See How Much I Love You (9 page)

She opened her eyes, hoping it had all been a nightmare. Everything was real. The first, timid rays of sunlight came through the curtains. The old woman she’d seen the previous night was now in the centre of the room, making tea, her gaze lost on the floor. Beside her was the adolescent boy, who could not stop looking at Montse. He approached and offered her a piece of bread. It was hard as stone. There was nobody else around. The suitcase and the bag were where she had left them. She opened the latter to make sure her passport was still in it. She sat up. Her whole body ached. She peered out into the street and, once again, the view distressed her. All the houses looked the same: windowless blocks with curtains for doors. Half-naked children played among the junk of abandoned cars, engines and trailers without wheels. At the entrance of the house there was a goat tied to a piece of metal. Its coat was filthy, and it was coughing as though in agony. From across the road a dog started
barking at Montse. She took a few steps away from the façade, until she saw a woman run towards her with her face covered, shouting and holding her head in her hands. The woman took Montse by the arm and dragged her back into the house. She was one of the women who’d cooked dinner the night before. Montse didn’t understand a word. She tried to explain that she needed to find a telephone. The woman kept talking in Arabic and French. In despair, Montse ran to the door and out into the street. She was prepared to cry for help, but when she saw the serious looks on the neighbours’ faces she couldn’t do it. The woman went after her, still speaking angrily. Montse held on to her handbag and walked on, giving her suitcase up for lost. At least, she thought, she was carrying all her documents and money with her. She strode away as quickly as possible, leaving the woman’s chastening voice behind. All the kids in the street tailed behind her, shouting and laughing, and aping her walk. It took her a while to escape from the ruins of the labyrinth, because all the streets looked the same.

She felt greatly relieved when, after many twists and turns, she found a main road. Most of the children had stayed behind, only three little girls had kept up with her. She turned to them and recognised some of the faces from the night before. ‘Go home,’ she shouted, ‘home! À la maison, à la maison!’ They girls looked serious. They stopped and, a little later, went on walking behind her. The eldest looked barely ten. Increasingly anxious, Montse sat on the kerbstone. The girls stood on the other side of the road. She beckoned them over. They approached after thinking about it for a long while. ‘I want to make a phone call, do you understand? A phone call?’ The girls just stared at her. Drivers slowed down to see the unusual sight. ‘Telephone, telephone, where?’ she said in French. The oldest girl pointed to the end of the street. Then the other two did the same. Montse stood up and headed in that direction. Suddenly she felt the youngest girl’s hand taking hers. The other two remained walking behind her,
but not very far. As they walked on, the streets became more crowded. People stared at Montse. Men stopped and turned. Women covered their mouths with their head scarves. There were no telephone booths in sight. A man riding on a donkey repeatedly shouted at Montse without her knowing why.

She stopped at the entrance to a bar with a thatched roof. By the door were a few dirty white plastic tables. Two old men, who were smoking, fixed their eyes on her. One of them was wearing a pair of glasses with one of the lenses missing. He closed one eye to bring her into focus. Montse plucked up the courage to walk into the bar. There were a dozen men sitting around tables, chatting and smoking. As soon as they saw her they went quiet. Montse tried not to look them in the eye. The old man who’d been sitting by the door went in behind her, driven by his curiosity. There was an ancient telephone fixed to a post. Montse tried to find out who the owner was, but it proved impossible. ‘Telephone,’ she said in a broken voice as she pointed to the receiver. ‘I need to telephone.’ One of the men approached her, took her by the arm and pushed her towards the door. Montse resisted. Suddenly there was a commotion that she couldn’t understand. The men started arguing between themselves. The racket was phenomenal. They gesticulated, shouted and even made as if to hit one another. The two old men jumped into the argument and started shouting at her too. Montse was so scared that she couldn’t even see the exit. Two men took her by the arms, and both started pulling her towards them. She dropped her bag. Terrified, unable to control her nerves, she started to scream. Someone held her by the waist and pulled her away. Before she realised what was going on she was back in the street. The adolescent she had seen in the house was still dragging her by the arm to make her run. Montse did so as if the boy were her guardian angel. Behind her she heard the men’s voices, still shouting and insulting each other at the entrance to the bar. She only stopped after she’d turned the
corner, and sat down on the kerb once again. The boy had her bag slung over his shoulder. He gave it back as if it burned his hands. The three girls were sitting across the road, their eyes wide open, taking in every detail. The boy was talking to her, but Montse didn’t have the strength to look him in the eye.

