See How Much I Love You (14 page)

Andía found it difficult to understand Lazaar’s motives. She wrinkled her brow and took her friend by the hand.

‘My brother is a busybody. He treats me like a child; he thinks I’m stupid.’

She dragged Santiago and made him walk with her. The friend stood to one side. They walked across the street and Andía asked him to go with her into a Saharawi bazaar. It was very similar to
the stores in Hata-Rambla: same smell, same chaos.

‘Do you like dates?’ Andía asked. ‘No, better take raisins. Do you like raisins? No, no, not those.’

She asked the shopkeeper for a pipe with a case and then put it in Santiago’s hands.

‘Do you like this?’

‘A lot, Andía, I like it a lot. But I…’

‘I want to give it to you as a gift.’

The friend asked to see some bracelets and tried them on Santiago. She chose one that fitted his wrist.

‘Haibbila wants to give you a present too. She’s my best friend.’

Santiago didn’t know how to thank them for their attentions. He was confused, and quite surprised that two young girls should be capable of such generosity. He said goodbye promising to come and visit her at home as soon as Lazaar went away on manoeuvres. That evening he slept with the bracelet and the pipe in his hands.

The manoeuvres Santiago referred to were in fact a special mission that the Nomad Troops had to carry out at Amgala. But it wasn’t made public until a few days later. Like everything else in those days, the movements of the army aspired to secrecy even if it wasn’t achieved. On Monday 5th May, a day before leaving, Lazaar went to see Corporal San Román at the soldiers’ mess. It was the first time he’d set foot in that place, which surprised Santiago. The words the Saharawi had prepared surprised him even more.

‘You know I’m leaving tomorrow on patrol.’ Santiago nodded, trying to anticipate Lazaar’s thoughts. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, so I’d like to ask you a favour.’

‘Anything.’

The Saharawi took his time before saying:

‘I’d like you to look after my sister and my family.’ He paused and studied Santiago’s reaction. ‘I know they’ll be fine, but
keep an eye on them for my piece of mind. My brothers are young and busy with other things. They sometimes don’t really understand what’s going on in the Sahara.’

‘You speak as if you’re not coming back.’

‘Of course I’m coming back. But the situation is worse than they tell us. Morocco is about to pounce on us like a hyena.’

‘That won’t happen. We’re here to stop it. You’re a part of Spain.’

‘You must be the only optimist left. Which is fine. But I’ll feel better knowing that you’ll look after my family, whatever happens.’

‘You shouldn’t need to ask. I’ll be happy to do it. But only until you come back.’

‘Of course, only until I come back,’ he said, smiling.

They hugged and shook hands looking each other in the eye.

Lazaar’s words were bewildering. Santiago didn’t fully understand their meaning until the following week, when important news reached El Aaiún. At first the information was confusing, even contradictory. Not even the press relayed the events. But eventually the officers informed the soldiers what had happened. On Saturday the 10th of May, 1975, a Nomad Troop patrol, code named ‘Pedro’, went over to the Polisario Front. They took two Spanish lieutenants, a sergeant and five soldiers as hostages. This happened in Amgala. The following day, a patrol in Mahlbes did the same, though in this case the Spaniards offered resistance, and a soldier and a sergeant were killed. Seven other soldiers were taken prisoner and whisked off to the Algerian border.

As a consequence of these skirmishes and desertions, the situation in El Aaiún became even more tense. Most civil servants had the impression that their days in Africa were numbered. A few optimists trusted the Spanish politicians and tried to carry on with their lives and habits as usual. However, every day there
were more walls painted with slogans in favour of the Polisario, calling for independence, or denouncing the King of Morocco, who strongly supported the Spanish province in international forums. Some riots had to be suppressed by force. Both the Spanish and the Saharawis looked after their own interests.

Santiago would listen to the arguments without fully understanding the issues. Every time Guillermo warned him against the risks of going up to Hata-Rambla, they ended up having an argument. He visited Andía anyway, whenever he had a chance. It took him some time to realise that every member of the family was a supporter of the Polisario Front. When one of Lazaar’s uncles asked him, in front of the whole family, what he thought of the current situation, the legionnaire scratched his head and tried to clarify his thoughts out loud:

‘We Spaniards are not into politics. I only want what’s best for you. I leave the rest to those who know.’

Later San Román proved as good as his word. When certain areas were cordoned off with barbed wire to prevent riots, he used his rank to go in and out of the neighbourhood, bring news from outside, find supplies when they were low, and carry letters for the Saharawi soldiers who were not allowed out of the barracks and remained on alert.

