See How Much I Love You (13 page)

‘Here,’ the woman said in Spanish. Montse lifted her head as if she’d heard a revelation. The woman held out a ladleful of water. ‘You’ve been losing water for nearly an hour. If you don’t drink, you’ll get dehydrated.’ Montse took the ladle to her lips. She sipped. The water was salty and smelled awful. ‘Drink,’ said the woman. ‘Better to get diarrhoea than to become dehydrated.’ Montse drank it up, trying to conceal her disgust.

‘Thanks.’ The woman went back to her place and crouched down. ‘Do you all speak Spanish?’

‘Not them.’ Montse realised that the woman was dressed differently from the others.

‘Are you Algerian?’

‘Saharawi.’ Montse sat beside her, feeling momentarily relieved.

‘From the refugee camps?’

‘Have you been there?’

‘No, I didn’t get that far. I had problems when I got to Tindouf.’ Montse started telling the unknown woman everything that had happened to her. The Saharawi listened motionless, clicking her tongue whenever there was a pause. Montse felt much better when she finished the story of her ordeal. The woman didn’t take her eyes off her, as if she wanted to make sure that she understood every single word.

‘I’m Montse,’ she said, breaking the silence.

‘I am Aza.’

‘And how did you end up here?’ Aza made a gesture of despair. She had been shut away in the junk heap with the two Algerians for two days. She’d gone to Tindouf to make a phone call and buy some ballpoint pens. On the way back to the camp, her four-by-four broke down. The two young men who were with her decided to walk the twenty kilometres to their
wilaya
while she remained in the vehicle, waiting for them to come back with help. She had food and water, so there was nothing to worry about. But the Spaniard’s truck came by and offered her a lift. The rest Montse could guess. ‘And what do you think they’ll do to us?’ Montse asked naively. Aza’s face grew worried, and she buried it in her
melfa
. She didn’t say anything.

Time stood still inside the hovel. The first two days seemed interminable. They heard the men talking outside, but couldn’t see anything through the cracks in the window. Montse had to be allowed out a few times because of her upset stomach. Seeing the sunlight and breathing in clean air was her only luxury. Aza and the Muslim women endured the imprisonment much better than she did. They could sit still for hours, without moving,
drinking or eating. Montse clung to the Saharawi in order not to lose her mind. She did everything Aza told her to: she drank the stagnant water, ate the rotten fruit and tried not to move much when it was very hot. The three women, it seemed to Montse, showed superhuman endurance. When she felt she couldn’t take it anymore, she talked to Aza. She learned the Saharawi’s strong Caribbean accent stemmed from the many years she’d spent in Cuba as a student. But when Montse asked her about her life in more detail, Aza would shut down and change the subject.

‘Who are these men, Aza?’

‘Mean people, my friend.’

‘But what do they want?’

‘I don’t know, and I’d rather not think about it until the moment comes.’ She would then click her tongue and wave away the flies with extraordinary elegance.

On the third day they heard the engine of the truck roaring again. The four women grew alert, thinking the men would leave them behind on their own. But soon the door opened and they were led into the trailer. In spite of the appalling conditions, the journey felt like a small luxury in comparison with the days shut away in the hut. Montse looked at the immensity of the Sahara through the planks half-covered by the canvas. They drove for more than three hours. The truck finally stopped by the side of a well surrounded by a few trees. It was the only sign of life they’d seen in several kilometres. The rocks were smouldering.

Layla looks serious, engrossed as she is in Montse’s tale. After a moment of silence she clicks her tongue and looks towards the
jaimas
, which are barely visible in the declining sunlight.

‘Why do you do that?’ asks Montse.

‘Do what?’

‘That clicking with the tongue.’

‘It’s a habit.’

‘Aza used to do just that. She can’t be a hallucination.’

‘No, it doesn’t sound like she was. But let’s go now, it’s getting dark.’

