See How Much I Love You (7 page)

‘My parents? What should I speak to my parents about?’

Santiago got furious. ‘About the kid, for God’s sake, about our child.’ She wouldn’t hear another word.

‘Look, the kid is my affair, and mine only.’

‘But, I mean, it’s not like I’ve got nothing to do with it.’

‘Well you should’ve thought of that before,’ said Montse, who was now on the brink of tears.

‘Before hooking up with that blonde hussy, before snogging that…’

‘I haven’t snogged anyone.’

‘I won’t have you lying to me.’

‘I’m not lying, Montse, I swear on my mother, on all that’s holy. She’s only a friend.’

‘And that’s how you kiss your friends?’

‘I’ve told you a thousand times that we were together some time ago. But we were children. For fuck’s sake…’

‘God, I’ve been such a fool.’

‘Montse, the kid.’

‘The child is mine, do you hear? I want you to forget you’ve ever met me, to forget the child, to forget everything.’ The receiver went dead. A continuous beep announced there was no longer anyone at the other end. Furious, Santiago head-butted the glass of the booth. People passing by jumped when they heard the blow. He cut his forehead, and the blood started running down his face. He didn’t know what to do with the receiver. Eventually he banged it as hard as he could against the telephone and cracked it in two. He stepped out of the cabin like a wild animal, looking about him in a rage. He’d never felt as humiliated, as impotent as in that moment. He couldn’t hit anyone, couldn’t tell anyone how things stood, couldn’t give vent to all his rage.

Guillermo came back with a very serious face. In his hand he had the coins which hadn’t been used.

‘She’s not home.’

‘She’s not home or she’s not coming to the phone?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘None. But I’d like to know. Who picked up?’

‘I don’t know. Her sister, maybe.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘That I was a friend from university.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘That Montse was not in Barcelona. She asked me for my name and number, in case she wanted to call me. I said that it wasn’t urgent, that I would call back another time.’

As they left the main road behind, the noise of the traffic was replaced by that of the TVs in ground-floor flats. It was a warm night. Everything was still except for the February wind occasionally stirring things around. They stopped at a corner, far from the city centre. Barely any cars went by. In the distance, the moon was reflected on the shallow Saguía river. They smoked in silence. Guillermo didn’t dare disturb his friend’s thoughts.

‘Never again, I swear, never again,’ said Santiago San Román unexpectedly. ‘I’m done with her.’

‘Don’t take it like that.’

But Santiago did not seem to be listening.

‘No one’s ever treated me like that. Fuck it. From now on Montse is dead. Forever. Do you hear?’

‘I do.’

‘If I ever mention her name, or ask you to call her, or write to her, I want you to punch me in the face. Very hard. You get me?’

‘As you wish.’

‘Swear it.’

‘I swear.’

In an outburst of emotion Santiago hugged his friend and held him close to his body. Then he kissed him on the cheek.

‘What are you doing? Let go, damn it. If anyone sees us they’re going to think we’re queer.’

Santiago let go and smiled for the first time that evening.

‘Queer! Get out! We’ll have a good one tonight. Even if we wind up in jail.’

Guillermo seconded his friend’s sudden enthusiasm.

‘Let’s go back to the Oasis,’ he said.

‘Fuck the Oasis. We do that every Saturday. Let’s get a couple of whores, but good ones.’

‘And the money?’

‘We’re bridegrooms of death. Who cares about the money. Fuck the money!’

At the end of the street a Territorial Police vehicle appeared.
The two legionnaires instantly grew serious and straightened up, as if the Saharawis were able to read their minds. The patrol went past them very slowly, but didn’t stop.

‘Have you ever been up there?’ asked Santiago, pointing to the ‘Stone Houses’.

‘Of course not. Do you think I’m crazy? Besides, there aren’t any bars or whores up there.’

The Zemla quarter, in the high part of the city, was a Saharawi area. It was also called ‘Stone Houses’ or ‘Hata-Rambla’, which meant ‘line of dunes’. Apart from the Saharawis, only a few people from the Canary Islands lived there.

‘Tell me something. Aren’t you curious about what’s up there in those streets?’

‘Not at all. Are you?’

‘Let’s take a walk. No one in the regiment has enough balls to go up.’

‘And you do?’

‘I’ve got what it takes.’

‘You’re wrong in the head, man.’

‘I can’t believe you’re scared.’

‘I’m not, Santi, don’t be stupid. But you’ve heard as well as I have what they say about the area.’

‘All lies, Guillermo. Do you know anyone who has actually gone up there?’