Every once in a while, he would remember Montse: there was nothing he could do about it. Her ghost chose random moments; a song, the face of a girl, to stir up painful memories. He would sometimes calculate how long it would be until she gave birth. The idea troubled him, and he could only get it out of his mind when he was with Andía. The Saharawi still treated him with indifference in front of the family. She knew that, if she looked interested in a man in public, her brothers and her mother would go on treating her like a child. No woman she knew would express her feelings in front of other people. One day she asked Santiago:

‘When will you be returning to your country?’

‘This is my country, Andía.’

But she meant something else.

‘You’ll leave eventually, won’t you?’

‘No, I won’t. Do you want me to leave?’

‘People say you Spaniards will sell us off to Morocco.’

Santiago did not have an answer for that. The more he heard the officers talk, the more confused he felt.

‘I’m not leaving. Unless you come with me.
Jaif
?’

‘No, I’m not scared. But I know you have a girlfriend in your country. I can tell from the way you look at me.’

‘
Nibguk igbala
. I only love you.’

Andía reacted as though she were offended. And yet, underneath her serious expression, a reluctant smile appeared and her eyes twinkled.

T
HAT NIGHT THE PILLS HAD NO EFFECT. SHE WAS RESTLESS
, worried about something she couldn’t name or define. In addition, the tea she’d drunk at Ayach’s kept her awake. Yet it was a different kind of anxiety from the one she’d experienced in those last few months. She tossed and turned in bed until two in the morning. Then she got up and switched her computer on. The memories of the past day were a confusing amalgam – they were mixed with flashing images and details that she hadn’t noticed at the time.

At eight in the morning on 6th January, the city was asleep or about to go to bed. She walked down the Paralelo towards the harbour, enjoying the silent empty streets. The sky was overcast; it was quite humid. For the first time in her life she walked across Plaça del Portal de la Pau, right down the middle. Eventually she stopped at the pier. She could hear echoes of the music spilling out of the bars across the harbour, and she could see a few exhausted people walking out of them, some actually staggering. Beyond, a cottony mist clung to the sea. The landscape looked beautiful in the sunrise. She’d spent several hours in front of the computer, searching for information on the Saharawi camps in Tindouf. Countless pictures of the desert, of the refugee camps, of El Aaiún and Smara had passed before her eyes. The information was now churning in her brain, in sharp contrast to the calm blue blot of the sea and the leaden light of the first hours of the morning.

Santiago San Román had been dead to Montse for
twenty-five
years. That had been the reality ever since someone broke the news to her. Now she wondered how she had believed what a stranger had told her. But would things have been any different if she had taken the trouble to confirm it? She wasn’t sure they would. She tried to remember how long it had taken her to forget him. Not very long: a few months, perhaps. Back then the tension within the family forced her to look ahead and ignore the bouts of nostalgia that sometimes came over her. Fate had played a dirty trick on her by not letting her read those letters at the time they were delivered. But her brilliant Alberto had filled up the space left by Santiago. Perhaps such a space had never even existed. She wasn’t sure their love would have lasted very long if the boy had returned to Barcelona. Suddenly she was troubled by the idea that Santiago might think he had a child in Spain. He brought it up in every one of the letters he’d written from El Aaiún. Perhaps that was the only thing that had kept him interested. Yet Santiago did not strike her as a model father. Not that the magnificent Alberto had been one, either.

The shouts of the people coming out of the bars brought her back to reality. It was too early to pay Ayach a visit. She walked along the pier towards Barceloneta. The sleepless night was taking its toll. Her legs shook slightly and her stomach grumbled. Like an automaton, she walked down the streets of that neighbourhood which had once been a revelation in her own city. Now most windows were closed and no music could be heard in the houses. Yet she still remembered the smell of the stews flooding out into the street at noon. She stopped at the tobacconist’s and went in. The place had changed considerably. The old wooden shelves had been replaced by spacious glass cabinets, and the counter was lower and shorter. They also sold newspapers and trinkets for children. She bought a packet of Chesterfields. The last time she’d smoked that brand she’d been eighteen. She shivered just from thinking about it. The owner
was a young man. She was about to inquire after the woman who’d run the shop in ’76 or ’77, but held back. It would have been like digging up a mass grave. She saw a sign on the wall indicating where the nearest pharmacy was: Plaça de la Font. She asked the owner for directions, and he indicated the way.