The
jaimas
are set considerably wide apart, and there are no streets between them. The mud buildings have no identifying feature: they all look the same. Layla moves in the dark as if she were in broad daylight. They walk slowly. When they reach her
jaima
, Layla starts shouting to the people inside. A woman comes out and starts shouting in her turn. She looks angry and startles Montse.

‘She’s my aunt, don’t worry. She’s telling me off for being late.’

They walk into the tent, and Montse is amazed by the world that opens before her eyes. Men and women are crouching down on brightly coloured carpets. A fluorescent tube powered by a car battery hangs in the middle of the
jaima
. There are several children about. The women’s
melfas
and the girls’ dresses are like bursts of colour in the white light. Montse’s heart misses a beat. She takes off her boots and starts to greet everybody. Almost everyone speaks Spanish, with a strong Arabic accent. The children want to touch her and sit beside her. Layla introduces everybody, and Montse cannot remember the names for more than a few seconds. She retains the expression in the eyes, the smiles, the gestures. She feels tired, and finally sits down.

Layla speaks for her. Montse likes to hear her talk in Hassaniya. Someone offers her a glass of tea, which she gladly accepts. Children from other
jaimas
keep pouring in. Layla’s aunt tries to frighten them away as if they were chickens, but the children offer resistance. An old man shouts at them and, finally, they reluctantly leave, though they sit outside in the sand, only a few metres away from the entrance. Montse cannot cope with the attention from so many people. For a moment she is overwhelmed. Layla looks at her and understands she is very tired. The nurse stands up and starts making gestures. No
doubt she is asking the others to leave. Montse tries to stop her, but Layla is determined. Everyone gets up without a fuss. One by one, the men shake Montse’s hand and walk out. Then it’s the womens’ turn. Layla’s aunt lags behind. She keeps giving her niece instructions. By the time they are both alone, Montse is exhausted.

‘You shouldn’t have sent them away. I’m pleased to meet them.’

‘They talk too much. They’ll stay here all night if you let them. They are in no hurry. They’ve been known to spend four days chatting and drinking tea just because there was a visitor from another
daira
.’

Montse smiles but shows signs of fatigue. Layla takes a couple of blankets from the cupboard and spreads them over the carpet.

‘Tonight no one will bother you.’

‘No one bothers me, Layla. Don’t tell me you’re sending your aunt away, too.’

‘She’ll be fine anywhere else. You’re my guest.’

Montse has no strength to argue. She looks quietly at Layla, who’s looking for something in the cupboard. Eventually she takes out a pair of scissors. She sits down next to Montse and tells her to lower her head.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m cutting your hair. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Montse smiles. She tries to feel as peaceful as Layla seems to be. She draws near and lets her do as she wishes. The Saharawi cuts lock after lock, making a little heap on the floor. The rhythmic sound of the scissors and Layla’s hands make Montse sleepy, but she doesn’t want to miss a thing. She struggles to stay awake.

‘Layla.’

‘Yes?’

‘I lied to you.’ Layla doesn’t say anything. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly lie, though I didn’t tell you the whole truth either.’

Montse goes quiet, but the nurse doesn’t want to press further
lest she give the impression of being too curious.

‘I do have a daughter. But she died last year.’

It’s the first time Montse has spoken about her daughter since her death. She feels relieved. Layla clicks her tongue and goes quiet.

‘She had an accident on her motorcycle. She was nineteen, and her name was Teresa, like my sister.’

After that she only hears the sound of the scissors and the wind beating against the canvas of the
jaima
. The last thing she hears before falling asleep is Layla’s voice:

‘Thank you.’

S
OLDIERS WHO’D NEVER READ A NEWSPAPER IN THEIR LIVES
could now be seen queuing up for one, or standing in circles while the better educated read the news from Spain out loud. The Spanish government had sold the largest share of the phosphate mining company Fos Bu Craa to Morocco, but the news arrived quite late in El Aaiún. By the time it spread among the civil servants, the deterioration of public life was apparent. In the barracks the officers barely mentioned the
pro-independence
revolts taking place in the streets to the troops. The robbery of the church and the murder of the sacristan had upset the precarious stability between Saharawis and Spaniards.

