Free The Time in Between: A Novel by María Dueñas, Daniel Hahn Page A

brave, so start getting things together, because we’re off.”
    I didn’t reply, and my silence forced him to interrupt his frantic activity. He looked up at me, smiling briefly at my confusion. Then he came over, grabbed me by the waist, and with a kiss tore all my fears up by the roots and gave me a transfusion of energy that could have flown me directly to Morocco.
    Our haste allowed me only a few minutes to say good-bye to my mother; little more than a quick hug practically at the door and a don’t-worry-I’ll-write. I was glad there was no time to prolong the good-bye—it would have been too painful. I didn’t even look back as I trotted down the stairs; in spite of her fortitude I knew she was about to burst into tears and that wasn’t the moment for sentimentality. In my state of utter unawareness, I felt that our separation wouldn’t last long, as though Africa were just a few blocks away and our trip wouldn’t be for more than a few weeks.
    We disembarked in Tangiers on a windy afternoon in early spring. After leaving a harsh grey Madrid, we arrived in this strange, dazzling city, filled with color and contrast, where the dark faces of the Arabs with their djellabas and turbans mingled with those of European settlers and others fleeing their past, in transit to a thousand other destinations, their suitcases filled with uncertain dreams. Tangiers, with its sea, its twelve international flags, and its striking vegetation of palms and eucalyptus, with Moorish alleyways and new avenues driven by impressive motorcars with CD license plates:
corps diplomatique
. Tangiers, where minarets and the scent of spices lived comfortably side by side with consulates, banks, frivolous foreign women in convertible cars, and the aroma of Virginia tobacco and duty-free Parisian perfumes. The terraces of the harbor’s bathing resorts greeted us with awnings fluttering in the sea air, Cape Malabata and the Spanish coastline visible in the distance. The Europeans, dressed up in light-colored lightweight clothing, protected by sunglasses and soft hats, sat with their legs crossed indolently, sipping their aperitifs as they perused the international press. Some were devoted to business, others to administration, and many of them to a life that was idle and deceptively carefree: the prelude to something uncertain that had yet to arrive and that not even the most audacious were able to foresee.
    While awaiting concrete news from the owners of Pitman Academies, we were lodged at the Hotel Continental, overlooking the port and just beside the old town. Ramiro cabled the Argentine firm to inform them of our change of address, and I took charge of makingdaily inquiries to the hotel management concerning the letter that would mark the beginning of our future. Once we had received our reply, we’d decide whether to remain in Tangiers or install ourselves in the Protectorate. In the meantime, while the communication took its time crossing the Atlantic, we began to move about the city among other expats like ourselves, part of that mass of beings with varied pasts and unpredictable futures who were dedicated body and soul to the exhausting chores of chatting, drinking, dancing, watching shows at the Teatro Cervantes, and gambling their futures on a hand of cards, unable to ascertain whether life had a sparkling destiny in store for them or a sinister end in some dark alleyway.
    We began to be like them and entered a time that was anything but tranquil. There were vast hours of love in our bedroom in the Continental while the white curtains fluttered with sea breezes; furious passion beneath the monotonous sound of the fan blades mingling with the labored rhythm of our breaths; and the salty taste of sweat on our skin and the rumpled sheets overflowing the bed, spilling onto the floor. We went out constantly, enjoying the streets night and day. At first, not knowing anyone, we went around alone, just the two of us. On days when the east wind