“Why don’t you tell me what you’re after and we’ll see if I can help?”
I turned around.
“I need someone who draws well to copy some designs from a magazine.”
“Go to Bertuchi’s academy.”
“Whose?”
“Bertuchi, the painter.” The expression on my face gave away my ignorance. “Honestly, girl, you’ve been in Tetouan for three months and you still don’t know who Master Bertuchi is? Mariano Bertuchi, the greatest painter in Morocco?”
I didn’t know who this Bertuchi was, nor was I in the least bit interested. All I wanted was an urgent solution to my problem.
“And he’ll be able to draw me what I need?” I asked anxiously.
Don Anselmo gave a laugh, followed by a fierce coughing attack. The three packs of Toledo cigarettes a day were costing him dearly.
“The things you think of, Sirita, my child! How is Bertuchi going to draw clothing designs for you? Don Mariano is an artist, a man completely immersed in his painting, in making this country’s traditional arts survive and disseminating the image of Morocco beyond its borders—he’s not a portrait artist working on a commission! It’s just that in his school you’ll be able to find a number of people who’ll be able to give you a hand: young painters without a lot to do, girls and boys attending painting classes.”
“And where is this school?” I asked, putting on my hat and quickly grabbing my bag.
“Next to the Puerta de la Reina.”
The confusion on my face must have moved him again, because—after another rough laugh and one more bout of coughing—he got up from his seat with some effort and added, “Come on, then, let’s go; I’ll come with you.”
We left La Luneta and entered the mellah, the Jewish quarter. As we walked down its tidy, narrow streets, I silently remembered my aimless wanderings on the night with the guns. Everything seemed different by daylight, however, with the small businesses and the currency exchanges open. We then went into the Moorish alleys of the medina, with its labyrinthine web in which I still found it hard to get my bearings. Despite the height of my heels and the tubular narrowness of my skirt, I tried to walk at a good trot over the cobblestones. Don Anselmo was prevented from keeping pace, due to his age and his cough, not to mention his incessant chatter about the coloring and the luminosity of Bertuchi’s paintings; about his oils, his watercolors, and pen-and-ink drawings; about what the painter had done to promote the school of indigenous arts and the fine arts preparatory school.
“Have you sent any letters back to Spain from Tetouan?” he asked. “Well, almost all the stamps of the Protectorate are based on Bertuchi’s drawings. Pictures of Alhucemas, Alcazarquivir, Xauen, Larache, Tetouan. Landscapes, people, scenes of everyday life: all come from his brush.”
We walked on, he talking, I trying to quicken the pace as I listened.
“And the posters and placards to promote tourism, haven’t you seen those either? I don’t imagine that in these ill-fated times anyone is planning to come out to Morocco for pleasure, but for years it’s been Bertuchi’s art that has been responsible for spreading the word about this country’s bounties.”
I knew which posters he was referring to. They were stuck up in a lot of places; I used to see them every day. Prints of Tetouan, Ketama, Arzila, and other spots of interest. And under them, the line “Spanish Protectorate in Morocco.” It would not be long before they changed the name.
We reached our destination after a good walk on which we found ourselves passing men and souqs, goats and children, jackets and djellabas, voices haggling, well-swathed women, dogs and puddles, chickens, the smells of coriander and mint, of baking bread and olive dressings; in short, a torrent of life. The school was on the edge of the city, in a building that belonged to an old fort that loomed over the city wall. There was a certain amount of bustle in its vicinity, with young people coming in and out, some of them carrying large folders under their arms, some of them alone, and some chatting in groups.
“Here we are. I’ll leave you and take advantage of this outing to get a little glass of wine with some friends who live in La Suica. I haven’t been getting out much lately and I have to make the most of it every time I do.”
“And how do I get back?” I asked, doubtful. I hadn’t paid the slightest attention to the twists and turns of our route, thinking the schoolmaster would be making the return journey with me.