Back in the house, the woman was sitting in the middle of the room, along with the grandmother. She gave Montse a serious look but didn’t say anything. The suitcase was still there. Montse slumped on the floor, letting go of her bag. The boy apparently began telling the women what had happened. A few female neighbours came in, while children peered in through the curtains without daring to enter. Montse burst into tears. She’d been trying not to cry from the moment she found herself alone at the terminal of Tindouf airport.

Layla squeezes Montse’s hand. The sun is getting very strong. After hearing the story, the nurse has a smile on her face. This is surprising. She and Montse look at each other.

‘You’re not at home, but there’s nothing to be scared of,’ says Layla with a touch of sadness.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That it can be difficult to understand Islamic culture from the outside. Those people must have thought you were asking them for a place to sleep, and though they were poor they offered you what they had. To some it’s not easy to understand our customs. But hospitality is sacred among Muslims.’

‘I can understand that much.’

‘If you accept someone’s hospitality, you must follow their rules.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Algerian women are not like us. They are old-fashioned. They don’t understand that a woman might walk alone in the street, let alone if she’s a guest or a foreigner. As for walking into a men’s bar… Well, some would think it as serious a sin as
walking bare-armed down the street.’

Montse ponders Layla’s words, which sadden her. The nurse realises that something is wrong and puts her hand on Montse’s forehead, although the patient doesn’t have a temperature.

‘Don’t be sad. You’ll get back home soon and will be able to tell the whole story as if it were a film.’

Montse’s face hardens into a grimace. Layla is disconcerted. She cannot get used to her patient’s mood swings.

‘Are you all right, Montse?’

‘No, I’m not really. It’s hard to explain it, even to myself.’

‘Try explaining it to me. Maybe I’ll get it.’

Montse swallows with difficulty. She combs her hair with her hands.

‘I don’t feel like going back. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I’m falling into a deep hole I won’t be able to come out of.’

‘Don’t you have any children?’

‘Only a daughter, but she doesn’t need me,’ replies Montse without hesitation.

‘Have you got a job?’

‘I do, but I’ve taken time off. There’s no one waiting for me. If I never return, no one will miss me.’

They fall silent. A few nurses walk across the courtyard and say hello, exchanging a few words in Arabic with Layla. Then they’re alone again.

‘Would you like to come to my house?’ asks Layla. ‘I can extend a formal invitation. Next week it’s the Feast of the Sacrifice. It’s a time to spend with the people you love. You could meet my family.’

Montse smiles. She likes the sound of the nurse’s words.

‘Do you mean that? I mean, is it possible?’

‘Of course it’s possible. I only have to ask. You can go back home on the next flight, or the one after that. Whenever you like. My family would be pleased to have you.’

Montse hugs her with some difficulty. She’s still exhausted.

‘And will you cut my hair?’ she asks with a schoolgirl’s enthusiasm.

‘Your hair?’

‘Yes. It’s a mess, look. Will you cut it for me?’

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll cut it. And I’ll dye it red. I’ve got lots of henna at home. Is that a “yes” then?’

‘Yes, Layla. It’s the best invitation I’ve ever had.’

And as she says this a cloud of sadness descends on her.

S
ANTIAGO
S
AN
R
OMÁN
LOOKED AT HIS WATCH OVER AND
over again, as if impatience would make time go faster. The last half an hour had been the longest in his life. What the hell was he doing there on a Saturday night, past two in the morning, behind the steering wheel of a Seat 124, waiting for a signal to drive off at full speed? The more he thought of it, the less he understood how he’d become involved in all this. They had tricked him into it like a novice. He was angry and upset. The weapon he was carrying under his jacket burnt his skin. He felt like flinging it into the bushes of a garden and running away. Then he thought of Sergeant Baquedano, and was paralysed with fear.

