by Luis Leante
Chapter Seven
IT IS THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, AND IN THE MIDDLE OF the day the heat in the camps is stifling. There is a considerable temperature difference between the hospital rooms and the patio. The foreign woman finds it pleasurable to look at objects in the sunshine. She enjoys the heat on her skin. As soon as the biting cold of the morning lifts, she starts washing herself calmly, as though she were observing a ritual. She has learned to wash herself from head to toe with barely a litre of water, and likes doing it very slowly, like someone preparing for an important ceremony. It takes her over an hour to complete the task. Her movements are slow. She tires quickly. It is not easy to lift her arms to comb her hair. When she is finally dressed, she sits on a chair and only then glances at herself in the mirror. She is almost unrecognisable. She looks awful, but is amused by the image reflected in the glass. Her hair is badly damaged, her skin burnt, her lips parched, her face blistered, her eyes reddened. She has lost a lot of weight. And yet she is happy. Everything around her is recognisable: the flaking ceiling, the small window, the bed without a mattress across from hers, the metal chair that once was white. This is the third day that, after marvelling at her huge empty room, she comes out into the patio. She knows the way, and today no one needs to walk with her. She is overwhelmed by the solitude of the empty corridors. Even so, its smell is thoroughly familiar, and the place feels like home.
As soon as she steps out into the courtyard, she sees a nurse. Although she knows her, she cannot remember her name. She takes the chair she’s offered – the same one as the last two days. The nurse only speaks Arabic, but is obviously saying good morning and asking the foreigner how she’s feeling. Both women seem equally happy, and the Saharawi doesn’t stop smiling. From across the courtyard a young man says hello to them, but Montse cannot remember his name either. She’s not even sure that she’s met him before, although his face looks vaguely familiar. She sits down. Getting dressed and walking has tired her a good deal. The sun comforts her. She half-closes her eyes. The early-morning wind has stopped blowing. She tries to remember what day it is. Yesterday she asked Layla, but she’s forgotten. Suddenly she remembers the month – March. Today was the first time she woke up and didn’t see Layla by her bed. It felt strange. She is so used to the nurse’s face that she misses it. Relaxed in the sun, she closes her eyes and falls asleep.
Yet again somebody rescues her from the nightmare. She is about to feel the sting of the scorpion in her neck when a cold hand on her face awakens her. It’s Layla, smiling as always. The nurse is not wearing a green coat, which disconcerts Montse.
‘They tell me you got dressed on your own.’
‘All on my own. And I’ve walked here.’
Layla looks excited at the news. She crouches down and takes Montse’s hand.
‘I wish I’d seen it.’
‘You’ll see it tomorrow, I promise. Where have you been?’
Layla stops smiling. She seems upset.
‘But, Montse, I told you yesterday. Don’t you remember?’
Montse is disconcerted by the nurse’s sadness. Suddenly she feels useless, a nuisance. Her memory blanks are oppressive. It is upsetting not to be able to remember things, or to see only fragments of sentences or images flash in her mind. Layla strives to hide her disappointment. She tries to make light of the problem and speaks to her as if she wasn’t aware of it:
‘I’ve spoken to the Council. They’ve received a communication from Rabuni.’
‘And what do they say in Rabuni?’
Montse gives Layla her full attention, pretending to understand everything.
‘Good news. You’re no longer a ghost. They’ve checked the records of the last few months and found you. You were on the passenger list of a flight that arrived on the 31st of January from Barcelona.’
‘I told you.’
‘Yes, you did. But it seemed very strange that no one had reported you as missing.’
Montse’s face clouds over.
‘It’s not that strange. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. Only Ayach Bachir knows: he gave me all the information.’
Once again the foreign woman proves she’s full of surprises.
‘The wali said everything will be arranged. In ten days there’s a flight to Spain from Tindouf. They’ll get you documents and a passport. They’ve already contacted your embassy in Algiers. Somebody’s coming tomorrow to take your picture and personal information.’
Montse makes neither a gesture nor a comment. Her face looks neutral. Layla can only guess at the many things she does not know about this woman whose path has accidentally crossed hers. As she always does, she places her hand on the woman’s forehead to make sure she doesn’t have a temperature.
‘How old are you, Layla?’ asks Montse, as if she were waking up.
It’s the same question the nurse has been meaning to ask.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘God, you’re so young.’
