See How Much I Love You (6 page)

‘Aza? She escaped with me and they caught us. That murderer killed her. It was my fault. I should have escaped on my own.’

‘Who killed her?’ insists Layla.

The foreign woman closes her eyes and goes quiet. From her breathing, it is obvious she’s suffering. Layla squeezes her hand, determined to stay by her side until she calms down. 

F
OR
S
ANTIAGO
S
AN
R
OMÁN
, T
HE
O
ASIS WAS THE CENTRE
of the universe. Leaning on the bar, or sitting at one of the oilcloth-covered tables, he felt that the world revolved around him. Never before had he felt so comfortable. A glass of cognac in his hand, and the company of Guillermo, was all he needed to forget the thorn that had been lodged in his conscience since he had left Spain.

The officers gathered at the Casino Militar and the
Parador Nacional
in El Aaiún. The Oasis was reserved for the troops. On Saturday evenings no other place in the city, or for that matter the province, was as crowded. Its owner, a world-weary Andalusian, was called Pepe El Boli. The place was the only one where the authorities turned a blind eye to prostitution. At the Oasis one could find whores, bingo, poker, brawls, hash and the cheapest cognac in the Western Sahara. On Saturday nights it looked like a battlefield. The prostitutes, dressed as waitresses, could barely cope, and the shouts of the gamblers vied with the TV turned on at full blast. No other place in the city had such a faithful clientele as the Oasis. Sooner or later, everyone who had a permit for an evening’s, or a week’s, leave, dropped by.

When he spent time at the Oasis, Santiago San Román forgot about his obsessions for a while. And ‘his obsessions’, at the time, really meant Montse, the treacherous Montse. As his blood warmed up with a second glass of cognac, he would regain his self-confidence, and Montse would be relegated to
the background. Then he could devote his time to his friend Guillermo and anyone else who wanted to share their time away from the barracks. Guillermo had not only become his confidant, but was also the most loyal person he’d ever known. He would write the letters Santiago sent to Montse, listen to him when he needed to vent to his anger, and keep him company in silence when he didn’t feel like talking. Guillermo had been provisionally assigned to the 9th regiment of engineers as a sapper. He spent his days digging ditches and pits for the construction of the El Aaiún zoo. Like the rest of the legionnaires, he wasn’t thrilled at mixing with regular soldiers. Santiago, for his part, was initially a mechanic in the 4th Regiment of the Alejandro Farnesio Legion. However, chance aligned his destiny with that of a group of Nomad Troops, under commander Javier Lobo.

The Nomad Troops, like the Territorial Police, were a corps made up mostly of Saharawis, even if the officers were Spaniards. From the first day Santiago San Román had been fascinated by the Saharawis. In the eyes of someone newly arrived from Spain, these dark-skinned young men, with their curly hair and peculiar habits, were a constant surprise. The first time he had direct contact with them was when a Nomad Troop Land Rover was pushed into the garage where he worked by four Saharawi soldiers. The soldiers, covered in grease up to their eyelids, parked it and lifted the bonnet. When Santiago went over to take a look at the engine, he whistled sharply, attracting the other mechanics’ attention. The wires, connections and patches on that Land Rover were in such a tangle that they hid the cylinder block from view. ‘Major Lobo sends us,’ said one of the soldiers, and he spoke so formally that it was as though he were on parade. The other mechanics wanted nothing to do with the business. Only Santiago San Román took care of the four lads. ‘We cannot make it start,’ continued the young man. ‘If we can’t fix it, we’ll be arrested.’ Santiago could not take his eyes off the four Saharawis. Presently the other mechanics laid
down their tools and went out to lunch. Their faces made it quite clear they had no intention of getting stuck with the job. Santiago was annoyed at their behaviour, but didn’t want to get into an argument. The Saharawis looked like castaways in the middle of the ocean. Without further ado, he stuck his head into the jaws of the vehicle and started untangling the web of wires. When his colleagues came back from lunch, Santiago was still waist deep in the bowels of the Land Rover. The four Saharawis looked on in silence, not daring to break his concentration. As in a trance, Santiago spoke to the engine of the vehicle and, every now and again, said something to the soldiers. They looked at each other, wondering whether the legionnaire might be a bit crazy. After several hours changing parts, examining hoses and sweet-talking the engine, Santiago San Román got in the vehicle, turned the key, and the car started with a sickly cough. He revved it up a few times, releasing black smoke which soon turned lighter, and then the Land Rover started sounding more normal. ‘Jump in,’ he told the Saharawis, and all four obeyed as they would an officer’s orders. Santiago San Román drove a few times round the barracks, tested the wheel and the brakes, and finally stopped in front of the Nomad Troops’ block. He got out of the car without cutting the engine and said: ‘It’s all yours. You can tell Major Lobo he’s got a Land Rover for another ten years.’ As he went off, the Saharawis seemed lost for words, but when he was a few metres away they called him back. He stopped. ‘Thanks, my friend, thanks.’ Santiago brushed aside their thanks, but one of the men ran after him. The Saharawi took his hand and kept it in his.

