See How Much I Love You (11 page)

The sun had barely risen when they heard the loud beep of a horn. ‘It’s Sid-Ahmed,’ announced Lazaar after peering out. ‘Your friend’s with him.’ There was an immediate flurry of activity, with women and children coming and going. Santiago ran out into the street. Guillermo, with his head bandaged, was sitting in the back seat of a Renault 12. He didn’t look too well, but appeared to be okay. Santiago hugged him leaning in through the window. Sid-Ahmed moved over and Lazaar, dressed in his uniform, got in on the driver’s seat. One of Lazaar’s brothers got in as well, in the back seat, and told Santiago to do the same. San Román touched his head and felt something missing.

‘My cap, Lazaar, I forgot my cap.’ He went back into the house and out to the patio. Andía was there, feeding lentils to the goat. She had such a serious expression that Santiago thought she might be angry. ‘Have you seen my cap, Andía?’ She pointed half-heartedly to the line where the clothes had hung all night. Santiago took it down quickly and put it on. Andía came out of the pen and waylaid Santiago.

‘I do want to,’ she said, very seriously.

‘What is it you want?’

‘To be your girlfriend. I want to be your girlfriend.’ Hurried and all, Santiago could not contain a smile.

‘I’m glad, very glad. I’ll be the envy of the Legion. No soldier there has a girlfriend as pretty as mine.’ Andía smiled too. Santiago kissed her briefly and said goodbye, but before he left
he heard the Saharawi’s voice.

‘Will you come up and see me?’

‘Of course, Andía, I’ll be back.’

That morning, Guillermo and Santiago were the first to join ranks. No one could have guessed they had spent the night away from the barracks. As they themselves had done on other occasions, their fellow soldiers had kept their absence secret and covered their backs. No one asked any questions. Santiago and Guillermo entered through a hole in the wall known only to the Saharawis. It was Lazaar who told them what to do. They went round the Nomad Troops’ pavilion and reached their building just when reveille was sounded. It all happened so quickly that they didn’t have time to reflect about what they were doing. Later, in the soldiers’ mess, the two legionnaires were surprised at how easy it was to get in and out of the barracks, and at the fact that the Saharawis knew secrets that no one else did.

Santiago San Román was short of breath when he saw Baquedano’s silhouette appear among the shadows. Without his uniform, the sergeant lost the authority and pomposity he had in the barracks. He was wearing a blue jacket with its collar up and synthetic trousers with flared bottoms. Behind him were the two old legionnaires. Although not running, they were walking at some speed. As soon as he recognised them, San Román tensed up. He was lucky to be back in the car, as Baquedano had instructed. When the sergeant got in he had already started the engine.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, San Román! Quick!’ the sergeant shouted.

Santiago stepped on the accelerator and released the clutch at the same time. The car lurched forward with a noise of screeching tires. Santiago didn’t know which way to go.

‘Not that way, you idiot! To the square,’ shouted Baquedano. ‘I want you to drive twice around it for everyone to see you.
And do one of those spins of yours.’

For the first time Santiago turned to look at the sergeant, and noticed that he had a blue hold-all between his legs.

‘And you, cover your faces!’ he ordered to the legionnaires riding in the back seat.

In the rear-view mirror San Román saw the two veterans cover themselves with sacks like the one Baquedano held in his hand. The sergeant did the same. As Santiago skidded and did a spin at Plaza de España, he felt naked before they eyes of a group of young people sitting in the gardens. He didn’t quite understand what was going on. The sergeant put the hold-all on the floor with a clinking sound.

‘To the Smara road,’ shouted Baquedano. ‘Floor it!’

Santiago obeyed without thinking. As he went past the
Parador Nacional
, he saw a lieutenant get out of his car. Santiago didn’t dare to ask the sergeant what was going on. The fear that that man instilled in him ruled out any initiative.

They left the city lights behind. The road looked like a continuation of the desert. The sergeant patted him on the shoulder.

‘Well done, lad. You’ve got balls.’

After about four kilometres Santiago turned into a dirt road. He soon found the Land Rover in which they had left from the Alejandro Farnesio headquarters. He turned off the lights and cut the engine. The sergeant directed every one of his moves. Their eyes took a while to adjust to the moonlight.

‘I want you to put on your uniforms and pretend you’re just out on leave.’

As they got dressed, San Román looked at the veterans out of the corner of his eye. One seemed euphoric, while the other wore a serious expression and remained silent. Baquedano approached him from behind and forced him to stick his chin out.