‘No.’

‘Well I do.’

‘Saharawis don’t count. They live there. But haven’t you heard about the demonstrations? Those crazy guys from the Polisario are poisoning people. They’ve kidnapped two lorry drivers. Do you know what happened in Agyeyimat? Lots of legionnaires died.’

Santiago’s enthusiasm cooled as his friend talked. Yet since his first stroll around El Aaiún he’d been intrigued by that part of town, however ugly it looked.

‘That happened far away from here. We’re in civilisation. There are no traitors here. But if you’re not sure, if you’re frightened…’

‘Fuck off. I’m going back to the Oasis.’

Guillermo started walking, annoyed, and his friend followed him with a smile on his face. Santiago felt like he had always lived in that city, and knew it better than his own. He mentally summoned a picture of his old neighbourhood, his house, his mother’s tobacconist’s, but these images were hazy. Suddenly he thought of Montse, and he was incapable of remembering her face.

A
T EIGHT IN THE EVENING
V
IA
L
AITENA WAS TEEMING WITH
cars and people. The new century seemed to have begun with a race against time. It was impossible to get a cab. The stores were overcrowded, its windows steamed up with customers’ breath. Streams of people exited from Jaume I metro station, dispersing in all directions. The Gothic Town absorbed tourists as a dry sponge absorbs water. The Christmas music and the hot air of the shops spilled out onto the pavements. Montse had to wait for a crowd to come out of the metro before moving on. She’d been walking for over an hour, and her feet hurt. She knew where she was going, but she was putting off the moment when she would have to face up to the ghosts of her past.

The living room seemed like the set of a horror movie. After ten years everything looked old-fashioned and smaller. Even the light-bulbs struck her as weaker. Most of the furniture was covered with dust sheets, which gave the room a dismal appearance. It smelled musty. The rolled-up carpets gave off a stale, humid, odour. The curtains were faded and out of fashion. She tried to open the shutters to let some air in, but a couple had to stay closed, as the wood had swollen. The noise of the traffic, in any case, was as audible as if one were on the ground floor. When Montse looked around she felt desolate. Nothing was the way she remembered it. During the last few years, she had made it a point to think of the house as little as possible, so it now seemed unreal, as though the décor was made of washed out
papier-mâché. How long had it been since the last time she’d been in the house? It was easy to calculate. She hadn’t come back since her mother had died: exactly ten years before. She started removing the sheets covering the furniture and left them on an armchair. When she uncovered a sideboard, she was startled by her own image, reflected in the moon-shaped mirror. She felt out of place, as though she were an intruder who had broken into this sanctuary through a crack in time. How many times had she put on her hair-band in front of that mirror before going out? How many times had she straightened her shirt or flattened her hair? How many times had she looked at her adolescent self – beautiful, full of plans and fury – just for pleasure? She closed her eyes, and out of nerves accidentally knocked down a picture frame. The whole sideboard was bristling with them, as if it were an altar. She looked at each one. She appeared in none. Her father, mother, grandparents, sister, brother-in-law and nieces, all were there. Her daughter too. She picked up the frame with the picture of her daughter in her first-communion dress, but didn’t feel anything. She smiled with disappointment when she realized that her mother didn’t have a single picture of her, and tried to convince herself, while staring at her reflection in the mirror, that she didn’t care at all. Then she turned her back on her reflection.

Her bedroom, on the other hand, was just the way she remembered it. When she sat down on the bed in which she’d slept as a girl, she felt a pang of nostalgia. But she couldn’t cry. For the last two months her tear ducts had refused to shed any more tears. She lay down on the bed, rested her head on the pillow and put her feet on the blanket. She fleetingly remembered how much that used to annoy her mother and smiled at the thought of what she would say if she saw her now. She recognised the cracks in the ceiling as if she hadn’t been away for twenty years. The shadows cast by the chandelier in the middle of the room made shapes: a top hat, near the window; a snail, in the
centre; Franco’s profile. She smiled, overcome with emotion. Irrepressible images and sensations surfaced. She closed her eyes, the smile always on her lips, trying to believe that time had not gone by, that she was still eighteen and her life had not taken a nosedive. The noise of cars crept in on her thoughts and acted as a powerful soporific.

