See How Much I Love You (2 page)

‘A scorpion, eh?’ He spat on her and made as if to give her a kick, but stopped a few inches short of her head. ‘Where the fuck did you think you were going? Bloody whores. You should know,’ he said, addressing Aza, ‘that there’s no escape from here. Or are you as stupid as she is?’ From the floor, the woman was trying to ask for help, but only faltering words came out of her mouth. Nevertheless, she had enough presence of mind to recognise Aza’s screams. And, although the woman couldn’t see her, she knew they were beating her. She felt inexplicably responsible for it. Her throat was burning and she couldn’t utter a word. In the narrow field of vision left to her by the
legionnaire’s boots, she saw the Saharawi run off towards the horizon. Aza knew she should not run in a straight line, and stumbled on her
melfa
. She ran clumsily but gave it all she had. The legionnaire put down his Kalashnikov on the bonnet of the Toyota and asked one of his men for a rifle. Looking up from the ground, the woman saw the whole scene play out as though in slow motion. Le Monsieur rested the rifle on his shoulder, moved aside his long grey beard so that it wouldn’t catch, and took his time to bring the Saharawi into his sights. Aza was slowing down, as though she were certain that sooner or later she would be caught. The agonising run turned into a fast walk, she struggled not to look back or stop. Suddenly a short report was heard, and Aza’s figure slumped onto the stony ground of the
hammada
. As if in mourning, an unexpected wind started blowing and gathered strength little by little. The last thing the foreign woman saw, before her eyelids fell shut, was an enormous sand curtain that was beginning to cloak the depths of the Sahara.

The patient screams and then opens her eyes. The nurse takes her hand at once, without saying a word, just looking her in the eyes as one would look at a newcomer. She tries to guess the woman’s age: forty, forty-five. She knows that people elsewhere age better than in the Sahara.

‘Aza, Aza!’

She’s delirious, no doubt. The nurse touches her forehead, trying to calm her down. Now she’s certain that the woman can see and hear her. She whispers a few words in hasania, vaguely hoping that she will be understood. She gives the woman some water, speaks to her in French, and tries to make herself understood in English. She tries all the languages she knows.

‘Aza, Aza!’ screams the woman again, now with her eyes wide open. ‘They’ve killed Aza!’

When she hears this, the nurse shivers. She struggles to keep smiling.

‘
Hola
. How are you feeling? Are you Spanish?’

The woman looks at her and grows calmer. She grasps the nurse’s hand firmly.

‘Where am I?’

‘In hospital. You’re alive, out of danger. You’ve been asleep for several days.’

‘They’ve killed Aza.’

The nurse thinks the woman is still delirious. She hasn’t left the side of her bed for many days. That lifeless face caught her attention from the moment a military vehicle left her at the hospital. The nurse had been the only one who seemed certain that the woman would live. Now she is sure that God has answered her prayers.

‘You’ve got
baraka
4
,’ the nurse says. ‘You’ve been blessed by God.’

The nurse removes her
melfa
, revealing her shiny black hair. She cannot stop smiling. She doesn’t want to let go of the unknown woman’s hand, not even to go and spread the news that she’s finally conscious after all these weeks. She puts a hand on her heart and then places her open palm on the woman’s forehead.

‘My name’s Layla,’ she says. ‘What’s yours?’

Layla’s smile fills the woman with peace. She makes an effort to speak:

‘Montse. My name is Montse.’

C
ORPORAL
S
ANTIAGO
S
AN
R
OMÁN HAD BEEN WATCHING
the unusual troop movements all day, from the barrack hut that served as a guardroom. It was four by six metres, and had a mattress on a metal bed base, a desk, a chair, a filthy latrine and a tap.

