See How Much I Love You (19 page)

Brahim says something to his fiancée. Layla translates.

‘He says it’s the old man we saw last night. The Demon. He’s not right in the head, you know.’

‘Let’s go,’ says Montse, nervous. ‘It’s getting dark.’

F
ROM THE ROOFTOPS IN THE
S
AHARAWI AREA OF
H
ATA
-Rambla
, the city looked like a ship sinking into a sea of sand. One could hear the echoes of the commotion taking place in the modern part of El Aaiún. Few people really knew what was happening, so everyone moved with suspicion, trying to deal as best they could with the chaos of the evacuation.

In Hata-rambla there was a general feeling of consternation. No one had any idea what might happen to those who chose to remain in the city. The population assumed, without entirely accepting it, that sooner or later a great catastrophe would occur. Those Saharawis who lived on the outskirts were looking for vehicles in which to leave the city immediately. The most pessimistic, fearing the danger of invasion, would set off into the desert on a cart drawn by a donkey, loaded with barely enough supplies to survive for a few days. Ownership of a vehicle became a great privilege. The Territorial Police, meanwhile, patrolled the exits of the city, and forced anyone trying to escape to turn back. Nevertheless, the desert was difficult to patrol, and in the middle of the night people would flee in all directions.

Santiago San Roman spent his mornings on the rooftop of Lazaar’s house. He felt like a bird perching on top of its own cage. The neighbourhood was like a prison, and it was very difficult to go in and out. Although every man found a way to evade the controls and move around the city, those who lived in Zemla were not prepared to leave behind their women and
children. The Moroccan television broadcast disquieting news. Morocco had announced it would organize a peaceful invasion, but the reports coming from the north indicated otherwise. Over ten thousand soldiers had already crossed the border, and were now marching towards the capital.

Sid-Ahmed found Santiago sitting on top of the house, his legs dangling over the façade, smoking a cigarette. Ever since he’d come back, the legionnaire had been acting strangely. He showed little interest in current affairs and did not seem to understand what was going on. He just sat on the rooftop, listening to the noise in the street. The shopkeeper sat down beside him and lit up his pipe.

‘I need you, my friend,’ aid Sid-Ahmed. ‘You’re the only one who can help me.’

San Román could only smile when he thought of the last time Sid-Ahmed had asked for his help. However, he didn’t say what was on his mind; he remained silent, staring at the desert.

‘I’d like you to drive me and my father away in your car.’

‘You can have it whenever you like. You know where the keys are.’

The Saharawi searched for the right words.

‘I know, my friend, but I don’t want your car. I need you to drive us. Later you may return.’

‘You’re not coming back?’

‘No, no, of course not. I’m leaving forever.’

‘Then you can keep the Land Rover forever,’ replied Santiago tersely. ‘I don’t think the Army will mind.’

‘No, still you don’t understand me. I want you to come back to the city in the car. My children and my wife are staying here. I need you to look after them. That’s all I can say for now.’

Santiago came back to reality, suddenly abandoning his
self-absorption
. Sid-Ahmed’s words sounded sincere. The Saharawi’s face was serious, very serious. Santiago had almost never seen him like this. For the first time he felt they were on an equal footing.

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know yet. I only want you to take us out of El Aaiún. I’ll tell you later where to drop us off. You’ll be back here in the morning. I’ve discussed it with my family and Andía’s. They all agree. I can’t do anything here, and my people need me.’

‘Your people?’

‘Yes, my friend, my people. They won’t let me out on my own, but if I go with a legionnaire there won’t be any problems. Do you follow?’

He did. That same night he filled up the radiator with water, checked there was enough fuel in the tank, and got ready to take Sid-Ahmed and his father out of the city. They waited until it was completely dark and said goodbye to the whole family. The Saharawi’s wife wept in silence. Andía hugged Santiago, and he had to make an effort to disentangle himself. Although her expression was serious, Santiago’s spirits rose when he saw how moved the girl was. It was a brief, self-controlled farewell.

Corporal San Román didn’t find it difficult to leave
Hata-Rambla
. The soldiers guarding the gates had their minds on other things. In spite of their orders, the guards were not too zealous, and when they saw the Corporal’s stripes, they didn’t stand in the way of the vehicle. Later, Santiago, instead of heading for the road to Smara, followed Sid-Ahmed’s directions. Despite what the Saharawi had said earlier, he seemed to know exactly where he was going. They drove to the Saguía river and followed it upstream. There was barely any water, and, in the moonlight, one could make out the reddish tinge of its shallow pools. The Saharawi knew every path, ford and track.