She woke up with a start. She’d dreamt that the phone was ringing and no one had picked up. Holding her breath, she tried to separate dream from reality. It was hard to tell how long she’d been asleep. The echo of the phone still resonated in her head, but it wasn’t real. For a moment she thought that Mari Cruz would open the door and say: ‘The phone,
señorita
. It’s for you.’ But the door wouldn’t open. The phone had been disconnected for ten years. She was over forty now, and the dead did not return from their graves just like that, as if nothing had happened. She sat up and looked for the cigar box in the drawer of the night-table. She put it on the bed and took out a hair clip, a box of matches, old stamps, a one-peseta coin, a museum ticket, lipstick. The letters were tied together with red ribbon.

She had found them in her mother’s jewellery case. She remembered it well. Her sister had been sitting across the table, the case between them like a recently exhumed coffin. They both knew neither would wear their mother’s jewels, but couldn’t leave them there: they were worth too much money. It had been her sister who’d finally opened the case and sorted them into two piles. She looked like a professional valuer. She had seen them so many times that she was capable of listing them and their price without opening the case. After taking out the last pearl necklace, she went on looking at the bottom of the case. ‘This is yours,’ she said. Montse looked at her, turning pale, as if she expected to find a Saint’s preserved finger. She put her hand in the case and took out a bunch of letters tied with red ribbon. ‘No, I don’t think it is,’ Montse replied, without looking
at them. Her sister leaned back on her chair and lit up a cigarette. ‘It is now.’ Montse felt a shiver down her spine. She untied the ribbon and instantly recognised her own name and the Vía Cayetana address. The envelopes were yellowing. She quickly calculated that there must have been between fifteen and twenty letters, each complete with their three-peseta stamp from when Franco was in power. She didn’t get it. She placed them on the table in a fan. They were all unopened. She picked one up and read the sender’s name. The letters slipped from her hand. Her sister remained impassive, unsurprised. Montse flipped all the envelopes. The sender was the same on every last one: Santiago San Román, Chacón, 4th Regiment of the Alejandro Farnesio Legion, El Aaiún, Western Sahara. She blushed and shook slightly. It seemed as though the dead were rising to torment her. She looked for an explanation in her sister’s eyes, but Teresa didn’t even blink. It wasn’t Santiago’s handwriting, that was for sure. ‘What’s this, Teresa? Don’t tell me you knew about these letters.’ Teresa didn’t reply; she was stroking her mother’s jewels as if they were a cat. Finally she said: ‘Yes, Montse, I did know about them. The porter handed some of them to me. Others reached mum’s hands first. What I didn’t know was that mum had kept them all this time.’ Montse remained silent. Sixteen years after the event she could no longer feel betrayed, but for a moment she did not know her sister. She checked the postmark. The letters were ordered chronologically: from December ’74 to February ’75. She didn’t dare to open them in front of Teresa, who said: ‘You were in Cadaqués; you know what I mean. Every letter that came in put this household through hell.’ ‘Yes, but you always…’ Teresa banged on the table, and the two piles of jewels collapsed. ‘No, Montse, I didn’t always anything. You went through hell yourself, but I had my purgatory,’ she said in an outburst of rage, ‘and I didn’t have anything to do with it. Now listen to me and don’t get angry as though you’re a tragic heroine. While you were in Cadaqués, hiding for the sake of
mother’s shame, I had to put up with her every day. Every last one, do you understand? Every time a letter came in or there was a call, it was me who had to suffer mother’s anger. It was me who had to tiptoe around; me who went to bed at nine to avoid her moods; me who stopped going out with friends because I couldn’t bring myself to ask her permission. I got fed up with her shouting and unfair reproaches. Fed up with being the perfect daughter who had to make up for her sister’s sins.’ Suddenly she went quiet, visibly shaken, trying to contain her anger. Now it was Montse who didn’t blink. It was the first time she’d seen her sister beside herself with fury. That seemed more momentous than the discovery of the letters. Teresa, her little sister, had always acted like the older one. She’d always been a buffer between Montse and her mother. Teresa represented intelligence, coolness and serenity in moments of drama. Seeing her like this was earthshaking for Montse. They looked at each other for a further few seconds, trying to calm down. ‘You choose,’ said Teresa eventually.

‘Sorry?’

‘Choose a pile and take it.’

‘Shouldn’t we draw lots or something?’ Teresa took out her diary, tore out a page and divided it into four. She scribbled figures, made two balls and let Montse choose. That decided it. Teresa put her part of the jewels in a handkerchief, tied a knot in it and pocketed them. She stood up. Montse felt awkward. She didn’t dare to ask any more questions.

‘Are you coming?’ asked Teresa.

‘I think I’ll stay a bit.’

‘Don’t forget to turn the circuit breaker off. And lock twice.’