‘Are you a chicken?’

‘No, sir, of course not.’

‘Then what are you?’

The legionnaire hesitated but then said, as loud as he could:

‘I’m a bridegroom of death, sir!’

‘That’s right. You should know who your mother is,’ said Baquedano, pointing to the flag. ‘And who’s your bride.’

‘Sir…’ said the legionnaire, and then went quiet.

‘What’s the matter? You’ve never seen anyone get killed?’ shouted Baquedano, anticipating the man’s thoughts.

‘No, sir, never. It’s the first time…’

‘Be grateful then, as you now know your bride’s face.’ Baquedano was shouting so much that his neck swelled. Then he took a deep breath and started singing: ‘No one in the regiment knew / who that legionnaire was / so fearless and so bold /who enlisted in the Legion.’

Encouraged by the sergeant, the men sang along.

‘No one knew his story / but the Legion supposed / that a great pain was biting / his heart like a wolf.’

Santiago, frightened, added his voice to the chorus:

‘I’m a man whom fortune / hurt with a beast’s claws / I’m a bridegroom of death / who will tightly embrace / his faithful companion.’

As they finished putting on the uniforms and sang at the top of their voices, Baquedano loaded the three hold-alls onto the back of the Land Rover. He took something out of one of them and put it on top of the car. It was a silver chalice. San Román didn’t understand a thing. Then the sergeant gave each of them a piece of paper.

‘A promise is a promise: here’s a week’s permit. I don’t want to see you near the barracks until the week is out. We’re all in this together, and if anyone spills the beans I’ll flay them alive.’

Santiago was about to retrieve the keys from under the passenger seat, but Baquedano got there first. He took him aside and said almost in a whisper:

‘You stay here. I want you to wait until we’re gone. Then
you’ll take the Seat and wheel it down that ravine over there. Set it on fire and leave. But don’t move until it’s completely burnt. You understand? You can be back in El Aaiún in under an hour.’

Santiago didn’t reply. He was relieved to part company with the others. Before the sergeant got behind the wheel, he gave Santiago the chalice that he had taken out of the bag.

‘Leave this in the back seat. Don’t forget it.’

Santiago held it in his hand, touching the relief figures as if they burned. Meanwhile, the Land Rover started and the two legionnaires broke into song, encouraged by Baquedano:

‘Just to come and see you/ My faithful lady/ I’ve become a bridegroom of death/ I held her tight/ And her love became my flag.’

Santiago was tempted to dispose of the chalice and run away, but fear prevented him. He took a deep breath and, in the moonlight, looked around for the ravine that the sergeant had indicated. Like an automaton, he got into the car, threw the chalice onto the back seat and drove down a gentle slope scattered with bushes. In the damp cold night he inhaled the strong smell of earth. A dazzled hare froze in front of the headlights. Santiago thought he saw himself reflected in its terrified eyes. He turned off the lights. He didn’t quite know what to do. His uniform burned his skin. After undressing slowly, he put his civilian clothes back on. He opened the petrol tank and threw in a match. He recoiled at the sudden flash.

He walked across the field to the road. From there he could see the car in flames. He headed towards El Aaiún. Not one car came his way. When he arrived, dawn was barely an hour away. It was Sunday and he felt lost. He slumped on a wooden bench, under a palm tree on Plaza de España. And it was at that moment that he realised what had happened. There was a commotion at the entrance to the church. A crowd of people was standing there as though they were at the box office of a
cinema. Santiago drew near with a mixture of fear and curiosity. He learned that the church had been robbed. The police were keeping people away. A stretcher was brought out with a dead body covered by a blanket.

‘Is that the priest?’ asked a woman.

‘No, the sacristan. So they say. They’ve stolen all the objects of value from the sacristy. The poor man must have been sleeping. He never saw it coming.’

Santiago walked away trying hard not to run. He felt cheated, furious, scared. He didn’t know where to go or what to do with his seven days’ leave. Without much thought he directed his steps to the Zemla quarter. As he started uphill he opened the bag in which he had his uniform and change of clothes; he took out the turban Lazaar had given him and put it on while walking along the empty streets. He wandered about without quite knowing what he was doing. No one took any notice of him. He went into a store and bought some tobacco. He tried to make sense of what had happened. At mid morning he recognised the Renault 12 and the front door of Lazaar’s house. He was about to knock when he noticed the door was open. Inside, seated on the carpet, two women were painting their fingers with henna.

