Sira, page 49
Just then the doorbell rang. Trying to clean myself with a damp cloth, I went to the door. I’d assumed it would be Félix, or perhaps one of the girls, having forgotten something. The one person I never would’ve anticipated finding there was Ira Belline.
“I wanted to say an enormous thanks for your excellent work,” she said, putting a hand to her heart and tapping it. Then she smiled as I invited her in out of sheer politeness, not expecting for one moment that she would accept. But she did.
“We’ve just moved in, we’re still—”
“C’est une jolie maison.”
I called Philippa so she could take over with Víctor, and I apologized for the state of my blouse. I was far from pleased that Barbara Hutton’s confidant was seeing me in such a state, unkempt, struggling with a child who was in full rebellion.
“And you’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t have anything to offer you.”
She was indifferent.
“Was it here you sewed all the curtains?”
Fortunately, Maruja and her colleagues hadn’t taken away their sewing machines yet. They were too heavy, and we had agreed that they would send someone to fetch them the next day. Everything had been tidied, however. Spare material, fabric scraps, reels, bobbins, all in perfect order, like a tiny army of objects. So I asked Ira to follow me and showed her the corner room. The windows were still wide open, the sun was going down, and the room was in semidarkness. With its high ceilings and the resting machines, it exuded a strange beauty.
“It was our first job in Tangier” was all I said.
“I have no doubt you’ll have more work soon.”
I tried not to allow myself to be dragged along by the current.
“No, I don’t plan . . .”
I left the sentence hanging, and she didn’t press me. We headed back toward the living room and were about to go in when I changed my mind and suggested we go out on the veranda. The temperature was pleasant, the air smelled of lady of the night, jasmine, the white roses in the flowerbeds, and the sea in the background. Before I’d invited her to sit, she slumped into one of the hammocks.
“Organizing Sidi Hosni must be a complicated business.”
I’d spoken cautiously while striking a match to light the lanterns that Félix had brought. The candles sprouted flames with a beautiful glow.
“You can’t imagine,” she admitted.
A lively group passed by on the other side of the garden fence—boys, girls, speaking Italian. No doubt they were heading to the nearby Parque Brooks, where there was to be a dance that evening.
“You know, I always thought of myself as an effective organizer. I’ve worked in a lot of places, I’ve been a partner in businesses in Paris, Cannes, Marrakech . . .”
“But you’re not French, are you?”
“Not originally. I was born in Russia, but I arrived in France young. The Revolution, you know . . .”
Yes, I did know. It was precisely because of some stones that had left the same country during that turbulent time that I was now in Tangier.
“But this is pushing me to my limits,” she added in little more than a murmur. “This was supposed to be a minor endeavor, a temporary refurbishment until the princess, once she’d settled in, could make the decisions.”
“And things got complicated . . .”
She sighed deeply. We heard more noise coming from the street, this time the click of heels alongside flat footsteps. It was completely dark out now. I guessed it was a couple that was walking past. Perhaps I should’ve gotten up to turn on a light, but I didn’t. We remained in the shadows with only the lanterns for light.
“Everything’s multiplying by two, by three, by four, by five . . . ,” she continued, counting in a low voice as if talking to herself. “She keeps changing her mind. What was good yesterday is no good now. Then there’s the added difficulty of the distance. The requests, orders, instructions—they all go back and forth in telegrams and telephone calls, letters, packages. Commands and retractions cross each other. They don’t understand in London that things happen at a different pace here.”
I wished I had a bottle of something, wine, champagne, even a soft drink. Anything to offer Ira Belline so that she’d feel at ease, so she’d keep talking and fill my ears with details about Sidi Hosni and its owner.
“Mrs. Hutton must be a very special person.”
“You can be certain of that, chérie.”
“And she must be enormously excited about the palace.”
“Évidemment. But many can’t understand it, can’t fathom why she’d set her mind on a residence that’s undoubtedly beautiful but so, so complex.” She let out a short, dry burst of laughter. “No one even knows how they’re going to get her car through those narrow streets!”
I recalled the surrounding area—the holes, the puddles, the humble people, the scattered debris. It had certainly been a strange whim that had led her to live in such a house.
“Anyway, mon amie, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Let’s get to the point.”
I straightened my back. The point? What was this “point”? I’d thought she’d come to thank me for my work, perhaps to pay me. A mere formality, in any case.
“I believe you said the other day that you had lived in Tangier before, so I suppose you know the nature of this world well.”
Without knowing what she was referring to, I just muttered, “More or less.”
“You see, another requirement has been added to the princess’s list. She wants a wardrobe in keeping with the location. Not just any wardrobe, naturellement, but something with soul and quality, if you know what I mean.”
She’d explained badly, but I believed I understood what she was saying.
“I’d planned to go to Marrakech,” she continued. “I know someone there who makes just such clothes, an exquisite French designer, albeit rather extravagant. But I’m so busy now that I’m not going to be able to make the trip.”
I let her go on without interrupting her, my eyes fixed on the flames.