“Don’t worry about that, any of these young men would be delighted to help you. Good luck with the drawings—you’ll tell me later how you got on.”
I thanked him for coming with me, went up the steps and into the enclosure. I noticed several stares suddenly lighting on me; in those days they can’t have been used to the presence of a woman like me in that school. I went halfway into the entrance hall and stopped, uneasy, lost, not knowing what to do or whom to ask for. Before I had time to take my next step, I heard a voice behind me.
“Well, well—my pretty neighbor.”
I turned, with no idea who could possibly have uttered those words, and saw the young man who lived opposite me. There he was, this time on his own. Many pounds heavier and with a lot less hair than someone who hadn’t yet reached thirty should have. He didn’t even let me speak.
“You seem a little adrift. Can I help?”
It was the first time he had ever addressed me. Even though we’d crossed paths several times since my arrival, I’d always seen him accompanied by his mother. On those occasions neither of us had murmured more than a polite good afternoon. I was also familiar with a less pleasant aspect to their voices: the one I heard from my house almost every night, when mother and son became embroiled in the most heated, stormy discussions. I decided to be candid with him: I hadn’t prepared any evasions.
“I need someone to do some drawings for me.”
“Might I ask what they’re of?”
His tone wasn’t rude, merely curious. Curious, direct, and slightly affected. He seemed much more confident on his own than in the company of his mother.
“I’ve got some photos from years ago and I want someone to draw me some sketches based on them. As I’m sure you know, I’m a dressmaker. They’re for an outfit I need to sew for a client; I have to show it to her first to get her approval.”
“Have you got the photographs with you?”
I gave a quick nod.
“Do you want to show them to me? I might be able to help.”
I looked around me. There weren’t too many people, but enough to make me uncomfortable about showing the clippings publicly. I didn’t have to tell him this—he guessed for himself.
“Shall we go outside?”
Once we were out on the street, I took the old pages out of my handbag. Without saying a word, I held them out to him and he looked at them carefully.
“Schiaparelli, the muse of the surrealists—how interesting. I do adore surrealism, don’t you?”
I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was asking me, and at the same time I was in a terrible rush to solve my problem, so I drew the thread of the conversation back, ignoring his question.
“Do you know who would be able to do them for me?”
He looked at me through his thick glasses and smiled without parting his lips.
“Would you mind if I helped?”
That very night he brought me the sketches; I hadn’t expected him to get them done so soon. I was already set for the end of the day, having put on my nightdress and a broad velvet housecoat that I’d sewn for myself to kill time in the empty days I had spent waiting for customers. I’d just had dinner from a tray in the living room, and it still held the leftovers of my frugal sustenance: a bunch of grapes, a piece of cheese, a glass of milk, some crackers. Everything was silent and switched off, except for a standing lamp still on in a corner. I was surprised to hear someone at the door at nearly eleven o’clock. I quickly approached the peephole, curious and alarmed in equal measure. When I saw who it was, I drew the bolt a
nd opened the door.
“Good evening, my dear. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Don’t worry, I was still up.”
“I’ve got a few little things for you,” he said, allowing me to glimpse several pieces of cardboard that he had been hiding behind his back.
He didn’t hold them out to me but kept them half concealed as he remained impassive on the threshold, with his work out of my sight and an apparently inoffensive smile on his face. I hesitated a few moments, not wanting to invite him in at that late hour.
I eventually got the message. He didn’t mean to show me a single bit until I had let him through.
“Please, do come in,” I agreed at last.
“Thank you, thank you,” he whispered gently, not hiding his satisfaction at having gotten what he wanted. He was dressed in a shirt and a pair of trousers, but with a felt dressing gown over them. And with his little glasses. And those slightly affected gestures of his.
He studied the entrance hall critically, then went into the living room without waiting for me to invite him all the way in.
“I like your home very much indeed. It’s very airy, very chic.”
