, he took my right hand, opened my fingers, and put something inside. And I let him do it. And then, without a word, he left. As I kept my attention apparently fixed on one of the tables, I nervously felt the thing he’d left me: a bit of paper, folded several times over. I hid it under the wide belt of my dress just as Manuel stepped away from his acquaintance and walked back toward me.

“Shall we go?”

“I’ve just got to go to the powder room a moment first.”

“Very well, I’ll wait for you here.”

I tried to spot some trace of him as I walked, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in the powder room, just a sleepy-looking old black woman at the door. I took the piece of paper from out of its hiding place and unfolded it with nimble fingers.

“Whatever happened to the S. I left in T.?”

S. was of course Sira, and T., Tetouan. Where was the old me of the African days, Marcus was asking. My eyes filled with tears. I opened my handbag in search of a handkerchief and an answer. I found the first, but not the second.

__________

O
n Monday I resumed my outings in search of merchandise for the atelier. They’d arranged a visit for me to a milliner’s on the Rua da Prata, just around the corner from Da Silva’s offices: the perfect excuse for me to drop by, for no reason other than to say hello. And in doing so, to have a look around and see who was in his territory.

I only found the young, unfriendly secretary; Beatriz Oliveira, he had said was her name.

“Senhor Da Silva is traveling. Work,” she said, without any further explanation.

Just as on my previous visit, she made it clear she had no interest in being friendly, but just the same, it occurred to me that this might be the only time I’d be alone with her, so I didn’t want to waste it. Judging by her somber expression and her terseness, I expected it to be extremely difficult to extract even a tiny crumb of anything worthwhile from her, but I had nothing better to do, so I decided to give it a try.

“Oh my, what rotten luck. I wanted to consult him on a matter concerning the fabrics he showed me the other day. Are they still in his office?” I asked. My heart began to beat hard at the possibility that I might be able to get in without Manuel being around, but she cut short my false hope before it had even taken shape.

“No. They’ve been taken back to the warehouse.”

I thought fast. My first attempt had failed; well then, I’d just have to keep trying.

“Would you mind if I sat down for a minute? I’ve been on my feet all morning looking at caps, turbans, and picture hats; I think I need a bit of a rest.”

I didn’t give her time to reply: before she had the chance to open her mouth, I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, feigning an exaggerated weariness. We remained in silence for a long while, as she continued to go over a several-page document, from time to time making a little mark or a comment in pencil.

“Cigarette?” I asked after two or three minutes. Although I wasn’t much of a smoker, I usually had a cigarette case in my handbag. To use at just such moments.

“No, thank you,” she said without looking at me. She went on working while I lit one. I let her continue for another couple of minutes.

“It was you who found all the suppliers and arranged the appointments and prepared the folder with all the information, wasn’t it?”

Finally she looked up for a moment.

“Yes, it was me.”

“A great piece of work; you can’t imagine how useful it’s been for me.”

She muttered a quick thank-you and went back to focusing on her task.

“Of course, Senhor Da Silva isn’t short of contacts,” I went on. “It must be amazing having business dealings with so many different companies. And so many foreign ones, especially. In Spain everything’s much less interesting.”

“I’m not surprised,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I’m not surprised it’s not very interesting, bearing in mind who you’ve got in charge,” she muttered between her teeth with her attention apparently still on her assignment.

A quick shock of delight ran down my spine: the devoted secretary is interested in politics. All right, I’d try a different approach.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, slowly stubbing out my cigarette. “What do you expect from someone who thinks we women should stay home making dinner and bringing children into the world?”

“And who has filled up the prisons and denies his defeated opponents the slightest shred of compassion,” she added firmly.

“It certainly looks that way.” This was going in an unexpected direction; I’d have to act with extreme caution to win her trust and get her on my side. “Do you know Spain at all, Beatriz?”

I noticed she was surprised that I knew her name. Finally she deigned to put down her pencil and look at me.

“I’ve never been, but I know what’s going on there. I have friends who tell me. Though you probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about; you belong to a different world.”

I got up, approached her desk, and sat down boldly on the edge. I looked at her close up, to check out what there was beneath that outfit made from cheap material, which had undoubtedly been sewn for her years ago by some neighbor for a handful of escudos. Behind her glasses I saw intelligent eyes, and hidden amid the furious devotion with which she approached her work, I could sense a fighting spirit that seemed somehow familiar. Beatriz Oliveira and I weren’t so different. Two hardworking girls from similar backgrounds, backgrounds that were modest and filled with struggle. Two journeys that began from points close to each other and at some point the paths diverged. Time had made her into a meticulously dedicated employee; me, an entirely fake façade. Most likely, though, what we had in common was much more real than our differences. I was staying in a luxury hotel and she would be living in some leaky house in a humble neighborhood, but we both knew what it meant to struggle our whole lives to prevent ill luck from nipping at our heels.