“Which was why I was wondering if you, Madame Bonnard, with your style and that efficient team of yours, could perhaps prepare a line of Moroccan-inspired garments for the princess to wear this summer.”
I was still trying to digest the offer when Ira Belline sighed loudly.
“I know this is another eccentricity, and please forgive my boldness in proposing such a thing, but she’s determined that the clothes should be ready for her when she arrives. Mrs. Hutton’s new property acquisition has inspired in her a deep passion for the traditional and the authentic. It even seems that she intends to bring with her valuable jewelry of a certain exotic flavor—which, between you and me, I find perplexing. You know the palace’s surroundings. Let’s hope the pieces are well insured, at least. Otherwise, God help us, as her compatriots say.”
71
I had the hardworking hands of Maruja Peña and her colleagues from Patio Pinto at my disposal. I had my good judgment and my background as a dressmaker. And I had an objective. With these three factors, I was close to gaining access to Sidi Hosni and its world. However, I still needed a fourth component.
Fabric, textiles, cloth. That was what was missing: material to work with. And that was precisely the problem—I couldn’t find it anywhere, despite all my traipsing around Tangier. I spent an entire day trawling the little artisan shops in the medina where the Moroccan population did its shopping, but all I found were coarse, everyday fabrics, with no body, lacking refinement. The next day I headed to the modern area where businesses catered to international clientele. These were almost all owned by Jews. My skin prickled when I saw, in various places, Hebrew signs that reminded me of Jerusalem.
But it wasn’t fair to associate these decent traders with the terrorists who’d ended Marcus’s life at the King David. Forcing myself not to invent sinister connections that did not exist, I went from shop to shop on Boulevard Pasteur, Calle Velázquez, Calle Murillo, and Calle del Estatuto, as well as Rue Jeanne d’Arc, Rue Delacroix, and anywhere else that was recommended to me. But all I found were rolls of fabric of a European sort—plain wools and common cottons, cretonnes, gabardines and flannels—for making ladies’ and gentlemen’s outfits, children’s clothes, and uniforms. There was nothing here that I could use for the line of sophisticated kaftans I’d decided to create to meet the demands issued by Mrs. Hutton, the princess without a principality, the extravagant heiress.
Someone told me about an elderly antiquarian in the Fuente Nueva neighborhood, but each time I went to that corner of the medina I found only a locked door. Another person also told me there was an old merchant in Fez who sold antique Persian fabrics, but for a thousand different reasons, that place was beyond my reach. I returned home frustrated and sweltering shortly after two o’clock. Outside, the east wind was battering the buildings and spoiling people’s day at the beach. As soon as I opened the door, I heard yelling and Víctor crying in the kitchen. I rushed in to find a disastrous scene. Everything was in disarray, and my son was sitting in his high chair, angry because they were trying to feed him some new baby food that, once again, he didn’t like. Philippa and one of the Moroccan girls were arguing without understanding each other. The other girl, with her back to me, was stroking one of the cats, which was perched on the bench, while the other animal, with no one paying attention to it, was licking a plate.
“What is going on here?”
My raised voice was followed by a sudden silence. Even Víctor stopped crying, while the cats slipped away to the rear patio with guilty stealth. Within seconds, however, the racket started up again: the Moroccan girls yelled in unison in their native dialect of Darija, a cowed Philippa complained tearfully in English, and my son continued his wordless tantrum. With the boy on my hip, I tried to mediate between the three young women, but it was impossible—how does one resolve an argument over a vegetable purée between two girls from the outskirts of Tangier and a placid subject of the British Empire? Fed up and unable to get them to reach an understanding, I asked the former to tidy the kitchen and go home, and the latter to get out of the way and do whatever she pleased. Then I gave Víctor a banana and we went upstairs to get changed. Half an hour later, the two of us were in a taxi on the way to Tétouan, and this time there was no opportunity to slip into melancholy or longing on the way. I had enough problems in the present: my despair at not being able to find the fabrics I needed for my work, my frustration at not being able to get my own house in order. I was indignant, angry with everyone else, and with myself. I hadn’t even managed to persuade Víctor, asleep now thanks to the bumpy car ride, to finish his damn banana.
My mother welcomed us with open arms again and soon had her grandson eating gluttonously. Infected by her composure, I began to feel calmer. I didn’t mention my worries, however. I didn’t want her to see me in a fragile state. We went out for another walk while Sebastián stayed at home reading the Diario de África and listening to a broadcast on Radio Dersa, the local Francoist shortwave station. We strolled along the usual streets and down to the park.
“How about we drop by La Luneta on the way back and say hello to Candelaria?”