‘I’m Lazaar.’ Santiago San Román introduced himself. ‘We’re always here, in this block. Come and pay us a visit; you are always welcome. You’ll make many friends.’ That day, when Santiago walked into the soldiers’ mess, he had the impression that the words had been sincere.

The first time Santiago San Román set foot in the Nomad
Troops’ block he thought he had ventured into another world. The soldiers, away from the officers’ watchful eyes, behaved as if they were in a large
jaima
. Seated around a stove at the very entrance, a dozen of them were chatting in Hassaniya and drinking tea, and were so relaxed that the place didn’t look like a barracks at all. When they saw Santiago, however, they grew serious, and conversation ceased. San Román was about to turn round and retrace his steps when he spotted the reassuring presence of Laazar. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he excused himself. ‘I didn’t know…’ Laazar addressed his friends in Arabic, and the conversation resumed. The Saharawi took him by both his hands and asked him to sit down near the tea. It wasn’t long before Santiago began to feel more comfortable.

‘Do you play football?’ asked one of the Saharawis.

‘Of course, I taught Cruyff how to play.’

‘I support Real Madrid,’ replied Lazaar seriously.

‘Well, I also taught Amancio, you know.’ From that day on, Santiago San Román played every afternoon as a goalkeeper in the Nomad Troops’ team; and, every time they beat the Spaniards, the guys from his own battalion accused him of being a traitor.

Now, leaning over the bar at El Oasis, Santiago could see the soldiers of the passing Nomad Troops look in through the window with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He finished off his cognac and promised himself that he wouldn’t drink whenever a Saharawi might see him. He’d never felt so ashamed before. Sergeant Baquedano, the only regiment NCO who frequented the Oasis, would strut around amongst the waitresses, pinching their backsides and brushing against their breasts. His breath, always reeking of alcohol, gave him away wherever he went. Terrible stories were told about him. He was around forty, and the only things that mattered in his life were the Legion, alcohol and whores. On one occasion,
they said, he had shot a recruit in the foot for marching out of step. When one saw him drunk, rubbing his groin against the prostitutes, it was easy to believe the stories. Most soldiers avoided him, but a few loudmouths would laugh at his jokes and follow him everywhere, celebrating his displays of bravado and buying him drinks. Usually they ended up being humiliated by him and were forced to endure his insults like animals. It was the prostitutes who tried hardest to stay out of his way; they knew him all too well. Sergeant Baquedano was the only person in the bar who frightened them. They were perfectly aware that if they faced up to him they might lose their job or end up in a gutter of the Smara road with their throat slit open. Sergeant Baquedano acted as a kind of gangster for Major Panta. Prostitution at the Oasis had to be supervised by Major Panta, but no high-ranking officer would have approved of his visiting a dive like that. Officers never shared whores with the troops. Not even corporals and sergeants. Nevertheless, they could not allow the local mafias to run the show, trafficking women from Spain, Morocco or Mauritania. Major Panta looked after the Regiment’s health and made sure that things ran smoothly. But the major had never seen Baquedano dead drunk, staggering between the tables, cupping his balls with both hands, and slobbering over the breasts of the prostitutes dressed as waitresses.

Santiago San Román looked away on the two or three occasions when he crossed the sergeant’s gaze. When he saw Baquedano leave, he felt a lot more relaxed, in spite of the racket the troops were making. The music merged with the TV, the thumping of bottles on the marble bar, the shouting at the poker tables, the bingo numbers being called out, and the incredibly loud conversations. Suddenly all the noise dissolved into a second of silence, and the military marches gave way to Las Corsarias, Pepe’s favourite paso doble. When San Román heard the first few bars, he felt as though the ceiling had fallen
on his head. Instantly Montse’s image reared up its ugly head. The noise had become inexplicably hostile.

