See How Much I Love You (15 page)

‘And why did they tell me he died?’

‘That, I don’t know. It’s a distance of four inches.’

Montse didn’t understand what he meant. The man smiled.

‘That’s what we say in my country. Between what comes out of people’s mouths and what goes into their ears there’s only four inches, but that distance can feel greater than the Sahara.’

Montse listened to the man’s explanations expectantly. The two women took in every detail.

‘Santiago San Román married my wife’s aunt. My father knew her. Her name was Andía, and according to my father she was very beautiful. Been dead three or four years now.’

‘Santiago?’

‘No, his wife. He’s alive. My father saw him about a year ago in Ausserd. His health’s not too great, apparently. He’s quite a guy. According to my father, he was almost sent to the firing squad in El Aaiún for smuggling explosives out of the barracks. My father is very grateful to him for his help. He was very good to the Saharawis.’

Montse remained silent. She found it difficult to imagine that Santiago was as old as her, that he too had aged. She’d banished him from her thoughts too many years ago. She thought of the woman, Andía, whose name was the only thing she knew about her, and was overcome by a sort of adolescent jealousy. It made her laugh. Fatma stared at her.

‘Was that man your boyfriend?’

‘That boy. To me he’s still a boy. But, yes, he was. Actually, he was a little more than just a boyfriend.’

‘One never forgets that,’ said Fatma with conviction.

‘The thing is, I haven’t thought of him for many years. It’s bizarre: I almost had a child by him, yet sometimes I can’t even remember his face. We did a lot of stupid things, the two of us, but nothing as stupid as what I did on my own later. I wonder what he was doing while I was letting life pass me by as if I could start afresh whenever I wanted.’

Montserrat Cambra took the tea glass to her lips. Fatma looked at her in silence, not daring to disturb her thoughts. Montse looked at her dark eyes. She was very beautiful. Had Andía been as beautiful? Jealousy, inexplicably, made her feel good and smile again.

L
ONG BEFORE DAWN SHE CAN HEAR THE NOISE OF THE
vehicles driving between the tents. Montse knows it’s a special day: The Festival of the Sacrifice. In one corner of the
jaima
, on a wooden sideboard that looks as if it had been salvaged from a shipwreck, are the children’s dresses, carefully folded. There are so many kids around that Montse hasn’t been able to learn all their names. Nor is she sure who is or isn’t Layla’s brother or sister. A family resemblance is all she can detect. The women barely speak any Spanish, although they understand it.

The night before, the
jaima
had been crowded until late. Most people were soldiers visiting the family on a week’s leave to celebrate the Sacrifice. Some had not seen their wives and children for ten months. Montse had to persuade Layla to let her stay up, as though she were a child. She finds the nurse’s motherly ways endearing.

When Montse awakes, Layla is already, busy giving instructions to her nephews and nieces. Although she hasn’t slept much, Montse feels quite rested. The light coming in through the curtains touches her feet. Montse stretches as she hasn’t done in years.

When she goes out to the pen, Layla tells her off for getting up so early.

‘It’s such a beautiful day it would be a pity to stay in bed,’ explains Montse. ‘Besides, I want to come to the celebrations with you.’

‘Oh, I’m not going. But Brahmin and my sister will take you. I have to prepare the meal and assist on a circumcision.’

Montse nods and tries to keep some order among the children, who are all trying to take her by the hand.

Brahim has tea-stained teeth and eyes reddened by the wind of the desert. His Spanish is quite basic, but he talks through the whole journey. He drives with his hands close together on the top of the wheel, and keeps a pipe hanging from his lips like most Saharawis. He smiles all the time. Montse can barely understand what he says, but is amused by the young man’s verbiage. She doesn’t know whether he’s Layla’s brother or brother-in-law. The sister is sitting between them, and doesn’t utter a word. Montse asks Brahim if she’s his wife, and the Saharawi responds with a puzzled smile, as if he hadn’t understood the question. In the open back of the van are a dozen kids from the house and the neighbourhood. They keep their balance expertly, and wave at every vehicle Brahim overtakes. It only takes ten minutes to get to the place of the festivities, but a kilometre more before they arrive; the desert has become a metallic mass of cars and trucks. Thousands of people congregate in an enormous circle. The black and blue turbans stand out against the ochre of the desert.

Montse has borrowed some clothes from Layla. She also wears a blue
melfa
, so as not to call attention to herself. The men crowd together, praying and speaking in hushed voices. The women stand to one side in silence. Brahim and Layla’s sister go their separate ways. Montse joins the women. She imitates everything they do. She sits on the floor and shades her eyes with her hand so she can see everything. Deep in the crowd, someone recites the Koran, aided by a megaphone that launches the lines of the suras into the clear blue sky above the
hammada
. Montse tries not to stand out, but the Saharawi women cast curious glances at her. No one, however, asks her anything. Cars keep arriving, in spite of the fact that the ceremony has already started.