Against his orders, he got out of the car and paced up and down the pavement, trying to remain calm. He felt awkward in civilian clothes. This too was against the rules, but at the moment it was the least of his worries. He walked back and forth, always within fifty metres of the Seat. The car had a Western Sahara plate number, and nothing indicated that it was a military vehicle. In the glove compartment he found the driver’s license and the identity card of an unknown Saharawi shopkeeper. All very suspect. Could it be a joke devised by veteran legionnaires to ruin his weekend? Whenever he touched the gun under his clothes the theory vanished. Why would they give him a gun if they were only mocking him? Just thinking of Baquedano he felt a shiver rippling through his whole body.

He sat behind the steering wheel once again. He lowered the window, lit his last cigarette, and threw the empty packet onto the back seat. He resisted the impulse to look at his watch. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the corner around which he had seen Baquedano and his two accomplices disappear half an hour ago. He was certain that the three men were up to no good. He imagined the consequences he’d have to face if he washed his hands of the whole affair and left. For a moment he saw himself lying in a ditch by a desolate road, with his stomach cut open. Only Guillermo would miss him, and by the time they found him he would have rotted under the desert sun. He definitely didn’t have the courage to run away. He felt like shit. On Friday, during break time, when Sergeant Baquedano approached him and started getting him into all this, he had not had the courage to say no. He had seen no way to extricate himself.

Friday and Saturday afternoons in the barracks were different from other days. The soldiers became especially animated as they waited to be handed their passes for the evening or the weekend. That Friday Santiago San Román was the last remaining person in his pavilion. After all, however fast he ran, he would have to queue up at the gates to show his pass like everyone else. He sprinkled himself with all the Varon Dandy left in the bottle and fastened the cap strap under his chin. When he heard a voice calling him, he thought it was a colleague hurrying him up. He turned, saw Sergeant Baquedano, and his face froze. More than the NCO’s presence, what really made him nervous was the fact that Baquedano had called him by his surname. Santiago had never exchanged a word with him, not even a gesture. He even avoided the man’s eyes. ‘Attention, San Román!’ Santiago stood to attention, stuck his chest out, pulled his stomach in, clicked the heels of his boots and saluted, saying that he was at Baquedano’s command. The sergeant stood still a few metres away, with his legs slightly apart and his fingers hooked on the
buckle of his belt. ‘At ease, soldier. What I’ve come to tell you is strictly confidential.’ He outranked Santiago. Baquedano looked him up and down and cleared his throat before proceeding. It was the first time Santiago had not seen him drunk. ‘They say you’re the best driver in the regiment. Is that true?’

‘I’m a mechanic, sir.’

‘Same thing, don’t interrupt me. They tell me you can do a complete spin on the runway without touching the yellow lines.’ He paused without taking his eyes off the soldier. ‘Major Panta has heard about you and requires your services.’ A drop of sweat rolled down Santiago’s forehead, from the cap to his eyebrow. It struck him as awkward and dangerous that Baquedano had heard about him.

‘People exaggerate, sir. Besides, it’s easier to drive a car when one’s not the owner.’

‘Don’t be modest, soldier, no need for that with me.’ The sergeant came closer and casually put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You see, San Román, if I’ve come to look for you at your pavilion instead of calling you to the Major’s office, it’s because no one must know about this. You understand?’ Santiago had no time to reply. ‘I’m glad you do. The Legion needs you, lad, and that should make you proud as a bridegroom of death. But if anything of what we’re about to discuss leaves this room I’ll cut your balls off and sent them to your dad by special delivery. You understand?’ Santiago didn’t, but couldn’t utter a word. ‘Tomorrow the soldier San Román won’t get a leave permit. We need a driver with enough experience and sangfroid. Needless to say, the mission is top secret and very important. The less you know, the better for everyone. All you need to know is that tomorrow I’ll be waiting for you at the hangar at ten pm; come in uniform. Don’t carry any papers or documents that might help identify you. You’ll have a bag with civilian clothes, in case we need to blend in. Tomorrow I’ll tell you the rest, the same time as I brief the other courageous legionnaires who are
coming with us. Don’t ask questions and don’t mention this to anyone, absolutely anyone, not even Major Panta. Understood?’ Santiago couldn’t talk. ‘Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. At your command, sergeant sir!’ Baquedano patted him on the shoulder, as though he were giving him his blessing.