‘Another cognac?’ asked Guillermo.

‘No, I’d better not. I’ve got indigestion.’

‘A beer then.’

‘You have one, my stomach aches,’ lied Santiago.

‘Is that all you’re drinking tonight? It’s Saturday.’

Santiago San Román gave his friend a grave look, and Guillermo understood at once. He didn’t reply. He was perfectly familiar with his friend’s bouts of melancholy. They both left the Oasis and stumbled out into the February breeze. They sauntered in silence. The streets looked oddly empty, at least until they reached Plaza de España, where the whole city seemed to have congregated. The noise of the bars spilled out into the street. The Territorial Police patrolled the area on foot and in their vehicles, trying to look inconspicuous. Santiago and Guillermo stopped under the marquee of a cinema. Under the title of Serpico, a colour drawing of Al Pacino jumped out of a poster. Guillermo stood in front of it with his feet apart, imitating, not very well, the posture of a cop from the Bronx. He pushed his cap down to his eyebrows and fastened the strap on his chin. The girls in the queue looked at him and laughed, covering their mouths.

‘Stop playing the fool,’ said Santiago reproachfully. ‘Everyone’s looking at you.’

Guillermo hooked his thumbs on the huge silver buckle of his belt and blew the girls a kiss as they laughed.

‘I need you to do me a favour, Guillermo. I swear it’s the last time.’

Guillermo lost his party mood. He was more than familiar with those words. Santiago started walking slowly, his body slumped.

‘Let’s get out of here. This place is crawling with sergeants.’

Every rank favoured a certain area of the city. Sergeants
and corporals avoided the surroundings of the
Parador
and the Casino Militar, in order not to have to salute their superiors all the time. The rank and file, in their turn, did not walk along main roads, which was where NCOs’ favourite bars were.

The two friends headed for Avenida de Skaikma without saying a word. They knew they would be away from the legionnaires’ eyes and walked in silence, as if they could read each other’s mind. Stopping at a telephone booth, Santiago took out all the coins he was carrying in his pockets. For some bizarre reason, the air in that spot smelled of thyme. He passed the coins to Guillermo.

‘I want you to call Montse. Well, first…’

‘I know, I know,’ Guillermo cut in, impatiently.

‘Tell them you’re a classmate from university and that you have to speak to her…’

‘Santi!’ shouted Guillermo, who felt like slapping him.

‘What?’

‘Do you know how many times I’ve phoned your girl?’

‘She’s not my girl, Guillermo, I’ve told you. And if you really don’t want to do me this favour…’

Guillermo passed his arm over Santiago’s shoulder, trying to appease him.

‘I’ll call her, okay? I’ll call her. But don’t explain to me what I have to say, because you told me a thousand times. It’s me who calls, me who writes to her, in the end it’ll be me who…’

Guillermo stopped, regretting his words. Yet his friend was so upset he didn’t even pick up on where he had been going. Guillermo put the coins in his pocket and stepped into the booth. Santiago stood a few metres away, as if embarrassed.

The last phone call had been full of drama. On that occasion he had also rung her from a booth, a few metres from the archway at Vía Layetana. When Montse finally came on, it was nearly ten in the evening. Santiago had been standing in front of her
house for four hours. It was the early days of a humid, cold December, and by then he was frozen through. When he heard her voice, he went quiet, not knowing what to say. Then he regrouped and tried to control his nerves.

‘It’s Santi,’ he said in a trembling voice.

‘I know, they’ve just told me so. What do you want?’

‘Look, Montse, I’ve been calling you all evening.’

‘I’ve been to the library; I’ve just come back.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Montse, don’t do that.’

‘Are you ringing to call me a liar? You’ve got some cheek, you know?’

‘No, I didn’t mean to call you a liar, but I’ve been at your door since six and I haven’t seen you come in or go out.’ After that there was a longer, more dramatic silence.

‘But do you think I have to explain myself to you?’

‘No, Montse, I don’t want you to explain yourself; I’ve only rung to say I’m leaving.’

‘Well, goodbye, then.’

‘I’m leaving for Zaragoza.’ Again, silence. ‘I’ve received the summons from the recruitment office at home. I have to join up the day after tomorrow.’ Montse was still quiet, and that gave Santiago confidence. ‘Have you spoken to your parents?’ he asked, mustering all the courage he had.