About half an hour later, the megaphone falls silent and the
voices pipe up. Montse waits to see what Layla’s sister does. As she stands up, she freezes at the sight of a woman’s face in the middle of the crowd. It only takes a couple of seconds, because the woman soon turns her back and presses into the throng. But Montse is pretty sure it was Aza. The idea makes her mind race and her heart beat faster. She’s about to shout to her, but then holds back. She doesn’t want to call attention to herself or look like a hysterical woman.

‘I’ll be right back,’ she tells Layla’s sister with a gesture, and quickly walks away.

A moment later she has lost sight of the woman, but remembers the colour of her
melfa
and the exact spot where she first appeared. Several men, standing hand in hand in circles, prevent her from moving any faster. Montse pushes on in a straight line. She is dazzled by the sun. The crowd opens to let her through and swallows her up as the sea would a ship. She stops. Retraces her steps. Takes a good look around. Every woman looks a bit like Aza. Perhaps her mind is playing tricks on her. She searches for an open spot to breathe, and suddenly finds herself among the parked vehicles. She tries to calm down. That woman did look a lot like Aza. She’s seen Aza’s face in her dreams for too long not to be able to tell. All of a sudden, without rhyme or reason, she realizes that it is Saturday and that she’s in the middle of the Sahara. It’s a pleasant feeling. She’s ready to forget about Aza when she sees a truck parked among the four-by-fours. Her heart jumps once again. She instinctively crouches down between the cars. The hell of Tindouf flares up inside her. The truck resembles the one driven by the Spanish legionnaire, Le Monsieur, as the Algerian women called him. Montse is now so frightened that she even stops breathing normally, in case she makes too much noise. She sees groups of people among the cars, and that reassures her. She fears that Le Monsieur might be nearby.

When Montse, Aza and the two Algerian women got off the truck, the rocks were ablaze. Montse’s idea of the desert did not resemble what lay in front of her. Rather than sand, the place had stone and rocks everywhere. It was the first spot that she had seen some vegetation, though: the odd palm tree, acacias and sparse shrubs. It could be considered an oasis, although it looked more like a dung heap. At the centre was a deep well. The legionnaire’s men positioned themselves in what little shade they could find at midday. Three hours on the truck had drained Montse of her remaining strength. She tried to beg them to take her back to Tindouf, but her voice barely left her body. Aza squeezed her hand to silence her. They were taken to a hut built with cement blocks and bare bricks, with an asbestos roof that soaked up the sunshine. Someone opened the door and they were unceremoniously shoved in. There was more space than in the previous cell, but inside there were seventeen other women who shared their bad fortune. The smell was nauseating. There was only one window, blocked with a car bonnet tied to it with wire. The fear in the faces of the trapped women turned to surprise when they saw that a westerner was being treated the same way as them. No one said anything, but they made room for the newcomer to sit on the floor. Aza crouched down, hiding her face in her hands so as not to show her despair.

They spent over a week in that place, only allowed out to use the latrines. By the second day Montse no longer noticed the smell. Their captors gave them dates to eat in the morning and in the evening. Montse tasted them with disgust. They oozed a whitish liquid which made her fear a botulism infection. Aza encouraged her to eat. The basinful of stagnant water was refilled without ever being emptied of its dregs. Outside the men chatted and argued at all hours. Now and again a shot rang out, as if one of them had lost his wits. In the morning the
legionnaire would drive off with a group of men, leaving behind two or three mercenaries to keep watch on the women. Most of the women were Algerians and only spoke Arabic and basic French. They showed Montse a kind of respect that at first she mistook for distrust. One of them offered Montse her
burnous
after a few nights, when the temperature dropped sharply in the small hours.

Aza tried to get information from them about the mercenaries, but met with no consensus. Each of the women had her own theory about what was happening. Montse would ask questions insistently, but there were no straight answers.

‘The older man is called Le Monsieur,’ explained Aza.

‘Some of the women say he buys and sells prisoners in Mauritania and Morocco. Others think he’s a trafficker for a prostitution ring.’

‘We have to get out of here, Aza. No matter how. Better dead than this.’ Aza would not say a word. Her mind seemed elsewhere. When the mercenaries fell asleep, Montse would speak to Aza for long stretches. It felt good to tell her whatever popped into her head. Aza would listen as if Montse were reading from a book. Little by little Montse revealed secrets she hadn’t shared with her closest friends. When Aza learned the reason for her trip, she stared at Montse as though Montse were a character in a film. Aza was very curious about the details. However, she was too polite to ask questions. Montse mentioned her husband, the days of her youth, her job and Santiago San Román. Sometimes she would fall silent for fear of boring her interlocutor, but Aza would remain attentive, encouraging her with her eyes.

