See How Much I Love You (16 page)

‘It’s hard to believe that so much beauty can survive alongside the pain of exile,’ says Montse. Layla smiles. She knows the desert can captivate foreigners. ‘I feel like I’ve been shut away
for the last few years.’

‘My family here feels the same. I’m lucky to have spent a long time abroad. But some people have been here for twenty-six years, trapped in a place without walls or doors.’

They stop, Montse a few steps behind her friend.

‘What is it?’ asks Layla.

‘Do you know who that boy is?’

The nurse looks where her friend is pointing. A few metres off, the one-eyed boy walks in a parallel line to theirs. His head is shaven and covered in small cuts. Layla looks at him, shading her eyes with her hand.

‘No, I don’t. A stone must have hit him in the eye. It’s quite common here.’

‘No, that’s not why I ask. This morning I saw him near the corrals. He follows me everywhere but he never comes close.’

Layla smiles:

‘There’s no reason to be surprised. You’re an attractive woman. Brahim likes you a lot, you know.’

Montse feels embarrassed. She cannot quite understand the way Saharawi men behave in front of women. Yet she doesn’t want to ask any questions. Everything seems strange to her.

‘Tonight we’re invited to a party,’ says Layla. ‘A colleague from the hospital wants to have us all round.’

‘Me too?’

‘Of course. She insisted you come.’

The afternoon drags on. Brahim drives Layla’s family to the dunes in his vehicle. The sunset is an unparalleled spectacle. From the top of the highest dune Montse can see the sun almost level with the desert. The other side of the dune is almost dark. Montse rolls down the hill of sand like a child, and the little ones imitate her. Meanwhile, the men prepare tea and snacks.

Back at the
jaima
, Montse feels both tired and euphoric. She’d like to lie down and listen to the wind beat against the canvas, but she doesn’t want to miss a thing. Alone in a small
adobe room, Montse and Layla wash themselves and change their clothes. They put on some perfume and darker
melfas
. At nightfall, they say goodbye to the family and make off along the streets of the camp.

Layla’s colleague’s house is in another sector of the
daira
. Montse finds it difficult to believe that people can tell the neighbourhoods apart, the streets, the
jaimas
. They all look the same. She stumbles along in the dark as Layla leads the way. The Saharawi has put on a pair of black boots and is carrying a bag. She strides as elegantly as on a catwalk.

Near the house, Montse is surprised to see a man crouching down, relieving himself in the street. When he spots the two women he runs away, his genitals in plain view and his
derraha
rolled up to his waist.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Layla. ‘He’s an old man, and he’s not right in the head. He goes whenever nature calls, like a child.’

Montse carefully sidesteps his excrement.

The nurse’s house is not a
jaima
, but a construction made of adobe. As soon as they peer through the door, Layla’s friend stands up to welcome them in. Montse recognises her from the hospital, although she cannot remember her name.

‘Do you remember Fastrana?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

Most of the women are nurses. There are barely any men. Montse casts a quick look around at the people and discovers Brahim sitting in a corner; he smiles at them. She finds the situation both amusing and disconcerting.

‘You didn’t tell me your fiancé was going to be here,’ says Montse with a touch of sarcasm.

‘With men you never know,’ retorts Layla.

Bob Marley is playing on the tape recorder. Montse sits down among the nurses, and recognises most of them. The women are speaking in Cuban Spanish, and the men in Hassaniya. Suddenly a man bursts into the room, shouting. It’s the same
man who startled her in the dark a moment ago. He stands in front of Montse and speaks to her as though she were able to understand him.

‘
Musso mussano? Musso mussano
?’

Fastrana’s smile reassures Montse.

‘Don’t worry. The poor old man is crazy.’

‘And what is it he’s shouting?’

‘He asks if everything’s all right,’ translates Layla.

‘Tell him it is,’ says Montse. ‘Ask him his name.’

‘We call him The Demon,’ replies Fastrana. ‘The kids started calling him that. My mother takes him home in the evening and lets him sleep in the kitchen when it’s empty.’

The Demon picks up the banana that Fastrana offers him. Then the nurse gestures to him to leave the room. He does so by leaping about like some kind of court jester.

People come in and out of the house all the time. Montse cannot tell who’s who. She lets someone paint her hands with henna. It takes hours.

It is very late by the time they finally say their goodbyes. Brahim stays behind, drinking tea and chatting with the nurses. Layla and Montse are tired. A starry sky casts its light over the camp. It’s a very cold night.