“Thank you, I’m still settling in. Would you be kind enough to show me what it is you’ve brought?”
My neighbor didn’t need me to say any more to know that if I’d allowed him in at that time of night, it wasn’t to hear his comments on decorative matters.
“Here’s your little assignment,” he said, at last showing me what he had kept hidden.
Three boards sketched in pencil and pastels depicted three angles and poses of a model with such perfect proportions that she no longer appeared realistic, dressed in a unique skirt that wasn’t really a skirt. My approval must have shown instantly on my face.
“I take it you think they’re good?” he said with a touch of undisguised pride.
“I think they’re extremely good.”
“You’ll keep them, then?”
“Of course. You’ve gotten me out of a really difficult situation. Please tell me how much I owe you.”
“Your thanks, no more than that; it’s a welcome present. Mama says we have to be nice to our neighbors, even though she only likes you so-so. I think you seem too confident to her, and just a little bit frivolous,” he observed ironically.
I smiled, and the tiniest current of sympathy seemed to join us momentarily; just a whiff that disappeared as quickly as it had come when we heard his progenitor yelling her son’s name through the half-open door.
“Féééééé-lix!” She stretched out the e like the elastic on a slingshot, and once she’d extended it as far as she could, she fired off the second syllable hard. “Féééééé-lix!” she repeated. He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated gesture of despair.
“Can’t live without me, poor thing. I’m off.”
His mother’s harsh voice called for him again, a third time with that infinite initial vowel.
“Ask me again whenever you like; I’d be delighted to do more drawings for you, I’m crazy about anything from Paris. Well, I’m going back to the dungeon now. Good night, my dear.”
I closed the door and spent a long while examining the drawings. They really were delightful; I couldn’t have imagined a better outcome. That night I went to bed with a pleasant feeling.
The next day I was up early; I was expecting my client at eleven for the first fittings, but I wanted to finalize every detail before she arrived. Jamila was not yet back from the market, but she was due at any moment. At twenty to eleven the doorbell rang, and I thought perhaps the German lady had come early. I was again wearing the navy blue outfit: I’d decided to use it as though it were a work uniform, elegance of the most pure and simple kind. That way I’d make the most of my professional attire and conceal the fact that I hardly had any autumn clothes in my wardrobe. My hair was already done, my makeup perfect, and my old silver scissors were hanging around my neck. Just one little touch was missing: the invisible disposition of a woman of the world. I assumed the attitude quickly and opened the door confidently. And then the world crumbled at my feet.
“Good morning, miss,” said the visitor, taking off his hat. “May I enter?”
I swallowed.
“Good morning, Commissioner. Of course—please, do come in.”
I led him to the living room and offered him a seat. He approached a chair unhurriedly, distractedly looking about the room as he walked through. His eyes moved slowly over the elaborate plaster moldings on the ceiling, the damask curtains, the large mahogany table covered in foreign magazines. And the old chandelier, beautiful and striking, which Candelaria had gotten hold of God knows where or for how much, and through what dark machinations. I felt my pulse speeding up and my stomach turning over.
At last he sat down and I sat opposite him, in silence, waiting to hear what he had to say, trying to hide my anxiety at his unexpected presence.
“Well, I see that things are progressing full steam ahead.”
“I’m doing the best I can. I’ve started working; I was just waiting for a client.”
“And what is the work you’re doing exactly?” he asked. He knew the answer all too well, but for some reason he wanted me to tell him.
I tried to speak in a neutral tone of voice. I didn’t want him to see me afraid and guilty looking, but on the other hand I didn’t mean to come across to him as an overly confident, bold woman either, which he more than anyone knew I wasn’t.
“I sew. I’m a dressmaker.”
He didn’t answer, he just looked at me with his piercing eyes and waited for me to continue my explanations. I gave them to him sitting up straight on the edge of the sofa, without displaying even a trace of the poses from the sophisticated repertoire I’d rehearsed a thousand times for my new persona. No spectacular leg crossing or casual smoothing of my hair. Not even the slightest batting of my eyelashes. Composure and ease, those were the only things I was trying to convey.