‘
Salama aleikum
,’ said Santiago.

They greeted him back without any sign of surprise, and asked him in. He thought one of them was Lazaar’s mother, but they looked so alike under the
melfa
that he couldn’t be sure. Suddenly Andía rushed in from the street, nearly out of breath. She had seen Santiago from afar. She smiled, breathing heavily. Then she went out into the patio and started shouting. The men of the family came into the room and, one by one, shook Santiago’s hand. Andía lit a small brazier and put the kettle to boil.

‘Lazaar is not in,’ explained Andía with a smile. ‘Now you’ll be my guest.’

T
HE CITY’S ARTERIES WERE CLOGGED WITH CARS
. T
RAFFIC
lights no longer served any purpose. The Guardia Urbana was incapable of bringing order to such chaos. Everywhere one looked, children were dragging their parents towards the parade of the Magi. The shops seemed to be in the final seconds of a race against time. Doctor Montserrat Cambra was dazed by the general bustle and the young ones’ unbounded enthusiasm. It had taken her nearly an hour to find a free cab and, when she finally did, the driver had to make a detour of several kilometres to reach Barceloneta. Once there she felt her mouth dry up and her stomach shrink. Although she was familiar with the symptoms, she felt as frightened as she did the first time that she had been there.

Years ago the city ended at the Estación de Francia. The steel web of tracks was like a cold, desolate curtain behind which one could only imagine dilapidated grocery stores, huge warehouses and perhaps the sea. Now it looked like a different city. She knew Carrer de Balboa well, but the sadness gathering in her chest prevented her from walking in that direction. Instead, she went into the Palau del Mar building. Her only time in it had been nine years before, at the opening. Her husband and their daughter, Teresa, had come along: the perfect family. Teresa was not yet ten. She could still see her running between the tables of the restaurant. The image hurt – hurt a lot. Montserrat Cambra took the lift to the top floor. As it went up, the pressure
in her chest increased. She felt nauseous. A little later she sat at the entrance to the Museo Histórico, fighting back her retching. She tried to take deep breaths to stave off a panic attack. She closed her eyes, but opened them right away because she felt dizzy. Her pulse raced. She feared she might pass out. From her bag she took out a bottle of pills. She put two in her mouth and swallowed them anxiously.

On the other side of the huge window, Barceloneta appeared as if on a cinema screen. Montse opened her eyes and tried to see the landscape as she remembered it. Twenty-six years before, the building she was in was nothing but a store in ruins, about to crumble into the sea. It wasn’t unusual to spot large rats which had no fear of humans. The houses in Barceloneta echoed with transistor radios and women’s singing. Their terraces were a tangle of rickety aerials and clothes hung out to dry.

Suddenly she pictured her daughter coming out of the museum with her husband. The image was so real she had to close her eyes to blot it out. She needed fresh air. Montse left the building anxiously. The cold January weather brought her back to reality. She headed for Ayach Bachir’s house. Although the neighbourhood had changed, everything was familiar. She had no trouble finding the address. When someone came out of the building she slipped in through the door. The smell brought a number of images to mind. The flats were still all very much alike. She sat down on the stairs and waited for the lights to go off. Then she put her head on her knees and effortlessly remembered the first time she had been in the area.

One morning Santiago San Román appeared in front of the shoe shop without a car. ‘Today I feel like walking,’ he told Montse. She did not raise any objections. She pressed her books against her and walked beside him without replying. The boy had a serious expression for the first time in weeks. She didn’t have the courage to ask, but suspected something was troubling
him. As they walked by a rubbish bin, she threw in her folder and books. Santiago looked at her as though she had committed a crime. ‘What are you doing?’

‘No more studying for me.’ She took him by the hand and they pressed on along Vía Cayetana. ‘I’m going to spend a few days with my parents at Cadaqués,’ she lied. ‘They really want to see me.’ Santiago frowned and stopped walking.

‘When?’

‘Saturday. My father’s coming to pick me up.’ San Román was slow to react. He looked bewildered, nearly despondent.

‘Saturday! You’re leaving on Saturday. For how long?’ Montse was deliberately mysterious.

‘I don’t know: till September, probably.’ Santiago opened his eyes as wide as they went. He looked as though he were the brink of a panic attack. ‘Unless…’ continued Montse.

‘Unless…?’

‘Unless you tell me the truth.’ That was the master stroke. He went red in the face. His pulse raced and his voice trembled.