‘How long have you known Brahim?’

‘Five months. But he loves me. He likes to make me jealous. He thinks I’ll love him more that way.’

‘And do you love him?’ asks Montse, instantly regretting her words.

Layla smiles. Her white teeth stand out against her dark skin. She really is a beautiful woman.

‘Look,’ says Montse, stopping. ‘Isn’t that the one-eyed boy again?’

‘Yes, it’s him. He seems to have taken a shine to you.’

‘What is he doing up so late? Doesn’t he have school tomorrow?’

‘He’s on holiday for ten days.’

‘Call him. Ask him his name.’

Layla gestures to him, and calls out without shouting.

‘Esmak? Esmak?’

The boy looks at them from afar, but doesn’t say his name.

‘Eskifak?’

When Layla tries to approach him, he runs away and disappears among the
jaimas
. Montse is very tired now, but her heart is beating fast on account of all the tea she’s drunk.

‘That boy is not from this
daira
. Otherwise I would’ve seen him before,’ says Layla with great certainty.

C
ORPORAL
S
AN
R
OMÁN LAY AWAKE THE WHOLE NIGHT
, looking at the shadows on the ceiling and the lights coming in from the aerodrome. Over the last week he’d barely managed to sleep one or two hours a day. He was wracked with anxiety in the guardroom, and his perception of reality had been growing erratic. It was barely six paces from one wall to another. The latrine gave off a nauseating smell. When he was about succumb to tiredness, the dripping of the tap in the silence of the night would attract his attention; the more he focused on it the less able he was to sleep. For more than a week he heard the drops hit the cement, an unceasing, unnerving dripping.

Following Guillermo’s unexpected visit, he felt even more edgy. He knew he would never see his friend again, and regretted the way he had treated him in the last few months. Guillermo did not deserve that. But it was now too late to make amends.

He tried to forget the memory of Andía, which was a worse kind of torture than the dripping. He felt betrayed, a bitterly familiar sensation. Even with his eyes closed he could see the girl’s face; hear her child-like voice, her adolescent laughter. It was only possible to cast her image aside when he thought of Montse. Her memory made him anxious too. He had tried to write her a letter, but was incapable of stringing two sentences together. Words did not flow. He would never have thought it was so difficult to express one’s feelings. At times he tried to picture Montse with her newborn child, his son, and was
overcome with anxiety and confusion. The memories he had been able to keep under control would then resurface, flickering on his mind like a flame he had never entirely managed to extinguish.

Suddenly he thought of his mother. Something he rarely did. Now, however, he was troubled by the idea that Montse might have learned of her death. It seemed unlikely. But sometimes he wanted to believe that the girl, out of remorse, had taken the baby to meet its grandmother. If that had been the case, no doubt Montse knew the old woman had died. For a moment he imagined his mother in her black dress, lying on the bed, her arms crossed over chest, her face pale and waxen. He felt guilty: guilty of being far away, of not having attended the funeral, of assuming she would live forever, in spite of her illness.

It had been Guillermo who’d given him the news of her death. This was in late May. Guillermo had been looking for him all morning, and eventually found him at the Nomad Troops’ pavilion. He went straight to the point, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Santiago looked at him without fully grasping his words. His whole past, his mother included, lay dormant in his memory. He had only called her twice in all his time in El Aaiún. Now it was too late to do anything about it.

In the face of the situation unfolding in the Western Sahara, any news that reached them from Spain seemed unreal. When Major Panta called Corporal San Román to his office, Santiago already knew why: his mother was dead. He listened without blinking, with a grave expression. The major thought it was the shock of the news that prevented him from reacting, but in fact Santiago’s mind was elsewhere.

‘Events at the moment are very serious, Corporal. You know it as well as I,’ the major explained. ‘But the army appreciates that the sorrow caused by the death of your mother goes beyond any other problems we might have here.’ Santiago nodded,
almost without moving. The major took out some papers and passed them to San Román. ‘And so, even though in the present circumstances all permits for leave are suspended, we are prepared to make an exception. You have fifteen days to go to Barcelona and be with your father, your brothers and sisters – in short, your family. The loss of one’s mother is irreparable, but no doubt sorrow is more bearable when shared.’ It didn’t occur to Santiago to tell the major that he had no father, brothers, sisters or, indeed, any family. He puffed out his chest and stood tall to convey his gratitude. ‘There’s a plane leaving tomorrow for Gran Canaria,’ explained the major, summing up the documents he’d just given him. ‘There you’ll catch a connection to the peninsula. You have fifteen days to be with your family. We expect you back on the 15th of June. You may leave now.’