“I used to sew before in Madrid; I’ve spent half my life doing it. I worked in the atelier of a very well regarded dressmaker, where my mother worked as well. I learned a lot there: it was an excellent atelier, and we used to sew for important women.”
“I understand. A very respectable occupation. And whom do you work for now, if I might ask?”
I swallowed again.
“Not for anyone. For myself.”
He raised his eyebrows in an expression of feigned surprise.
“And may I ask, how was it that you managed to set up this business all on your own?”
Commissioner Vázquez might be inquisitive as the devil and hard as steel, but above all he was a gentleman and as such formulated his questions with immense courtesy. Courtesy seasoned with a touch of skepticism that he didn’t try to hide. He seemed much more relaxed than on his visits to the hospital. He wasn’t so strained, so tense. It was a shame that I wasn’t able to offer him answers that matched the standard of his elegance.
“I had the money lent to me,” I said simply.
“My word, how lucky you’ve been,” he said ironically. “And would you be so kind as to tell me who the person was who’s done you this extremely generous favor?”
I didn’t think I could do it, but the reply came out of my mouth instantly. Instantly, and confidently.
“Candelaria.”
“Candelaria the Matutera?” he asked with a half smile loaded with sarcasm and disbelief in equal measure.
“Yes, that’s right, señor.”
“Well now, how interesting. I didn’t know there was so much to be made from black market dealings these days.”
He looked at me again with those eyes like drills, and I knew then that my luck was balanced at exactly the midpoint between survival and being cast into the abyss. Like a coin that’s been thrown into the air, with equal odds of landing heads or tails, or a clumsy tightrope walker on the wire, as likely to end up on the floor as to remain suspended. Or a tennis ball served by the
model in the picture my neighbor sketched, an unlucky shot propelled by a graceful player dressed in Schiaparelli: a ball that doesn’t cross the court but rather stops for the eternity of a few seconds on the edge of the net before tumbling one way or the other, unsure whether to grant the point to the glamorous tennis player sketched in pastels or her anonymous opponent. Salvation on one side, total collapse on the other, and me in the middle. That’s how I saw myself in front of Commissioner Vázquez on that autumn morning. I closed my eyes, breathed in through my nose. Then I opened my eyes again and spoke.
“Listen, Don Claudio: you advised me to get some work, and that’s what I’m doing. This is a decent business, not a fleeting pastime nor a cover for something unsavory. You have a lot of information about me: you know why I’m here, the reasons for my fall, and the circumstances that prevent me from leaving. But you don’t know where I’ve come from and where I want to go, and now, if you’ll allow me, I’m going to tell you. I come from a humble home: my mother was single, raised me on her own. As for my father, the father who gave me the money and jewels that were largely responsible for my misfortune, I didn’t learn about him until several months ago. I knew nothing of him until one day he suddenly got the idea into his head that he was going to be murdered for political reasons, and when he stopped to measure up his past, he decided to recognize me as his daughter and bequeath me a part of his inheritance. Until then, however, I hadn’t even known his name, nor had I enjoyed a single wretched cent of his fortune. So I started working at a young age. At first my duties were nothing more than making deliveries and sweeping the floor for a pittance, as I was still a child. I was the same age as those girls in their Milagrosa school uniforms who just passed by on the street; maybe one of them was your own daughter on her way to school, that world of nuns, penmanship, and Latin declensions, which I never had the chance to master because in our house I had to learn a trade and earn a living. But I was happy to do it, believe it or not: I loved sewing, and I had a knack for it, so I learned, I tried hard, I persevered and in time became a good seamstress. And if there came a day when I gave it up, it wasn’t on a whim, but because things had become difficult in Madrid with the political situation. A lot of our clients went abroad, the workshop shut down, and I was never able to find more employment.