‘What do you mean, the truth?’ Montse quickened her step, and he had to struggle to keep up. ‘Wait, sweetheart, don’t leave like this. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never lie to you…’ He trailed off when she stopped and glared at him.

They had the last beer of that summer sitting outside a bar. Santiago paid with his last one-hundred-peseta note, offering it to the waiter as if he were entrusting him with his life.

‘Are you going to be honest with me?’ Santiago checked his fingernails and then sipped at his beer.

‘Okay, you’re right. I don’t work in a bank or anything like that. I made it up.’

‘I knew that already,’ replied Montse. ‘What I want to know is what you really do. Because I’m beginning to think that all those cars are stolen.’ Santiago gave a start.

‘They’re not. I swear on my mother’s life. They’re from the garage. I pick them up in the morning and return them after I
drop you off at home.’

‘The white convertible too?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you work in a garage?’ Santiago slouched a bit and lowered his voice.

‘I used to.’ Montse pressed some more.

‘Have you got a new job?’

‘More or less. Well, no, they’ve sacked me.’ It was time to cut him some slack. She took his hand and kissed him very tenderly. Santiago went on talking as if his words burnt his mouth. ‘Yesterday the boss realised a car was missing. I had it, of course. He waited for me at the entrance to the garage. He says he’s going to report me to the police, and he’s refusing to pay me all the money he owes me. He’s an arsehole. He hasn’t paid me since January.’

‘And all that money you had?’ asked Montse, intrigued.

‘I know how to earn a living, what do you think? I fix old parts and leave them as good as new. Stuff you can’t find anywhere else. Anyway, that arsehole Pascualín spilled the beans.’

‘Pascualín works with you?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I thought he didn’t look like a banker,’ said Montse, trying to make him smile.

‘Banker! He can barely do a sum. He told the boss about the cars. He said that I’d only been dropping by the garage to borrow cars in the morning and return them in the evening.’

‘And all this time the boss had not been to the garage?’

‘Like hell he had. He just buys stolen cars, has them dismantled and sells the parts in Morocco. And then lives it up in Tangiers with a stash of dope and a bunch of whores.’ Santiago realised he had said too much. Montse grew serious. She wanted to believe him, but the story was too far removed from her world. ‘What is it? You asked me to tell you the truth, and that’s the truth,’ he said. Montse was slow to react.

‘I don’t care about any of it. I only wanted to be with you. It hurts that you’re a liar, though.’ San Román stuck his hands in his pockets.

‘Are you leaving for Cadaqués on Saturday?’ She had the upper hand now.

‘It depends on you. If you show me you’re sorry, I’ll stay here with you.’

‘What do I have to do to prove it?’

‘Introduce me to your parents.’ San Román went quiet. That was the last thing he was expecting. Montse stood up, offended by his silence. ‘Just as I thought, all talk and no action.’ She stormed off. She was so offended she felt capable of anything. San Román went after her and held her by the shoulders.

‘Wait up, darling, I haven’t even said no.’ Montse crossed her arms and gave him a defiant look.

‘Well I haven’t heard anything else either. And your face says it all.’

‘Fine. I can’t introduce you to my father, because I’ve never met him. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. I’ll take you to see my mother, but she’s not well: she suffers from nerves and forgets stuff all the time.’

It was the first time Montse had been beyond Estación de Francia. Had it not been for Santiago, she would never have been curious enough to venture into the area, which felt like a different city. Songs by Antonio Molina spilled from radios out into the street. The smell of stews cooking mixed with that of the diesel heating the shops and the rotting algae gathering in the Dársena de Comercio. Santiago didn’t hold her hand once. For the first time she saw that he was embarrassed. With his head lowered, he walked one step ahead of her, and greeted people half-heartedly.

Santiago San Román’s mother ran a tobacconist’s off Calle de Balboa. It was a run-down little shop, with cracked floor tiles; the counter and shelves were very old, and darkened
by layer upon layer of varnish. The glass panels of the door rattled. Santiago gave his mother a kiss and said without much enthusiasm: ‘Mum, this is Montse.’ The woman looked at the girl as if from the bottom of a deep pit. Then she looked at her son. ‘Have you eaten, Santi?’