‘If we’ve got far to go, we’ll run out of petrol,’ warned Santiago.

Sid-Ahmed didn’t heed the warning. Santiago drove on for two hours with no idea where he was going. There was neither road nor path. The Land Rover lurched across the desert, at times following an old track, at others ploughing across the stony ground. Santiago, who had always admired the Saharawis’
sense of direction in the night, let himself be guided through the desert, himself unable to tell north from south. He trusted Sid-Ahmed.

About thirty kilometres away from El Aaiún, the vehicle ran out of fuel.

‘I warned you, damn it, I did warn you. The journey’s over.’

Sid-Ahmed remained impassive beside him, without taking his eyes off an imprecise point in the horizon.

‘Calm down, my friend. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Allah will help us.’

San Román had heard that phrase many times, but it had never before sounded so hollow. He tried not to look disconcerted. The silence was terrifying. The Saharawi helped his father out of the car. He sat him down against an acacia and went back to the vehicle. He returned with a teapot, glasses, sugar and water. On seeing this, the legionnaire had to resign himself to the calm temperament of the men of the desert. And when he saw
Sid-Ahmed
make tea, he knew somehow that nothing would happen to them in that inhospitable place. However, it was beginning to get very cold. The Saharawi walked away a few metres and pulled off some dry branches of an argan tree. Then he cut the white spikes of the acacia. He dug a hole in the ground and made a fire. While they waited for the water to boil and the old man warmed himself, Sid-Ahmed began talking about football. Santiago didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

They drank three glasses of tea, and they would have continued drinking if a light had not appeared at the top of a hillock. The legionnaire stood up, a bit shaken, and alerted the two Saharawis.

‘It’s all right, my friend. Stay here.’

San Román obeyed. He couldn’t do otherwise. The number of lights doubled. Presently he could clearly make out the headlights of two vehicles. They must have seen the fire. They approached slowly, dazzling them with the full beam of the
headlights. Sid-Ahmed neither moved nor said anything. The vehicles stopped by the Land Rover of the Nomad Troops. Three or four men came out and walked very slowly toward the acacia. As they proceeded they recited the customary series of greetings, and Sid-Ahmed replied to them casually.

‘Yak-labess.’

‘Yak-labess.’

‘Yak-biher. Baracala.’

‘Baracala.’

‘Al jamdu lih-llah.’

Suddenly, when they were near the fire, Santiago’s heart jumped. The man leading the group was Lazaar. He was dressed as a soldier, but not in the Nomad Troop uniform. He was smiling broadly. Corporal San Román couldn’t muster the strength to stand up. Lazaar greeted the old man respectfully, placed his hand on the man’s head, and then helped Santiago up. He gave him a heart-felt hug.

‘My friend. I knew I would see you again. Thank you.’

‘Why “thank you”?’

‘For looking after my family. They’ve told me everything.’

‘Told you? What have they told you?’

‘I know you were taken prisoner for collaborating with us. Andía is very proud of you.’

‘Andía? How do you know what Andía thinks?’

‘She writes to me and tells me everything. Besides,
Sid-Ahmed
is a good source of information.’

Santiago did not inquire further for fear of sounding stupid. Sid-Ahmed remained calm, as if the encounter were perfectly normal. He set about making more tea. No one seemed to be in a hurry that night except Santiago, who grew frantic in the face of the men’s laidback attitude. For hours they discussed the cold, the wind, foxes, potholes, sheep, goats and camels. And for the first time he felt acknowledged, since they did so not in Hassaniya but in Spanish. Sid-Ahmed’s father slept through
the conversation. The cold became very intense, yet no one complained. When all topics of conversation seemed to have been exhausted, Lazaar addressed Santiago San Román.

‘You’re here for a reason, it was not only to drive Sid-Ahmed and his father. I asked him to bring you along.’

Santiago knew that asking questions only meant delaying the answer, so he didn’t interrupt him in spite of his curiosity.

‘I need to ask you a favour, San Román: I’d like you to get my family out of El Aaiún and take them to Tifariti. We’re gathering everyone we can there.’ The legionnaire still refrained from asking any questions. ‘They’re invading us from the north, and, if certain reports are true, the Mauritanians want to enter the territory as well.’