Very few things, apart from sergeant Baquedano’s presence, worried Santiago San Román or caused him to lose sleep. Yet the general insecurity in the barracks unsettled him. He often found conversations about politics tedious and difficult to follow. April and May saw the coming and going of troops, new orders from superiors, counter-orders, manoeuvres, and night-time operations. Many blamed the Polisario Front for all the outrages that were being committed, and the desecration of the Church was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The press called it a terrorist act. San Román was frightened by the memory of that night, and struggled not to think about his participation in it. He tried to salve his conscience by not adding his voice to the proclamations against the Polisario Front and its supporters.

Guillermo experienced things differently. The building
works at the zoo stopped, and most of his company was assigned to planting landmines on the border with Morocco. When the landmines ran out, they started planting plastic fakes, which looked so real that they caused confusion, which led to some fatal mistakes for the people handling them.

Meanwhile, San Román was required to drive Land Rovers, official vehicles, trucks, diggers, anything with a steering wheel and an engine. Every day he would encounter battalions on the road who were out on a mission or returning in a state of exhaustion to the capital. At least three times a week he had to transport security troops to the Bu Craa phosphate deposits. The fear of sabotage was rife not only among workers but also among the directors of the state company, who lived in the city. Only a year earlier, the conveyor belt used to carry the phosphates to the sea had been set on fire by a group of young Saharawi workers, who were at present serving prison sentences in the Canary Islands. Now soldiers and legionnaires spent endless hours in the blazing Sahara sun, stopping even the foxes from coming near the conveyor belt and its premises. The offices and personal residences of high-ranking civil servants were also guarded by soldiers.

The atmosphere in the streets was charged, which Santiago San Román thought absurd. The Instituto de Enseñanza Media, the
Parador Nacional
, the Gobierno General del Sahara, and the Estado Mayor building, were guarded by soldiers at all times. He had often seen patrols armed with Cetme rifles or machine guns who mingled with the civilian population and were suspicious of anything out of the ordinary. But now everything in El Aaiún was out of the ordinary. Whenever Santiago had to ask a Saharawi for his ID or stop a vehicle, he would look at the papers without paying much attention, exchange greetings in Hassaniya, and send them on their way; people responded with a mixture of annoyance and surprise. Santiago felt awkward during the searches and controls carried
out in the main junctions. But he was happy to patrol the street market or the souk. On those occasions he was always on the lookout for Andía, her mother, her cousins or any of the women of her extended family.

Lazaar wouldn’t take him seriously. He started laughing whenever San Román spoke to him about his sister. Santiago was annoyed at how frivolously his friend dealt with Andía.

‘You’re in love with Andía? But she’s only a girl.’

‘She’s seventeen.’

‘Is that what she said?’ Lazaar asked, laughing. ‘You’ll soon be discharged, go back to your city and never come back. And you probably have a girlfriend in Barcelona already.’

‘No, no. You’re crazy, man.’

However, it was different with the family. Santiago was embarrassed to find out that Andía’s mother, aunts and younger sisters would do anything to please him. Their house underwent a transformation that he took a while to notice. The walls, initially devoid of decoration, were covered with photographs and posters, the point of which he couldn’t quite see. Sometimes it was maps of the Iberian peninsula, or newspaper cuttings about famous people: photographs of Franco, Carmen Sevilla during his Christmas visit of 1957, Fraga Iribarme inaugurating the
Parador Nacional
, calendars showing Julio Romero de Torres, matadors, footballers. He didn’t make much of this at first, but later understood they did it to please him. They also started replacing the Saharawi music with pasodobles or boleros sung by Antonio Machín. Santiago tried to repay their kindness in his own way.