After she’d read them several times, the letters, always tied with their red ribbon, stayed for a further ten years in the night-table drawer in her mother’s house. Now they were in front of her once again, like yellowing, stale, outdated ghosts. She untied the knot
and spread them over the bed, opening one at random. In spite of all the time that had gone by, she remembered every sentence as though she had just read it. Montse knew it wasn’t Santiago’s handwriting, but the words did sound like him. No doubt a friend had written them down. Most letters were accompanied by a photograph, and all were very similar: Santiago dressed in uniform, in front of a combat vehicle; on top of a lorry; with a rifle slung over his shoulder; by the flag. She seemed to be looking at his face as if it had only been a month since they had last met. She had obsessively, maddeningly dreamt of that face every night for years.

Details, gestures, smells she thought she had completely forgotten now came back to her. For a moment she could almost hear the floorboards in the corridor creak under Mari Cruz’s short steps. The clicking of the housekeeper’s heels was part and parcel of her adolescence, as was the view from the balcony of her bedroom. She had listened to that clicking going up and down the corridor on a certain hot July afternoon, while she sat in bed pretending to read, overcome with anxiety, biting her nails. It was the first time she had missed a day of class without justification. True, she’d been to the Academia Santa Teresa in the morning, but after lunch she told Mari Cruz she didn’t feel well: she had a terrible headache. Then she asked Mari Cruz to let her know if anyone rang. But time went by and no one did. Montse wasn’t sure she’d hear the phone from her bedroom, and so she listened to the maid’s heels, alert, gauging every noise, every move. Through the window she heard the belfries of the Gothic Quarter tolling the hours one after another. All she could think of was the boy who had driven her home. Perhaps she’d been a bit cold when she’d said goodbye in front of her house. Perhaps she should have said something else when she gave him her phone number. Perhaps she had misjudged him, had misread his mysterious dark eyes. Or perhaps Santiago San Román could have any girl he wanted just by offering her a ride
in his white convertible, as he’d done with her. She was afflicted by doubts and anxiety. She looked up the surname San Román in the telephone directory. Even if she found his number, she wouldn’t dare to call him, but she liked to think that she could. Every now and again she was startled by Mari Cruz’s heels. Montse went out onto the balcony at least ten times. Maybe the boy was laughing at her. No doubt he had a girlfriend and all he’d done was show his friend Pascualín how easily he could pick up girls. Maybe she shouldn’t have kissed him. Maybe she should have let him kiss her. As the afternoon wore on she grew more and more in thrall to her own nerves. It was infuriating to think that she had missed class for him, and yet she was unable to think of anything except this jumped-up nobody who had tried to dazzle her. But when she heard Mari Cruz’s heels going faster than normal, and then stop at her door, knocking on it softly and saying, ‘
Señorita
Montse, there’s a call for you,’ her heart almost jumped out of her chest. She ran as if half-crazed to the living room, closed the door behind her and, almost out of breath, picked up the receiver.

‘It’s Santiago San Román,’ she heard at the other end. ‘From yesterday evening?’

‘Santiago San Román?’ asked Montse, trying to conceal the affectation in her voice. There was a tense, equivocal pause.

‘I drove you home yesterday and you gave me your phone number. Well, actually, I asked you for it…’

‘Oh, yes, the guy in the white convertible.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Well, that’s me. Anyway, would you like to go for a spin?’

‘A “spin”? A spin where?’ Montse didn’t like to be cruel, but didn’t know how else to do this.

‘Around, wherever you like. Out for a drink and all that.’

‘Your friend, you and me?’

‘No, no, just you and me. Pascualín is busy.’ Montse counted to seven before replying.

‘I’ve got to study. I’m quite behind with my German.’ Santiago was not expecting that answer. He didn’t know what else to say.

‘Well, it’s a pity. I’ll call you some other time then.’ Montse swallowed and did something that went against all her principles.

‘Wait. Where are you now?’

‘Across the road from you, in a phone booth.’

‘Stay there. I’m coming right over.’

That was the last day Montse attended the Academia Santa Teresa. From then on, the summer turned into spring, the books into flowers, and the stifling heat into a light breeze that went on brushing against her skin for several months, even after the humid cold weather had come in from the coast along the Ramblas and settled on the streets of the city.

On that first afternoon the sky was an intense red that Montse had never seen before. Santiago San Román was wearing the same white shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He looked taller than the day before, darker, more handsome. She took an hour to get ready and come down, but the boy didn’t say a thing; he just waited in front of the booth.