When she reached the square it felt as though it had been waiting for her all these years. A number of cars were now parked around it, but the place had changed very little. She shivered again. An old lady in a pink robe was walking her dog on the pavement. She’d probably already lived there
twenty-six
years before. And, if not her, one of the neighbours who would soon be coming down to the square. Quite possibly the woman had been right here back in ’74, at a street party at the end of August attended by the whole neighbourhood. Montse remembered where the stage had been, and even the name of the band: Rusadir. She approached the lady with the dog and said good morning. The woman greeted her back.

‘Is there a pharmacy near here?’ asked Montse, just to hear the woman’s voice.

‘Yes, right over there.’

Montse thanked her, and the woman walked away, complaining out loud about all the litter young people had left on the square.

‘It’s always the same. They don’t care if we end up covered in shit. Of course, later they go back to their own neighbourhoods, which I’m sure are clean enough.’

Perhaps the woman didn’t remember that twenty-six years before she too had been at a party on that square; and that, once the music and the dancing had stopped, the square was a mess in just the same way.

It took place at the end of August. Santiago San Román asked Montse:

‘Do you fancy going for a dance?’

‘Of course. Are you taking me to a club?’ she replied.

‘On Saturday there’s a street party in my neighbourhood. It’s not great, but since you accused me of being so ashamed of it…’ It was the first time Montse had worn high heels and lipstick out. She had done so several times at home, when there was no one around, thinking the time would never come when she could put into practice everything she’d learned in front of the mirror. She put on a dress which she had seen her mother wearing in some old pictures. It was a cream-coloured number, with a scoop neck and a close-fitted waistline. The satin skirt reached down to her knees, with folds that revealed a flower print. It looked made to measure. She wore a yellow cardigan over her shoulders, and her accessories were a pearl necklace and matching earrings. She also took her mother’s white patent leather handbag and leather pumps. She tied her hair into a ponytail with a hair clip. With a bit of red lipstick the transformation was complete. She stood still in front of the mirror, marvelling at the result. For a moment she hesitated, not daring to powder her face. Although she had dreamed of this moment for some time, she was embarrassed to go out like that.

When Santiago San Román saw her, he was speechless. He suddenly felt like a child. He was wearing his white shirt, beige flares and pointy brown leather shoes, but Montse certainly looked more mature than him. She let him kiss her on the cheek so as not to leave any lipstick on him. At the last minute she had put on some mascara and eye-shadow. ‘You look like a bride,’ said Santiago. The comment went down very well. ‘Shall we walk? I’d like everyone to see how beautiful you look.’ Montse knew that Santiago didn’t have any money for the bus or the metro, so she accepted the idea as a compliment.

They were the most elegant couple of the night. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was more tanned than ever, and his hair was combed back with brilliantine. She’d never seen such a handsome boy. She liked the fact that the other girls threw her
envious looks. Whenever Santiago looked away, she would take him gently by the hand, and he would smile at her. ‘You also look beautiful. The most beautiful boy at the party.’ Montse had to insist before Santiago let her buy the beers. She could see he felt awkward, perhaps even embarrassed, as he drank. Whenever someone came over to say hello to Santiago, she felt herself being examined. In other circumstances such looks would have made her uncomfortable, but now she was flattered.

‘Tell me something, Santi, do you love me?’

‘Of course. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be with you.’ Montse was puzzled by how simply he viewed things. But that was also what she found most attractive about him.

‘If you love me, why do you never tell me?’

The band was playing the hits of that summer. Neither Montse nor Santiago were really paying attention to the music. She had always felt slightly sick at the sight of girls who clung to their boyfriends, kissed them constantly, rested their wrists on their shoulders, and wrapped their hands around the guys’ necks. But now she was acting exactly like the people she had mocked so many times. ‘Shall we dance, Santi?’

‘Well, I’m not very gracious, you know.’ She actually liked that. Guys who danced well didn’t strike her as very masculine. Now and again she would ask for a beer. She had given Santiago her purse, and each time he took out a few coins he felt them burning his hands.

The band started playing a pasodoble called ‘Las Corsarias’. San Román felt an itch in his stomach.
Far away on Moorish land / On African land, far away / A Spanish soldier would sing / A tune that went this way
. The younger couples moved to one side, while the older ones started dancing with their arms around each other.
Like the wines from Jerez and from Rioja / Are the colours of the Spanish flag
.

‘Now I do want to dance,’ said Santiago impulsively.

‘You want to dance to this? But it’s “La banderita”.’