The days went by slowly, and there was plenty of time to think. Little by little Montse started recognising every noise around the oasis. She knew when the men extracted water from the well, rummaged around the engines of the vehicles, took a walk to shoot at rocks, fell asleep or approached the hut. On the tenth day she realised there was absolute silence. Although she
could see a vehicle through one of the cracks at the bottom of the door, the men could not be heard. By midday she was sure they had left them on their own. She told Aza:

‘I’ll try to escape. Look at those boards. A good kick would break them.’ Aza looked distressed. She hid her face in her hands as usual.

‘You won’t make it. Even if you managed to run for three days, they would find you in an hour when they come back.’

‘I’ll leave in that car. If a group of us go we’ll have a better chance of escaping.’

‘No, it cannot be done.’

‘Tell them.’ Aza spoke to the Algerian women. Their faces registered an expression of terror. They all spoke at once, trying to convey to Montse how crazy it was to think one could escape from there. ‘Won’t you come with me?’ Aza replied without hesitation:

‘No, not me. If you’re sane, you shouldn’t even try.’

‘I’ll definitely go insane if I stay here any longer. I shouldn’t have left my home, damn it.’

‘You’ve had bad luck,’ said Aza with unaccountable serenity.

Now these images crowd into Montse’s mind. The parked truck brought back bitter memories. When the people started climbing onto the four-by-fours and the vans, she realised she might be in danger. The truck remained there like a beached boat. Suddenly someone taps her on the shoulder, startling her. She’s about to scream, but manages to control herself. Brahim’s smile disappears. He looks as scared as she is. Layla’s sister is behind the Saharawi, and doesn’t understand what’s going on either. Feeling relieved, Montse hugs her impulsively. She tries to justify her conduct, but the others don’t understand a thing. Then she casts a defiant glance at the truck, and is no longer sure
that it belongs to Le Monsieur.

For Muslims the day of the sacrifice is also the day of forgiveness. During the festivities, the Saharawis visit their relatives, especially the elderly. It is a time to ask to be pardoned for acts that may have offended others. Montse listens attentively as Layla explains this. Later, while the nurse prepares the feast with the help of the women of the household, and the men collect the carcass of the sacrificed animal, Montse takes a walk with Layla’s nieces. Brahim keeps an eye on them from afar, as if that were his job. The girls have put on their best dresses, and some are wearing shoes for the first time in many months. Shod in patent leather, they walk with difficulty. The boys cast envious glances at them, because the Spanish woman lets them lead the way. The girls take her to the corrals to see the goats. They sit down at the top of a hillock on stones laid in a circle. A few metres from there, a one-eyed boy looks at them. He’s rooted to the ground, like a tree. Montse asks him to come closer, but he doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even know if he’s one of Layla’s relatives.

After eating couscous and desert, Montse is full. She cannot remember a feast like this one. She’s eaten all she can. Yet she still tastes everything she is offered. At times she smiles with her mouth full, incapable of eating anything else. Everyone showers her with attention, especially Brahim, who fills her glass with water or juice, passes her dishes, offers her bread, a napkin, more meat. Layla smiles away. At one point Montse asks her quietly:

‘Tell me, Layla, is Brahim your brother or your brother in law?’

The nurse opens her eyes wide and holds her breath, as if the question disconcerted her. But she also tries hard not to look surprised, and her eyes fix on the food. Montse is bemused. She asks again, thinking that perhaps Layla did not understand.

‘No, no, he’s nothing of the sort.’

‘Who is he then?’

‘My fiancé. We’re getting married after the summer.’

Montse swallows with difficulty. She is about to laugh, but Layla’s seriousness dissuades her.

After the banquet, the men go out and sit on mats around a primus stove. It seems to Montse that the women are nervous. They do everything in a hurry and whisper to one another, as if annoyed by the fact that the men have taken so long to leave the
jaima
. Soon she understands what’s going on. Layla’s aunt opens the dresser and takes out a small TV. She places it at the back of the room and connects it to a piece of wire that leads to an aerial. She plugs the TV into a car battery. Montse cannot help smiling when the mystery is revealed. A few neighbours come in, and eventually more than twenty women are settled in front of the screen.

‘It’s a soap,’ explains Layla. ‘From Mexico, but we get it from Algerian television. We can go out if you like.’

Montse doesn’t want to miss the sight.

‘Wait, I’d like to watch for a bit.’

The spectacle around the Mexican soap dubbed into Arabic astonishes Montse. The women are completely silent. When the heartthrob appears on scene, they cheer him on as if he were a hero, calling him by his name. Montse can barely believe her eyes. Every time she tries to say something to Layla, the women glare at her angrily. Eventually she and the nurse go outside. A few girls take them by the hand, fighting amongst themselves to get closer. By now Montse knows some of them by name. It is very pleasant to stroll between the
jaimas
, feeling a warm breeze blow. In every household there’s a flurry of activity, as visiting relatives come and go. The men’s
derrahas
look clean and starched. The women have donned their best
melfas
. Layla and Montse stroll away from the
jaimas
.