‘No, mum, it’s only twelve. I’ll eat later.’ Santiago grabbed a packet of Chesterfields and slipped it in his pocket. Montse, although she didn’t want to appear impolite, couldn’t take her eyes off the sickly-looking woman dressed in black from head to toe. Santiago’s mother sat at a small table with some knitting patterns and a skein of wool on it. The boy gestured to Montse to wait for him and disappeared in the back room of the shop. She felt tense. She didn’t know what to do or say to the woman who was knitting without lifting her gaze from the needles. Standing still, she just looked at the piles of cigarette packs. Time moved very slowly.

Suddenly Montse said: ‘It looks like it won’t be very hot today.’ Santiago’s mother looked up, left her knitting on the table and stood up.

‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,’ said the woman, as if it were the first time she’d seen her. ‘What would you like?’ Montse froze.

‘Nothing, thanks. I’m Montse, Santiago’s friend.’ The woman looked at her, trying to place her.

‘Montse, yes, of course. Santi is not here yet. He’s at the garage. If you like, I’ll tell him you came by at noon.’ Montse nodded. The woman sat back down and resumed her knitting. Presently Santiago reappeared, with a hand in his pocket. He kissed his mother.

‘I’m going now, mum.’ The woman said goodbye without even lifting her head.

Out in the street, Montse tried to smile.

‘She’s a very handsome woman, your mother.’

‘You should have seen her a few years ago, I’ve got pictures
form the time she came to Barcelona and met my…’ His face darkened. He took his hand out of his pocket and showed her a silver ring, then slipped it on the finger where it fitted best. Montse smiled at him.

‘Is it for me?’

‘Of course. It’s a family ring. My grandmother gave it to my mother, and now it’s yours.’ Montse took Santiago by both hands.

‘What’s wrong with your mother, Santi? Is she ill?’

‘I don’t know. The doctor says it’s nerves. I’ve always seen her like that, so I’m used to it.’ Santiago was anxious, and jumped up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘Let’s go now; it’s very hot in this neighbourhood,’ he told Montse.

When Santiago San Román opened his eyes, the sun had already reached the balcony outside Montse’s bedroom. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was surprised to find the girl’s body beside him. He had a sweet taste in his mouth. Montse’s smell suffused the sheets and the pillows. He inhaled it. Asleep she looked so beautiful he didn’t want to wake her. He slipped out of bed and got dressed without taking his eyes off her. The house was in total silence. It was still very early. Santiago knew that, after a day off, the maid would not return until after ten, on the way back from the market. He wandered about the corridors, looking at the paintings and the furniture as though he were in a museum. It was the first time he’d been in a carpeted flat. The living room smelled of leather and the velvet of the curtains. He lingered for a bit in a study with bookshelves covering one wall, and degrees and diplomas on the other. Suddenly he felt out of place. He walked round the corridors again, found the door and ran downstairs. Once in the street he checked his pockets: he only had six pesetas. He followed the road until he reached a rubbish bin. He stuck his hands in it and retrieved Montse’s books and folder.

Montse opened the door with her eyes red from crying. She looked at Santiago as if he were a ghost.

‘You’re an idiot,’ she said, leaning against the door frame. Santiago didn’t see what the problem was. He showed her the books.

‘This is yours. I don’t want my wife to be as ignorant as me.’ Montse shivered. She took him by the hand and pulled him inside.

‘Come on in, we need to have breakfast before Mari Cruz gets here.’

The noise of the key turning in the lock caught them in the kitchen, while they were warming up some milk. Montse pricked up her ears like a hunting dog. Santiago’s heart jumped.

‘Is it the maid?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to remain calm. ‘But it’s too early, it’s not even nine.’ That was all she had time to say. Then Mari Cruz appeared, covered in sweat and carrying a big basket. She froze on the threshold, her eyes fixed on Santiago. ‘This is Santiago, a classmate from the Academy. He’s come to pick me up, as we both take the same bus.’ Mari Cruz put the groceries on the table without saying a word. Then she left the kitchen.

‘She didn’t buy it,’ he said.

‘I don’t care. She can’t say anything, trust me.’ When Montse went to her room to get ready, the maid came back into the kitchen, as though she’d been waiting for her cue behind the door.

‘I know you,’ said Mari Cruz in a menacing tone.

‘Don’t think so, it’s the first time I’ve come round.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve seen you in the neighbourhood.’ Santiago held his breath and his gaze.

‘Aren’t you Culiverde’s grandson?’ He thought of running away without giving any explanations, but something kept him glued to the spot. ‘Aren’t you the tobacconist’s son?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mari Cruz positioned herself in the doorway, with arms akimbo.