‘You’ll feel proud of your uniform. And then… Well, Major Panta will sign a permit for seven days’ leave to those who volunteered for the mission. Seven days, San Román, seven days to do whatever the hell you want. And all you have to do is carry out your duty.’

‘At your command, sergeant, sir!’ Baquedano was about to turn but stopped.

‘And another thing, San Román: unless there’s another officer around, don’t ever call me sergeant again. You’ll call me Señor. Here I’m El Señor. Understood?’

‘Sí, Señor. At your command, Señor!’

Guillermo crossed Baquedano at the door. He caught his breath and stood to attention. When he finally found Santiago, his friend looked very pale. He was leaning on a filing cabinet, his breathing was laboured, and his eyes seemed about to pop out of his head.

‘Are you all right, Santi?’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s my stomach again, giving me trouble.’ Guillermo believed him.

‘We’re the only ones left, Santi. If we stay here any longer we won’t find anything to drink at the Oasis.’

‘Let’s go then.’

Guillermo didn’t connect the encounter with Baquedano with Santiago’s strange behaviour. He resigned himself to taking a walk when Santiago said he didn’t feel like going to the Oasis. They went near the zoo under construction. Guillermo was proud of the building, as though the design had been his. Although in Barcelona he’d already worked as a builder, this was the most important development he’d ever taken part in. Now,
seated on cement blocks, the two friends smoked and imagined what the zoo would look like when it was finished. Santiago had difficulty talking. He couldn’t get Baquedano out of his mind. He suspected that the affair would cause him nothing but trouble. If it was the Major’s idea, it was no doubt about prostitutes. But if it was Baquedano’s, it could be anything: dope, smuggled tobacco, LSD.

‘I’m not allowed out tomorrow. I’m on duty.’ His friend didn’t look surprised.

‘Well, you’re screwed.’

‘No, not at all. Afterwards they’ll give me a seven-day permit.’ This did surprise Guillermo.

‘You were born lucky, mate, I’ve always said so. There’s no one I know with as much luck as you.’ San Román couldn’t bring himself to tell Guillermo the story about Baquedano. Deep down he expected his friend to sound him out, to feel intrigued, to detect something strange about all of it. It was not to be.

‘Let’s go get a drink before it’s too late.’ Santiago suddenly started walking – he felt nervous, reckless. ‘Let’s go up to see the Stone Houses.’ He meant the Zemla quarter, where the Saharawis lived.

‘Not again. You must be wrong in the head, Santi. Don’t break my balls with the Saharawis.’ Santiago pressed on. He stopped after a while and turned.

‘You’re such a shit, Guillermo! I can never count on you for anything out of the ordinary.’ To Guillermo, that felt like a punch in his stomach. He reddened, locked his jaw and gritted his teeth. He was about to shout something, but held back. Santiago walked away without turning. He had to get rid of his obsession with that part of the city.

He gave a start on hearing Guillermo’s voice behind him. ‘That’s not fair, Santi. How can you forget everything I’ve done for you so quickly?’ Santiago turned around. Guillermo had
followed him for a quarter of an hour like a faithful lapdog. Santiago knew that his friend didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. He was suddenly sorry. He threw his arm round Guillermo’s shoulder and held him.

‘Don’t go all queer on me, Santi, you know I don’t like it.’ Santiago made as if to kiss him, and then ran off, with Guillermo giving chase in an attempt to kick him.