The family relations were so extended and complex that he was never sure who was a cousins, brother-in-law, sibling or a distant relative. But he tried to be nice to everyone. He would teach the men how to take apart and clean a carburettor, replacesits hoses, or recognise the faults of an engine from its noise. Andía’s little brothers followed him everywhere. However, the real man
of the household, since the father’s death, was Lazaar. He was revered not only by the family, but by the neighbours as well. Anything Lazaar said was immediately acknowledged as true. And so San Román knew that, until the Saharawi took him seriously, he had little chance with his sister.

Andía, for her part, would sometimes behave like a woman and sometimes like a girl, but Santiago did not dislike the ambiguity. Whenever he found himself with a couple of hours to spare, he would go up to the Zemla quarter and sit down to share some tea with whomever happened to be there. The girl welcomed him in a casual manner, as though she was used to his presence, but she would avoid his charged glances, his attempts to get closer to her, or the covert compliments he paid her. He spent more time talking to the family than to her. Sometimes she would go to another room and not even come to the door to see him off. Santiago found these customs deeply irritating, and would often leave the house promising himself never to return. Yet the presents Andía gave him in secret, her evasive eyes, the small attentions she had for him, or her nervousness when he spoke to her, raised his hopes again and he came back whenever he had a chance.

When he told Guillermo what was happening with Andía, his friend didn’t know whether to be glad for him or help him get her off his mind. At least Santiago no longer spoke of Montse, nor asked him to phone or write letters to her. Guillermo was sure that the infatuation with the Saharawi would lead nowhere, but Santiago seemed so taken with her that Guillermo could not be entirely honest. Unlike San Román, Guillermo viewed the situation in Western Sahara with anxiety. Lacking informed opinions, he let himself be influenced by rumours, what he heard in the soldiers’ mess and saw in the streets. Planting landmines was a terrible job. Nor did the officers seem to know what was really going on. When he asked a sergeant or a simple corporal, they reprimanded him or told him to shut up. But their faces
looked obviously worried.

San Román was only worried by his conscience and by the prospect of meeting Sergeant Baquedano. He was happy when he took part in operations that lasted several days, when he was sent out to patrol the streets, or when he was dispatched with the new recruits to the training grounds, twenty kilometres away from the city, by the sea. Sooner or later, though, he knew that he was bound to bump into Baquedano and would have to stand to attention. This finally happened on a morning when the sergeant entered the regiment riding on the side of a truck. As soon as he saw San Román, he jumped off and quickly walked towards him. The soldier saluted and stood to attention.

‘San Román, I’ve got something for you.’

Santiago started sweating, and tried to conceal the trembling of his legs.

‘At your command, sir.’

‘I want you to sit the exam for corporal.’

‘Corporal, sir?’

‘Yes, corporal. You know what that is don’t you?’

‘Of course, sir. But you need to study and have a head for figures.’

‘Don’t tell me you can’t read and write.’

‘No, sir. I mean, I do, sir. Read and write, yes, in my own way. But I’m not really good with numbers.’

‘I won’t take any nancy-boy excuses. You’re a legionnaire, you hear me? You don’t need to read or write. All you need is balls. Like these ones. Don’t tell me you haven’t got any?’

‘No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Of course I have.’

‘Then sit the examination, damn it. That’s an order! Saturday. Don’t get drunk or go whoring on Friday. Saturday at eight I want you at the officers’ pavilion. The Legion need patriots like you.’

The following Monday Santiago San Román was already a Corporal of the Legion. His peers, including Guillermo, started
to treat him differently. He wanted to impress Lazaar when he turned up at the Nomad Troops’ pavilion, but the Saharawi only glanced at his stripes, looked him in the eye and said sarcastically:

‘Now you’ll get some real girlfriends.’

The phrase hurt him like an act of treachery. So much so, that the following day he refused to be the Saharawis’ goalkeeper.

Things were changing apace. A few days later, after returning from a reconnaissance mission, he found Lazaar waiting for him at the football pitch. He looked very serious; Santiago had further reason to worry when he heard Lazaar’s first sentence.