‘At your command, major, sir.’ Santiago San Román walked out into the blinding sunlight in a daze. Every soldier he knew would have given everything they had to get a permit like his. And yet, the idea of getting on a plane and returning to Barcelona barely six months after leaving filled him with anxiety.

On the 24th of March, the governor of the colony, General Gómez Salazar, had set in motion Operación Golondrina (Operation Swallow), in order to evacuate the Spanish population from the Sahara. Classes in both the primary and secondary schools were suspended a month before the end of term. Although some civil servants left the city that they considered home in tears, many others did not even look back, knowing full well what was coming.

The Saharawi demonstrations in favour of independence were increasingly frequent. Any excuse served to put out flags and sing chants supporting the Polisario Front. The Territorial Police and the legionnaires would cordon off the most riotous areas as soon as conflicts erupted. News from other cities was hardly encouraging for the Spaniards. The civil prison in El Aaiún was filling up with detainees.

Santiago packed up the following day and walked to the car park from where he’d been told a vehicle was leaving for the airport. He was lost in thought, going over his plans, and didn’t spot Guillermo, who was coming to meet him, until he practically bumped into him.

‘Leaving without saying goodbye?’ Santiago looked at him as he would a stranger.

‘I thought you were out on patrol,’ he lied.

‘I asked after you and they said…’ Guillermo gave him a hug, cutting him short. ‘Let go, now, or they’ll think we’re queer.’ Guillermo smiled. In view of the news, his friend’s behaviour did not seem particularly strange. He wished Santiago good luck and stayed behind as he walked away. Corporal San Román felt in his pocket, where he’d put his money and the permit. The idea of abandoning the Sahara at that moment made him anxious; but he had other plans. He changed course little by little and, instead of walking to the car park, directed his steps towards the gates. He showed his permit and left the barracks behind, walking decisively. An hour later he walked into
Sid-Ahmed
’s store, dressed as a Saharawi, trying to hide the bag where he’d put his uniform.

Santiago spent his fifteen days’ leave at Andía’s. The girl could barely hide her excitement. For two weeks he didn’t leave the boundaries of the neighbourhood. He would sometimes stroll along the streets of Hata-Rambla, or spend the evenings with Sid-Ahmed at the store, smoking and drinking tea. No one found his presence strange; the neighbours treated him as if he were a relative of Lazaar. Yet when the men gathered together in the house, Santiago felt marginalised. Their shared familiarity did not extend to him. He remained silent, offering tea and listening to them argue. Not that he understood much. They spoke in Hassaniya, and whenever they addressed him in Spanish it was only to utter trivial remarks out of politeness. Santiago was sure they were discussing politics. He knew they supported
the Polisario, but no matter how much he had done for some of them, he was far from gaining their trust in that respect.
Sid-Ahmed
, when they were alone, would reveal certain things, but Santiago still had the feeling that a lot was kept under wraps.

Two days before his permit expired, Santiago confessed to Andía that he had no intention of going back to the barracks. The girl looked at him with enthusiasm and ran off to tell her mother. The mother told the girl’s aunts and, before an hour had gone by, Sid-Ahmed appeared in the house, visibly shaken. For the first time his characteristic kindness had disappeared.

‘What’s all this about deserting?’

‘I’m not deserting, I’m just not coming back.’

‘That’s desertion, my friend.’

‘So?’

‘Do you have any idea what they will do to you when they find you?’

‘They won’t. No one knows I’m here.’ Sid-Ahmed laughed with humbling sarcasm.

‘Everyone knows you’re here. Everyone, except your friends.’ His words were so categorical that Santiago didn’t doubt them for a second. ‘Our people know everything that happens inside and outside the barracks. Do you think we are stupid?’ San Román felt helpless. At that moment he regretted not having taken the opportunity to travel to Barcelona. ‘If you really love that girl,’ said Sid-Ahmed, referring to Andía, ‘tomorrow you’ll turn up at the barracks. Otherwise she and her family will be accused of housing a deserter. Can you imagine what would happen to them?’ It was impossible to counter this argument. Sid-Ahmed’s words crushed Santiago. He hung his head in shame. The man was teaching him a lesson without even meaning to. Santiago nodded in agreement. The Saharawi changed his menacing tone and once again became his usual self. ‘Andía is very attached to you. You have behaved like one of us. Don’t spoil it now.’ The phrase touched the bottom of his heart. No one else had taken
his feelings for Andía seriously. They shook hands and drank some tea in silence, without further discussing the matter. That evening the house filled with men. They talked and drank tea until dawn. Once they left, San Roman told Sid-Ahmed:

‘At the end of the day, you Saharawis always look happy.’