The Saharawis called the Zemla area Hata-Rambla; it was a sort of peninsula that tore itself away from the modern part and its four-storey buildings. From afar the stone houses looked like they were made of papier-mâché. Most dwellings only had a ground floor. As the two legionnaires proceeded up the hill, they left behind what were known as the ‘
half-egg
’ houses, which had white roofs like upturned egg shells, especially built to channel the heat upwards. It was a holiday for Muslims, and on that evening the streets were unusually quiet. There were children playing football where the terrain was flat, but on seeing the two soldiers they ran away as if they’d never seen anything like them. The women, for their part, would go straight into their houses, only to peep through the hand-woven curtains covering the doors and windows. The men came out to take a look at the legionnaires, and would blatantly stare at them, with impertinent, clearly hostile gazes. Neither of them felt comfortable, but Santiago concealed his feelings better. He talked to Guillermo without meeting the Saharawis’ eyes. He was familiar with some of their habits and knew that it was best to act naturally. A man in a turban approached them. ‘Have you got a light, lads?’ he asked calmly, as though he were used to coming across legionnaires in those back streets. Santiago San Román offered him a box of matches. As soon as he’d heard his voice, he knew he was one of the men from Canary Islands who now lived there. Most were road hauliers or ex-legionnaires who hadn’t returned home after being discharged. The man touched the light to his pipe, a copper cylinder that got wider
at the tip and was adorned with engraved lines. ‘The legion has improved since my days, my friends. They didn’t provide us with uniforms like that, and we had no money to spend on cologne.’ Santiago knew he meant his Varon Dandy. ‘Things change, gentlemen, even in the army.’

Guillermo felt ill-at-ease under the scrutiny of the man in Saharawi clothes. His rotten teeth and world-weary reflections didn’t inspire confidence. The man knew this; he gave the matches back to Santiago. ‘You bet things change. A few years ago none of us would have dared to come to up here, on a holiday, dressed like that.’ Guillermo pulled his friend by the arm. The man from Canary Islands noticed his suspicion. ‘You’ll allow a piece of advice from someone who wore your uniform too: if you’re not going to come and live up here, don’t strut around the streets of Hata-Rambla. People are very sensitive here, you know, and they might regard it as a provocation. Tempers have been running a bit high. And Muslims are not like you,
compañeros
.’ Then the man went back the way he’d come. With his clothes and morose walk, he looked just like a Saharawi.

Santiago dragged his friend away by the arm. Although he tried not to act like a tourist, everything he saw attracted his attention. The jambs and lintels of many doors were skirted with a band of indigo which stood out against the whitewashed stone walls. ‘Let’s get some tobacco.’ San Román wanted to visit one of the tobacconist’s he’d heard so much about among the Nomad Troops. He knew one could buy anything in those shops, however exotic it might seem, and that they were open every day of the year, day and night. He saw one a moment later and motioned Guillermo to follow him. They stepped into a room stacked up to the ceiling with all kinds of objects, and perceived a strong smell of leather and hemp. Neither knew where to look. On seeing them a Saharawi rose from the floor. ‘
Salama aleikum
,’ Santiago said immediately. ‘
Aleikum salama
,’ replied the shopkeeper, surprised. ‘
Asmahlin
,’ went on
the legionnaire, apologetic in front of his friend’s incredulous eyes. The Saharawi welcomed him to his store: ‘
Barjaban
.’ San Román, for his part, thanked him: ‘
Shu-cran
.’

‘For a foreigner, you speak my language very well,’ said the man. Guillermo was beginning to wonder whether it wasn’t all a joke to see what he would do.

‘I’ve got Saharawi friends,’ explained Santiago. ‘And I’m a fast learner.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a packet of tobacco, please.’ In fact, the tobacco was only an excuse to enter the shop, as Santiago didn’t want his curiosity to seem impertinent. ‘Try this one: it’s very good. American. Fresh off the boat.’ The shopkeeper was still smiling. Santiago gave him a one-hundred-peseta note and waited for the change, smiling back. Then he tried to say goodbye, but the shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and stood in front of the door. ‘You cannot leave Sid-Ahmed’s house just like that.’ Santiago understood what he meant, but Guillermo was growing nervous.

‘You’ll smoke some of my tobacco and drink some tea.’
Sid-Ahmed
left the shop through a door concealed by a curtain.

‘Let’s get out of here, Santi. Are you mad?’ said Guillermo agitatedly. ‘This guy wants to sell us dope.’