‘Listen, San Román, I don’t know how to tell you this without causing offence.’

The corporal didn’t know what to expect. A thousand things went through his mind, but none as bad as what was to come.

‘Come on, Lazaar, I’m your friend. Say it. Whatever it is.’

‘Are you my friend?’

‘Of course I am. You know it. Why do you ask now?’

‘Well, then you’ll understand that sometimes friends have to do things they don’t like, if it’s good for the other one.’

‘You can ask me whatever you like: it won’t frighten me.’

Lazaar looked Santiago straight in the eye. He was holding him by one hand, and had his other on his shoulder.

‘I’d rather you didn’t come to my house. At least for now.’

Corporal San Román swallowed. It felt as though all his blood had left his brain.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, without letting go of Lazaar’s hand. ‘It’s because of your sister, right?’

‘No, it’s not because of her. I know she’s fond of you, although she’s only a child of fifteen. It’s because of me.’

‘Have I offended you?’

‘On the contrary. I’m proud to be your friend. But things are not as simple as they look. One day you’ll understand, but I can’t explain it to you right now.’

These words disconcerted San Román. He couldn’t believe there might be any reason other than Andía for him not to be welcome at Lazaar’s. He would never have thought that the young Saharawi would cause him such distress. Nor did he believe that he would ever understand what was happening. He felt despondent.

He stayed away from Lazaar’s for two weeks. When he patrolled the city he would look up to the stone houses and wonder what Andía might be doing. He stopped eating and sleeping well. Once again a woman had destabilized his life and become an obsession. He still spent his spare time with friends from the Nomad Troops, but his relationship with Lazaar wasn’t the same. Santiago felt a mixture of admiration and envy for the Saharawi. He seemed special. He was familiar with the secrets of the desert and the language of the dromedaries; he knew as much about the climate and geography of the desert as an old man. But in the course of two weeks their relationship cooled to the point that they only said hello and exchanged a few polite words.

At the beginning of May, however, something happened which helped San Román get out of the hole he was in. He was driving a truck full of supplies across the Colomina quarter. There was an armed soldier in the passenger’s seat, and another one in the back. Santiago was half-listening to the soldiers’ talk when he thought he saw Andía in the crowd, walking down the street. He slammed on the brakes and almost called out to her, but was wise enough not to. He knew he could not abandon the truck or go off the set route without a good excuse. The other legionnaire seemed frightened when the vehicle stopped.

‘What’s going on, Corporal? Did you see anything?’

Santiago was craning his neck out of the window, trying to make sure it was Andía. It was the first time he’d seen her outside her neighbourhood.

‘Stay in the truck. I think there’s something weird ahead of us. It’s a bit strange.’

The soldier went pale. He looked everywhere, holding on to his Cetme rifle, trying to spot the danger. Corporal San Román jumped out.

‘I need to make sure,’ he shouted with forced authority. ‘Don’t move away from the truck unless they shoot at you.’

Santiago ran down the street after the girl. When she turned a corner, he approached her. He was greatly relieved not to have been wrong. Andía was with another Saharawi girl who, on seeing him, instinctively covered her face with her
melfa
and blurted out a few words in Hassaniya. Santiago didn’t catch their meaning. She was addressing her friend, who couldn’t stop laughing as she covered her own face. After a while, the girl went quiet and serious.

‘What are you doing here, Andía? Where are you going? Is this a friend of yours?’

‘My brother told me you’d gone back Spain, that you’d been discharged.’

‘It’s not true, Andía. I would never leave without saying goodbye. Actually, I wouldn’t leave without you: you’re my girlfriend.’

A smile returned to the Saharawi’s face, and also to her friend’s. Santiago was so nervous he hopped about and couldn’t stop putting his hands in his pockets, only to take them out again.

‘I won’t lie to you. It was Lazaar who asked me not to go back to your house. He says it’s not because of you, but he hasn’t given me any other explanation.’