by Luis Leante
‘What wilaya is that?’
‘Dajla,’ she lied.
‘God help you, woman. You’ll never get there from here.’
‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Smara’
‘Is that very far?’
‘Twenty kilometres.’ Aza saw the hand of Allah in what was happening. She looked around and mentally calculated the direction in which the Ausserd camp was. ‘I’ve got relatives in Ausserd,’ she said, trying to conceal the truth.
‘We’ll take you to Smara. As soon as they find the sick woman, a vehicle will take you to the hospital, and someone will inform your family in Dajla.’ Aza didn’t know how to get out of the situation. She was so ashamed of the truth that she would have preferred to start running and die in the desert than let those men even suspect what had happened. ‘I cannot go to Smara,’ she explained as casually as she could. ‘My sister is getting married in Ausserd in four days and she needs me.’ The lie irritated the officer.
‘You’ll go to Smara and there you’ll explain all there is to explain.’
‘If you take me to Smara I’ll accuse you of kidnapping me to the wali.’9 The officer clenched his fists and put on his sunglasses to hide his rage. He looked around and then strode away towards the plain of the desert. Aza went on drinking water, but now in smaller sips. The young recruits looked at her without even blinking. No doubt, the apparition of such a beautiful woman in the most deserted area of the hammada seemed miraculous. ‘Have you got any food?’ she asked calmly. All at once, the soldiers rummaged in their bags and took out dry biscuits, goat’s cheese and sugar. Aza sat down in the shade of the truck and began eating slowly, savouring every bite.
Less than an hour had gone by when the four-by-four returned with the foreign woman. The officer looked inside the vehicle and could not believe it. If the Saharawi woman had told the truth, perhaps she was not, as he had thought, crazy. ‘Is she dead?’ he asked the driver. ‘I couldn’t tell for sure.’ The officer approached Aza and pointed to the vehicle firmly.
‘Get in the car. My men will take you to Smara. Then you can go wherever you please.’ Aza stood up, put away the leftover food, drank some more water and said: ‘I need to know the way to Ausserd.’ The officer was about to lose his self-control. He bit his lip so hard he drew blood. He suspected that, if he insisted, that woman would make a fool of him in front of the troops. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want, carry on in that direction and don’t stray even this much. Walking steadily, you’ll reach Ausserd in ten hours.’ He emphasised the last sentence, in the vague hope that the woman would reconsider before walking away.
However, Aza put the water canteen on her head and approached the four-by-four where the foreign woman was. ‘Hurry up,’ she told the driver. ‘She’s been in a coma for hours.’ Then she began to walk in a straight line, without losing sight of the point on the horizon that was her only chance of salvation. The soldiers didn’t take their eyes off her until they heard their superior’s fearsome shouting.
The foreign woman’s hospital room is half in darkness, in spite of the furious sun outside. Layla is sitting on a rug on the floor, numb with heat, when the director of the hospital walks in, followed by his friend Mulud. On seeing them Layla stands up and buttons up her white coat. She exchanges an endless greeting full of formulae with the colonel. Then all three silently turn their eyes towards the patient. Layla adjusts her melfa and covers her head properly. The foreign woman is asleep, drawing deep breaths.
‘She’s had some food,’ explains the nurse to the director. ‘But she sleeps most of the time.’
‘Layla spends whole days here,’ the director says.
‘Only when I’m not busy,’ adds Layla.
The colonel smiles. He’s curious to learn the foreigner’s story.
‘Is she getting better?’ he asks.
‘She no longer has a fever,’ replies Layla. ‘Sometimes she hallucinates, but no fever. All I know is that her name is Montse and she’s from Spain. She’s obsessed with something, but I haven’t managed to find out what.’
‘Obsessed?’ asks the colonel.
‘She talks in her sleep and says the name Aza all the time.’
‘She’s obsessed with that name,’ echoes the director.
‘When she’s awake and I ask her about it, she says they’ve killed Aza. But she gets so upset that she can’t explain herself any further.’
Colonel Mulud stares at the foreigner. He is intrigued, but also very busy; he hasn’t got much time.
‘We need to ascertain how she arrived here,’ he says eventually. ‘Surely she hasn’t travelled alone. Someone must have reported her missing.’
‘Soon it will be a month,’ says the director. ‘It’s too long for a woman not to be missed.’
‘That’s true. The more I think about it the less sense it makes.’
‘I could try to find out,’ Layla says. ‘She’s better every day, but she’s really scared. I don’t know what happened to her, but she’s frightened. If I can get her to trust me, she might tell me.’
‘And in the meantime?’ asks the director, matter-of-factly.
‘In the meantime there’s nothing we can do,’ says the colonel. ‘We’ll ask the people who deal with Spain. If they don’t know anything, we’ll have to wait for her to get better to send her back home.’
By the time he finishes the phrase, Mulud is in the doorway. The director goes after him. Both say goodbye with a short formula, and the nurse remains alone with the patient. She sits on the edge of the bed. She has got used to the foreigner’s presence, but she’s very curious about her story. She touches her forehead and looks one more time at her tangled hair, her white skin and soft hands. Suddenly the woman gives a start and opens her eyes. She doesn’t know where she is. Her eyes are full of fear.
‘Aza,’ she says, delirious. ‘They shot Aza. You have to tell everybody.’
‘Who’s Aza?’ asks Layla, tying to appease her.
‘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.
7. Jaima: A large tent used in the Sahara.
8. Wilaya: An Algerian administrative area akin to a province.
9. Wali: Administrative head of a wilaya.
Chapter Five
FOR SANTIAGO SAN ROMÁN, THE OASIS 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 stum
bled 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.