It had taken him nearly an hour to write down the first sentence, but now it sounded affected, unnatural. The noise of the planes landing at El Aaiún aerodrome brought him back to reality. He looked at the sheet of paper and didn’t even recognise his own handwriting. He could not make out much from the window of the hut except the security zone near the runway and part of the hangar. However, he could clearly see the depot and the Land Rovers that were constantly going in and out, the trucks loaded with new legionnaires and the official cars mysteriously coming and going. For the first time in seven days no one had brought him any food, and neither did they open the door in the middle of the afternoon for his walk to one end of the runway and back. In the last week he had barely exchanged a word with anyone, only eaten stale bread and tasteless soup, and seldom taken his eyes off either the door or the window whilst he waited to be collected at any moment, and put on a plane that would take him away from Africa for ever. They had told him, in a threatening tone, that it was only a matter of a day or two, and that later he’d
have the rest of his life to miss the Sahara.

Time had stood still for Corporal San Román for the last seven days, ever since he’d been transferred from the guardroom at the barracks of the 4th Regiment of the Legion to the aerodrome, thence to be taken to a military court in Gran Canaria, far from the uprisings that were taking place in the African province. But these orders seemed to have been mislaid en route, and the procedure had ground to a halt without explanation. There was no difference between night and day now: his nerves and the anxiety of the wait gave him insomnia. And the fleas in the room did not help his discomfort and unease. His only break from the monotony was the few moments he stood at the end of the runway, guarded by an old legionnaire who always threatened him in the same way before climbing up to his watchtower. ‘If you take more than ten steps at any one time or start running, I’ll blow your brains out.’ The man would then lazily get out his Cetme rifle, to make sure that the Corporal knew that he meant it. This was the only moment of the day when he was allowed outside the prison; he would scan the horizon, trying to make out the city’s white rooftops, and fill his lungs with the dry air as if he were breathing it in for the last time. But on this November day no one had brought round his breakfast or lunch, and no guard had replied to his shouts pleading for food. There was no sign of life at all near the barracks. All the activity was concentrated around the runway and the hangars. No one came to open the door when it was the time for his walk. By mid afternoon he was sure that something out of the ordinary was going on.

It was only when the sun was about to touch the horizon that he heard the engine of an approaching Land Rover, and when he looked out of the window he saw the headlights of the vehicle as it went round the barracks. He sat on his mattress, trying to stay calm, until he heard the door being unbolted. Then Guillermo appeared in full regimental dress, carrying his
white gloves in his hand, as if ready to go on parade. Behind him was a guard whom he’d never seen before, with his Cetme rifle slung over his shoulder.

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the guard said, and closed the door behind Guillermo.

Corporal San Román didn’t even have time to ask for his food. Suddenly he felt dirty. He was ill at ease in front of his friend; or rather, embarrassed. He stood by the window, leaning against the wall. They had not seen each other for over twenty days, ever since that fateful afternoon when he set out for a walk carrying a bag that wasn’t his.

Guillermo was dressed impeccably, but didn’t know what to say. He held his legionnaire’s hat with both hands, crumpling it against his gloves. He appeared tense and was incapable of concealing it. Eventually he said:

‘Have you heard the news?’

Santiago didn’t reply, but he braced himself for the worst. Not that there was anything that could make things any worse.

‘El Caudillo is dead,’ Guillermo said, trying to get a reaction out of his friend. ‘He died in the early hours of the morning.’

Corporal San Román turned away to look out of the window. The news didn’t seem to affect him. Despite the late hour, the planes’ activity had not stopped.

‘So that’s what it was.’

‘What?’

‘That’s why they’ve been coming and going all day. Troops are being transported all the time. But I don’t know if they’re coming in or going away. It’s been chaos for a week, and no one explains a thing to me. There’s something else, isn’t there?’

Guillermo sat on the dirty, sweaty mattress. He didn’t dare to look his friend in the eye.

‘Morocco is invading us.’

On the desk lay a letter that would never be written, let alone posted. They both looked at the yellowing piece of paper and
their eyes met briefly.

‘Guillermo,’ said the corporal, choking on his words, ‘they’re going to execute me, aren’t they? From what you say, the reason I’m still here is that they need the planes for other things, and not to fly out a…’

‘Traitor?’ said Guillermo with spontaneous malice.

‘Is that what you think too?’

‘It’s what everyone is saying. And you haven’t shown me any proof to the contrary.’

‘What for? Would you believe me?’

‘Try.’

Santiago approached the desk, crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and threw it into the latrine. Guillermo watched his every move. Then he added:

‘They’re sending us away. No one wants a war with Morocco. Some people say they’ve secretly sold the province to Hasan and Mauritania.’