‘And you want to take them to Tifariti? All of them?’

‘Yes, my friend, all of them. My mother, my aunt and my brothers. Sid-Ahmed’s wife too. His children are already with us.’

Santiago thought this would be quite a mission. For the first time he realised how serious the war was. An array of possibilities crowded into his mind, and he felt a considerable weight on his shoulders.

‘I’m not even sure how I’ll get back. The tank is empty,’ he said naively.

Lazaar did not stop smiling.

‘We’ll take care of that.’

‘And will I know how to get to Tifariti?’

‘Allah will help you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be asking you.’

The legionnaire did not sleep a wink that night. He felt the cold in his bones, and his stomach was tied into a knot. The Saharawis cleared everything up with utmost calm, and then filled the tank of the Land Rover, using a hose to transfer diesel from their vehicles. When it was time to say goodbye, Santiago felt the need to be frank, even if it meant looking pathetic.

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to find the way back. All the bushes look the same to me. Besides, I couldn’t see a thing last night.’

‘Forget about last night,’ Said Sid-Ahmed. ‘We took a short cut, but you can go back following the river.’

‘What river? There’s no river here.’

‘Look, do you see that hillock over there? Go over it and carry on facing the sun. You’ll come to a dry riverbed. You can recognise a dry riverbed, can’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Follow it towards the north. Do not veer off. After some ten kilometres you’ll see water, which will take you to the Saguía. Follow the current and you won’t get lost.’

‘What about Tifariti? Won’t I get lost on the way there?’

Lazaar cut an acacia branch and placed two stones on the ground. He traced a line and gave him directions.

‘Don’t take any roads. Always drive across the desert. If you bear east you won’t get lost. Carry on towards Smara, and as soon as you come across tracks going south east, follow them. Always keep to those tracks. All the people who are escaping to Tifariti leave their marks in the desert. Everyone’s going that way. We’ll see you in three days. Also, don’t enter into any villages, however small they may look: they might be already occupied, which would be very dangerous.’

Santiago drove away in the Land Rover, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror. Once the vehicles were out of sight he focussed on the hillock. Not even when he’d been caught carrying the explosives had he been as frightened as he was now. He carefully followed Sid-Ahmed’s directions, trying to drive as confidently as the Saharawis. He thought that the men had placed too much trust in him, but after two hours driving, when he made out the white houses of el Aaiún, with their eggshell-like roofs in the distance, he knew that nothing would prevent him from reaching Tifariti with Lazaar’s family.

They welcomed him as if he’d been gone for months. Santiago
recounted the encounter with the eldest brother in detail. Lazaar’s mother and aunt listened without even blinking. As soon as they were told they had to leave, they started preparing themselves. In the main room, boxes containing clothes, food and all manner of utensils started piling up. Sid-Ahmed’s wife came into the house too. The legionnaire tried to organise the escape as if it were a military operation. He first reviewed the troops. Three adult women, four girls, and six young men. The youngest girl was about three, and the oldest boy over eighteen. Fourteen people, in any case, was a lot for one vehicle. He told Andía, trying to remain calm, but the girl did not think a detail like that mattered.

Santiago decided to go down to the city and steal a car. The eldest of Lazaar’s brothers went with him. This time, however, it wasn’t so easy to move freely in the streets. There were legionnaires posted on the pavements, as if they were about to start a parade. The Territorial Police stopped any vehicles which contained more than two people or looked excessively loaded. Few cars circulated along the main roads, and there were even fewer parked by them. Some had broken windshields or busted locks. Others had been robbed of spare parts and their dead engines were clearly to be seen under their open bonnets. At a junction Santiago stopped dead and made the Saharawi take cover round the corner. A few metres from there, at a street control, they were searching a group of Saharawis, whom they had ordered out of their car. The Spanish soldiers, with their Cetme rifles slung over their shoulders, had them against the wall with legs and arms apart. Santiago froze on hearing a painfully familiar voice. It was Baquedano. Santiago experienced both fear and a
crise de conscience
. The sergeant was furious. He shouted at the Saharawis as if they were dangerous animals. Suddenly he slapped the youngest one of them and threw him onto the floor. The lad tried to escape, but Baquedano placed his boot on his face and then started kicking him. Santiago San Román wished
he had a loaded gun. Anger replaced fear.