“I know a lot of people, Beatriz; very different people,” I said in a low voice. “Right now I’m dealing with powerful people because that’s what my job demands of me and because certain unexpected circumstances
have introduced me to them, but I know what it’s like to feel the cold in winter, to eat beans day after day and struggle out into the street before the sun has risen to earn a miserable day’s wage. And in case it’s of any interest to you, I don’t like this Spain that’s being built any more than you do. Now will you accept a cigarette?”

She held out her hand without replying and took one. I held out the lighter, then took another myself.

“How are things in Portugal?” I asked.

“Bad,” she said, after exhaling the smoke. “Perhaps Salazar’s Estado Novo isn’t as repressive as Franco’s Spain, but the authoritarianism and the lack of freedom aren’t all that different.”

“At least here it looks like you’re going to remain neutral in the European war,” I said, trying to move in closer to my target. “In Spain things aren’t so clear.”

“Salazar has agreements with the English and the Germans, an uncommon balancing act. The British have always been friends to the Portuguese people, which is why it’s so surprising how generous he’s being with the Germans, granting them export licenses and other privileges.”

“Well, that’s not unusual nowadays, is it? These are delicate matters in turbulent times. I don’t understand much about international politics, to tell you the truth, but I imagine it’s all a question of self-interest.” I tried to keep my tone trivial, as though the subject barely troubled me: the moment had come to cross the line between the public and the close to home. “The same must happen in the business world, I guess,” I added. “Without going too far afield, just the other day, when I was in the office with Senhor Da Silva, you yourself announced a visit by a German.”

“Well yes, that’s a different matter.” The expression on her face was one of disgust, and she didn’t seem keen to say any more.

“The other night Senhor Da Silva invited me to join him for dinner at the casino in Estoril and I was amazed by how many people he knew. He was greeting English people and Americans as well as Germans and a fair number of Europeans from other countries; I’ve never seen anyone with such a facility for getting along with everybody.”

A twisted grimace displayed her annoyance once again. Still she said nothing, however, so I had no choice but to try to keep talking to prevent the conversation from petering out.

“I felt sorry for the Jews there, the ones who had to abandon their homes and their businesses to escape from the war.”

“You felt sorry for the Jews at the Estoril casino?” she asked with a cynical smile. “I don’t feel in the least bit sorry for them: they live like they are permanently on a luxury vacation. The ones I feel sorry for are the poor wretches who have arrived with a pathetic cardboard suitcase and spend their days standing in line outside consulates and shipping offices hoping to get hold of a visa or a passage to America that they might never receive; I feel sorry for the families who sleep all piled up in filthy boardinghouses and go to the soup kitchens for their food, the poor girls offering themselves up on street corners in exchange for a handful of escudos, the old men who kill time in the cafés, sitting in front of dirty cups that have been empty for hours, until the waiter throws them out onto the street to make room for someone else. Those are the ones I feel sorry for. But the ones who gamble away a part of their fortune every night at the casino—I don’t have any pity for them at all.”

What she was describing to me was moving, but I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted: we were on the right track, we had to keep going whatever it took. Even if it meant tugging at her conscience.

“You’re right; the situation is much more extreme for those poor people. Besides, it must be painful for them to see so many Germans moving so freely all over the place.”

“I imagine so . . .”

“And it must be especially hard for them knowing that the government of the country they’ve come to is so keen to oblige the Third Reich.”

“I suppose so . . .”

“And that there are even some Portuguese businessmen who are expanding their businesses at the cost of a few juicy contracts with the Nazis . . .”

I spoke those words in a thick, dark tone, moving closer to her and lowering my voice. We held each other’s gaze, both unable to look away.

“Who are you?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible. She’d leaned back, moving her body away from the desk and against the back of her chair, as though trying to get away from me. Her unsettled tone was full of fear; her eyes, however, didn’t look away from mine for a second.

“I’m just a dressmaker,” I whispered. “A simple working woman like you, who doesn’t like what’s happening around her any more than you do.”

I noticed how her neck tensed up as she swallowed, and then I formulated two questions. Slowly. Very slowly.

“What does Da Silva have to do with the Germans, Beatriz? What’s he involved in?”

She swallowed again and her throat moved as though she were trying to get an elephant down it.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she managed to murmur at last.

An annoyed voice came from the door.

“Remind me never to go back to the restaurant on the Rua de São Julião. It took us more than an hour to get served, and me with all the things I have to get ready before Don Manuel comes back. Oh! I’m sorry, Senhorita Agoriuq, I didn’t know you were here . . .”