‘I don’t care about any of that. You’ll be discharged in a month, and go back home, whereas I…’

‘You’ll go back too. As soon as you explain everything, they’ll let you go.’

Corporal San Román went quiet, trying not to show the doubts that afflicted him. The din of a plane landing on the runway obliterated the silence of the barracks. Outside, a red sky blended with the line of the horizon, ablaze with mirages.

‘Look, Santi, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to ask you anyway, for my peace of mind.’

Corporal San Román tensed up once more. He glared at his friend; he wasn’t giving in. Guillermo looked away, but didn’t back down either.

‘At the barracks they say you’re with the traitors; that you’re a terrorist. I’m not saying I think that, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

Santiago felt he had no strength left to have an argument. He
slid down, his back against the wall, until he was sitting on the floor. He covered his face with both hands. What he felt wasn’t awkwardness so much as shame.

‘I swear to you, Guillermo, that I didn’t know a thing. I swear it on my mother’s grave.’

‘And I believe you, Santi, I do. But from the moment they arrested you they haven’t let me speak to you. I’m fed up with working myself into the ground for you.’

‘Then don’t; it’s not worth it. They’re going to execute me anyway.’

‘Enough of that nonsense: no one’s going to execute you. As soon as you explain, they’ll discharge you; if the worst comes to the worst, they’ll open a file on you, but that’ll be all.’

‘They’ll want to know everything, names and so on…’

‘But you’re telling me you didn’t know a thing, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I swear, I didn’t know. I thought that the bag only had dirty clothes in it.’

Guillermo stared at his friend accusingly. Even in the dim light, Corporal San Román could guess, just by looking at him, what was going through Guillermo’s mind.

‘Santi, those ‘dirty clothes’, as you call them, weighed more than fifteen kilos.’

‘So what? Do you think I don’t know? I thought there might be an old carburettor, or a connecting rod in there. I knew that kind of thing isn’t really allowed, but people do it. You do it, everyone does it. Carburettors, boots, all kinds of junk.’

‘Yes, Santi, but that junk was grenades, detonators and who knows what else. At the barracks they say someone could have blown up the
Parador Nacional
5
with all that.’

‘But I wasn’t planning to blow anything up. I was only
doing someone a favour, the same as all the other times; only a favour.’

‘Who, that girl? Were you doing that girl a favour?’

Corporal San Román sprang to his feet. He clenched his fists and stood still in front of Guillermo. His jaw was clamped shut and his teeth could almost be heard grinding together.

‘That’s none of your business. Don’t interfere in my affairs, okay? I’ve told you before. I’m old enough to do as I damn well please and to see whoever I choose.’

Guillermo stood up, visibly hurt, and walked to the window. The whole thing made him miserable. He turned his back on Santiago to look at the first stars in the sky. Outside the air was fresh and pure. The beauty of the landscape contrasted sharply with his distress. He breathed deeply and felt relieved, though only for a moment.

‘Look, Santi, I’ve made a huge effort to come and see you. You can’t imagine how difficult it is. We’re confined to the barracks while we’re waiting for news. It was just lucky that I found out you wouldn’t be transferred for another two weeks; that’s why I’ve come over.’

Again they fell silent. It seemed as though Guillermo lacked the strength to go on talking. If he hadn’t known his friend so well, he would have said Santiago was crying. But Santiago San Román had never, ever cried, least of all in front of someone else. Guillermo felt thoroughly confused when he saw Santiago pick himself up in the shadows, walk over and hug him like a helpless child. He froze, not knowing what to say, until he felt Santiago’s tears against his face and could do nothing but reciprocate the gesture, holding his friend in his arms to console him as though he were a small child. He was even more startled to hear his friend’s revelation, in a voice choked with emotion:

‘I’m scared, Guillermo, I swear. I never thought I would say anything like this, but it’s the truth.’

Guillermo tried to remain emotionally detached. In the
encroaching darkness he even considered the idea that it wasn’t really Corporal San Román who’d blurted out that confession. They sat on the mattress while Santiago tried to calm down.