‘So? It’s a pasodoble. It’s the only music I know how to dance to. My mother likes it a lot.’ Montse let herself be led to the centre of the square.
And the day I die / If I’m away from my homeland / I want to be covered / With the Spanish flag
. Montse felt everyone was looking at her, but Santiago seemed oblivious to it all, and mumbled the lyrics.
When I’m on foreign land / And see your colours / And think of your exploits / See how much I love you
.

‘What did you say?’ asked Montse, her eyes fixed on his.

‘See how much I love you?’ whispered Santiago in her ear, and she touched her lips to his. ‘See how much I love you, see how much I love you, see how much I love you. Now you can’t complain I never say it.’

‘Say it again.’

‘See how much I love you.’

‘Again.’

‘See how much I love you.’

When the song finished, and the younger people regained the dance floor, Santiago and Montse were left kissing in the centre, unaware of the music, the noise and the glances. The floor stopped moving only when they opened their eyes.

Little by little the square emptied. Every corner had been filled by litter. Montse didn’t want to part from Santiago.

‘I want you to spend the night with me.’ The boy grew tense, and Montse noticed straight away. ‘What is it? You don’t want to come over?’

‘No, no, it’s not that. Well, in a way.’

‘You’re not making any sense, Santi, a moment ago you said you loved me and now…’

‘It’s because of the maid.’

‘We won’t make any noise on the way in, and she sleeps on the other side of the house. After she leaves for mass in the morning, you can go.’

‘She knows me,’ he confessed, embarrassed. ‘She knows my mother. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble because of me.

If your father finds out… You told me that if your father…’ Montse sealed his lips with a kiss.

‘I told you that a century ago. I don’t care if my father finds out. Besides, there’s no reason why he should. Mari Cruz knows she can’t say anything. Not with me.’ Santiago nodded in acceptance.

They walked through Barceloneta towards Paseo de Colón. Montse felt very tired. Her feet were sore. They sat in a doorway.

‘These shoes are killing me. I’m not used to them.’

‘Have a rest.’

‘I’d rather take a taxi.’ The street was poorly lit. The dark warehouses of the harbour, looming large behind the buildings, lent the area a dismal look.

‘We won’t find a taxi round here,’ said Santiago. ‘If we don’t get to the main road there’s no chance.’

‘I can’t take another step, Santi.’

‘Then I’ll go, but I haven’t got any money.’

‘I can’t stay here on my own.’ Santiago San Román had an idea. There was a bike chained to a lamppost.

‘Give me one of your hair clips.’ Montse did, without knowing what for. Santiago unlocked the padlock and took the bike. Montse started pinching him and telling him to give it back. ‘Didn’t you say your feet hurt?’

‘You’re crazy. You’ll get us into trouble.’

‘No, no. I’ll bring it back tomorrow and leave it right here. The owner will be so happy to see it.’ Montse resigned herself and mounted behind him. For a moment she tried to imagine what she might look like sitting there, with her fancy dress and pearl necklace, and could do nothing but laugh.

Doctor Montserrat Cambra stepped into the building in Barceloneta more decisively than the day before. She’d been killing time until eleven in the morning. Only the two women were in.

‘Ayach went out this morning to make a phone call from the Western Sahara office,’ explained Fatma as she invited her in.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve actually come to check on the baby. Did he sleep well?’

Fatma smiled.

‘He cried, but then he slept a bit.’

Montse went into the women’s room. The baby was whimpering. She took everything she’d bought in the pharmacy out of her handbag, and placed it on a night table.

‘Let’s warm up some milk to give him with the aniseed. He needs to drink plenty of liquids.’ Montse removed his nappy. ‘And the cream will soothe the irritation.’

The Saharawis did as they were told, without hesitation. Montse spent nearly an hour with the child, until he went quiet and, finally, fell asleep. When she said she was leaving, the women wouldn’t let her. They took her into the living room and made some tea. It gave her a much-needed boost. They wouldn’t let her go before Ayach Bachir returned.

‘Ayach said he’ll try to find out more about the man in the picture. Bachir Baiba knows everyone.’

‘Who’s Bachir Baiba?’

‘Ayach’s father. He works with the missionaries in Rabuni. He knows everybody. He used to be a Spanish soldier.’

On coming back, Ayach was glad to see her. He’d made a call to the camps in Algeria, and jotted down some information.

‘That man’s name is Santiago San Román, although now everybody calls him Yusuf. My father is sure; and he’s never wrong.’