‘Not always, my friend, but tonight we had good reason to be so. Our brothers have triumphed in Guelta.’

Santiago didn’t understand these words until the following day, when he went back to the barracks. The situation was one of near chaos, and amid the confusion no one noticed that he hadn’t used his permit to travel to Spain. News about the Polisario travelled from mouth to mouth, inflated by rumours and surrounded by official silence. The army’s retreat from Guelta was seen as a step towards the definitive withdrawal of the Spaniards from the Sahara. In the first two weeks of June, the prison filled with Saharawis arrested in demonstrations and street riots. Santiago’s job, on his first day back, was to act as a guard at the civil prison. The building, barely in use a few months previously, was now full of men who had barely any space to sleep in the crowded cells. It was situated at the end of a long street off Edchera. From afar one could see the huge security operation run by the Spanish Army. Most of the detainees were forced to spend their days and nights in the courtyard. Orders and counter-orders were given by sergeants who did not quite know how to deal with such a critical situation. The phones rang off their hooks. Soldiers ran up and down, carrying out commands that were reversed a minute later. Amid the chaos, Santiago recognised the faces of a few Saharawis. He spoke to some of them, trying not to attract the soldiers’ attention. In just one morning he promised at least twenty people he would give their families news of their whereabouts. Although all permits had been cancelled until further notice, it wasn’t difficult for Santiago to reach Hata-Rambla. And, as soon as the locals got wind that many of their relatives were still detained in El
Aaiún, they started entrusting him with messages. His role as a messenger became an everyday occupation.

That summer was the saddest one in recent memory. Civil servants continued to be repatriated. In July a number of bars closed for the holidays. The population surmised, and it was later confirmed, that these holidays would last many years. The Oasis shut its doors. The summer cinema never opened. Fewer and fewer children were seen in the streets. By August only half of the population remained in the city. It was most noticeable in the suburbs: many houses were empty and locked up. More shops closed down. People would walk hurriedly along main roads with very little traffic. The street market reflected the suspicion and desolation which was taking hold of the city. Although the evacuation became better organised than it had been in spring time, everyone was in a hurry to sort out their affairs: selling off cars and television sets, calling in loans, settling the rent.

News of the Caudillo’s illness did nothing but increase the uncertainty. Although many refused to believe that Franco would die, even high-ranking officers were waiting for
first-hand
news in the telegrams and calls that came from Spain. Yet the result of all this information was a perpetual confusion that swelled the numbers of sceptics.

In mid-October a rumour that had circulated among the best informed became fact. An hour before dinner, the TV in the canteen showed the king of Morocco addressing his people. His voice sounded resolute. Almost no one paid attention, but Santiago was hypnotised by the seriousness in Hasan II’s face. He didn’t understand much beside a word here and there which didn’t make a lot of sense. But, before his speech ended, Santiago told Guillermo:

‘Something’s not right.’ Guillermo looked at the screen without much interest. He didn’t understand the troubles in Morocco and the Sahara. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ said Corporal San Román, ‘but something strange is going on.’ He stood up
and walked briskly to the Nomad Troops’ pavilion. Security had been tightened inside and outside the barracks. As soon as he stepped in, he knew his intuition had not failed him. The Saharawis had the TV on, but no one was paying any attention to the Moroccan propaganda. Instead they were all sitting around an old radio. No one noticed the legionnaire until he asked them what was happening.

‘Nothing, Corporal, nothing.’

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. I know something’s going on.’ The soldiers knew him well. Many of them had sent messages to their families through him. He’d been playing football with them for several months. He knew many of their fiancées, and had been invited to a number of the soldiers’ houses. And so he stood his ground, and, annoyed, asked: ‘What did Hasan say on TV?’

‘He says he wants to invade Sahara and annex it to Morocco.’ San Román did not see how that would be possible.

‘But he can’t: we have the superior army,’ he said naively.