‘I need you to do me a big favour, Guillermo. No one else can help me.’

The legionnaire braced himself, apprehensive of what might come next. He didn’t dare to reply.

‘I need you to help me get out of here. You’ve got to help me, Guillermo. It may be a long time until they take me to Canarias. If the Generalísimo is dead, things are going to get sticky.’

‘Things have been sticky for a while.’

‘Exactly. No one will give a damn if some shitty corporal breaks out from a shitty barrack. It’s very simple, Guillermo. You won’t get more than a month in jail. And that way you won’t have to fight against those Moroccans.’

‘You have no right to ask me that.’

‘I know, but if you asked me I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. It’s very easy, my friend, and I’m the only one in danger – if they catch me.’

‘You’re crazy, San Román,’ addressing him by his surname in an attempt to keep his distance and not get drawn into the situation. ‘If they catch you they will execute you.’

‘I’m at the end of my tether here. What I’m asking is that you sweet-talk the quartermaster into sending you on guard duty here. In the afternoon they take me for a walk to the end of the runway, where the planes turn around. I only need you to give me a two hundred yard start before you start shooting. With two hundred yards I can make it to the depot over there and get a Land Rover. After that it’s up to me.’

‘You’re crazy: they’ll catch you before you can jump-start it.’

‘They won’t. I’ll take one of Territorial Police’s vehicles. The Saharawis always leave the keys under the passenger’s seat. It’s a habit of theirs, I know it for a fact. You needn’t worry; just give me two hundred metres before you start shooting. I’d do
it on my own, but it’s too risky. I might get one of those expert hunters from La Marcha, and they’d take me out clean.’

Guillermo didn’t reply. His palms were sweating just from thinking about it. The lights from the hangar slanted in through the window. He stood up and started pacing up and down the six metres of the guardroom. Now, there were no planes taking off.

‘Forget it,’ Corporal San Román said eventually. ‘It’s stupid. If they’re going to take me to a military court, the less they have against me the better. Besides, I don’t want to deprive you of the pleasure of shooting Moroccans. I haven’t eaten all day, you know? A man talks all kinds of nonsense on an empty stomach.’

Suddenly Santiago started shouting to attract the guards’ attention.

‘I’m starving here! You arseholes, I hope they cut your throats out there. Fucking cowards! Chickens! That’s what you are. When the Moroccans catch you, you’re going to pay for what you’re doing to me now.’

He was shouting as if possessed. Even his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Guillermo took a step back, looking for the door. He didn’t know what to say or do. The door opened and the same soldier as before appeared holding his Cetme rifle with a finger on the trigger. As soon as Guillermo saw him, he slipped out, trying to conceal his unease. The door closed and it was quiet again. The Land Rover drove away and was soon out of sight.

Alone again, Corporal San Román held the window bars and pressed his mouth and nose against them to catch the fresh air. A dry pleasant wind made it difficult to believe that autumn was at an end. The smell of the earth, after the recent rains, was more intense than ever. A flaky moon cast its light over the distant dunes, revealing the cunning foxes. The lights of the runway slanted towards the barracks. For a moment Santiago saw Andía’s image, as clearly as if she were in front of him.
He thought he could hear her voice and smell her dark skin. The echo of a far-off bugle broke the silence and dispelled the image of the girl. Inexplicably, the legionnaire felt a pleasant sensation that made him appreciate the air blowing on his face. The smell gave him strength and transported him far away from the aerodrome, above El Aaiún and the Sahara. With his eyes half-closed, he recognised the sensation as the same one that had coursed through his whole body, like a shiver, on a certain September morning in 1974, when the hatch of the Hercules had opened noisily and the ramp came down, leading out into the most beautiful and dazzling of deserts. In Zaragoza, he’d had to put up with the north wind for as long as he was stationed there; he would never have imagined that what awaited him on the runway at El Aaiún would change him for ever. In a few hours he went from living under a pale winter light to the deep blue of the Saharan sky. All ninety-three soldiers who had voluntarily transferred from the army to the Legion remained seated on the benches of the Hercules, motionless, until the voice of a sergeant with a Seville accent shook them out of their daydreams.