I agreed right away. How could I refuse? We started at the street’s southern end, the one opposite to Plaza de España. Inwardly, I was retracing the steps I’d taken on that foolhardy night long ago when—at Candelaria’s behest—I’d walked under the stars wearing a haik stuffed with pistols. I’d never said a word about that episode to my mother, but I broke out in goose bumps remembering that night now. The weight of the guns pressed against my skin all the way to the station. The terror that had gripped my stomach when the military patrol stopped me for a moment. The walk back, once day had begun to dawn: me dirty and barefoot, loaded with money but unable to feel even a pinch of satisfaction. The terrifying feeling I’d had when I imagined what might become of the man who’d untied the cache of guns from my body.
Walking unhurriedly, we crossed paths with Moroccans and Spaniards, vendors selling hot buns and cones of toasted chickpeas. We passed the Teatro Nacional, the Monumental Cinema, Café Oriente, Bar Levante, and Callejón de Intendencia, seeing a variety of establishments I knew, and others that were more recently opened. I felt a stab in my gut as we arrived at the guesthouse where I’d once lived, about halfway up the road. I saw myself there again: thin, fragile, clinging to my little suitcase, terrified of Commissioner Vázquez’s authority.
The door was open, so we walked into the cool, gloomy hallway. “Candelaria!” my mother shouted. No one came, but the residents of that long-ago time began to appear in my mind as if the past had suddenly returned. The teacher Don Anselmo with his phlegmy coughing, the fool Paquito and his despotic mother, sweet Jamila with a basket of chard. “Candelaria!” I heard again. Víctor protested. He didn’t seem to like the place. I, on the other hand, couldn’t resist stepping forward over the floor tiles of that past life.
We found her in the courtyard behind the kitchen, crushing ingredients for gazpacho in a bowl. Sitting on a decrepit bullrush chair, in a threadbare apron and espadrilles, she was alone in that space that had always been so full of life. Her hair was undyed and her face expressionless. Around her were only remnants of the greenery there had once been. The previously bountiful flowerpots were now empty, only a few lifeless geraniums were poking out from food cans. No life remained even in the canary cages.
“Holy Mother of God! What a surprise to see you here!”
There was a mixture of genuine joy and barely concealed discomfort in her voice. She was none too pleased that we were seeing her and her house in such a state of decline. All the same, she bit the bullet and invited us to sit down. She wiped the filthy table with the end of her apron. She gave Víctor a hunk of bread, which he gladly accepted; my mother and I accepted glasses of cool water from a botijo.
Then she slumped into her chair, the wood creaking under her weight as she slapped her thighs loudly.
“Well, you can see how things are here. In a bad way, let’s not kid ourselves.”
We tried without much conviction to lighten her pessimism—we couldn’t make ourselves blind to the obvious reality.
“These days visitors all go straight to the new guesthouses in the suburbs, flats with balconies over the street and hot water, and rooms without leaks or dampness. But that’s just one part of my situation. At least without them, I don’t have to spend all day toiling like a draft horse. My bones aren’t up to much running about these days. No, I don’t miss having guests. The worst part, the thing that’s left me wasting away, is my other business.”
Her shady dealings, I assumed she meant. The buying and selling under the counter, the wheeling and dealing, the exchanges. All that must’ve been in decline as well, judging by the state of the place.
Candelaria picked up her pestle again, fixed her eyes on the broken tomatoes and pieces of cucumber, added a splash of oil, and set to work on them, almost viciously. Without looking up, she added, “It’s the Indians. It’s all their fault, this mess.”
I frowned. The Indians? What Indians was the smuggler talking about and what was their fault? I didn’t have to wait long for answers because she reeled them off.
“They had one or two businesses before, but after the war ended, in no time they were running the show. The fountain pens I used to shift, the imitation stockings, the watches and perfumes, all the goods we brought in from Gibraltar hidden in our petticoats to resell . . . they all have it now, nicely arranged and set out for purchase. After all the running up and down we did, me and my friends, for a few measly pesetas, after all the trouble we had dodging the police . . . You remember, Sirita, that Commissioner Don Claudio, how he made my life a misery, the old bastard.”
I recalled Commissioner Vázquez with a touch of nostalgia. And I also remembered the Indians’ emporiums, though they’d been nothing special at the time. My ex-landlady, meanwhile, continued her energetic wrist work, pounding the vegetables for the gazpacho.
“They even sell radios now, right here, in La Luneta. And nail varnish and those Pond’s face creams, and cameras and Lux soaps from the Americans. They sell just about everything, those swine.”
“And why are these people here?” my mother wanted to know. Her curiosity was genuine—she didn’t know much about geography or the ways of the world.
“There’s problems in India, they say, with those pesky British. That’s what people who know about these things are saying.”
It was my mother, again, who cautiously asked me about it.
“You’ve lived with those people, dear, you must know a bit about the empire.”
Indeed, the matter was discussed on the streets of London and in the press. Fran Nash and Nick Soutter mentioned it in their letters. The great, powerful, majestic British Empire was springing leaks, and word was it would fall sooner rather than later. The pro-independence uprisings in India were constant; the negotiations, arduous. Perhaps that was why some, anticipating turbulent times, had opted to leave. Even so, I still couldn’t see the connection between Tétouan and the British Raj.