Layla smiles, revealing her glistening white teeth.
‘And you?’
‘Forty-four.’
‘Forty-four! You must be joking.’
Montse smiles, amused.
‘That’s very sweet of you, but I swear it’s true.’
‘Where’s your husband?’
She takes some time to reply.
‘Could I not be single?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think so,’ replies Layla.
‘He left me for someone else. A pretty young blonde radiologist. We’re separated. We’ll be divorced in a few months. Blondes have always brought me bad luck.’
Layla looks at her with a grave expression, trying to read her eyes. But Montse does not appear to take her words too seriously.
‘I’ll get over it. Especially after this.’ Layla smiles. ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘Not yet. I’ll get married at the end of the summer. I went to study in Cuba when I was eleven and only came back seven months ago.’
Now it is Montse trying to guess what lies behind those beautiful dark eyes.
‘Aza was in Cuba too,’ she says almost without thinking.
Layla has heard the name so many times that it is has become familiar. She sits on the floor and waits for Montse to add something about this enigmatic woman. But Montse remains lost in thought, as though she is too tired to talk.
‘Does she really exist, that woman?’ asks Layla, fearing her question might sound offensive.
Montse looks at her. Layla resembles Aza. Perhaps Aza was darker, but they both have the same peaceful eyes.
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything. Sometimes I think that it was all a nightmare, that nothing happened in reality. I mean, Aza, the airport, all those people I always see in my dreams. If my body weren’t so weak, I’d think I imagined it, that I’m crazy.’
‘I don’t think you’re crazy. No one does. But the story of the woman is puzzling. You said you saw her die.’
Montse tries to find understanding in the nurse’s eyes.
‘Why don’t you tell me everything you can remember?’ suggests Layla. ‘Maybe it’s good for you.’
‘Maybe, but there are so many things I can’t remember.’
‘Do you remember the day you arrived at Tindouf? Did you meet Aza on the plane? Do you remember the plane, the airport?’
How could she forget? She had never seen anything like it. She was the first to walk down the gangway. The air, tremendously dry, slapped her in the face. She had to make an effort to fill her lungs and breathe. The sky looked leaden, as if ready to fall on the planes at the end of the runway. For a moment she didn’t know what time it was, dawn or dusk, midday or late afternoon. She lost her bearings when she set foot on the runway. A soldier was telling everyone where to go. For no particular reason, Montse felt hurried. The terminal was housed in an ochre, colonial-looking building. There were barely two hundred metres between the plane and the customs gate. The passengers crowded around a narrow entrance whi
ch didn’t allow groups to pass through. Leaning against the façade, or crouching down on the pavement, the Algerians cast sullen looks at the new arrivals. The black-and-blue turbans, the tunics, the covered faces, the military uniforms, the military aspect of the bureaucrats, not to mention the guns, made it all look rather sinister. Montse was nervous, and the long, slow-moving queue irritated her. She didn’t know anyone and was not in the mood to start up a conversation. Time seemed to stand still. The wait felt longer than the flight. By the time a beardless soldier took her passport, she was beginning to understand that this was no tourist destination. The soldier looked at the passport picture a thousand and one times, trying to confirm that it corresponded to the face on the other side of the glass. Then he made sure that the information in the form Montse had filled for the Algerian police matched the one in the passport. He dwelled on every accent, comma and dash. At times he double-checked figures to avoid any confusion. It was a tense fifteen minutes, without a word exchanged – only looks – and no idea of what was going through the soldier’s mind.
When she finally dragged her suitcase out into the car park, Montse was exhausted. The Spanish travellers’ voices, the mountains of backpacks, the general hustle and bustle confused her. She took out the piece of paper with the name of the person that was meant to come and collect her. It would be difficult for them to find her amid so many people. The Saharawis who’d flown in from Barcelona sorted themselves into groups and climbed onto two trucks and a bus. As the foreigners sat down in the vehicles, the crowd slowly thinned out.
‘Are you not coming with us, señora?’ called out a Saharawi man, who was about to get on a truck. Montse shook her head. The man stopped in his tracks and approached her.
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ said Montse, before he had even asked her anything.
‘They’re coming to pick you up?’
‘Yes, someone should be here soon.’
‘What camp are you going to?’ Montse showed him the piece of paper. To her all the names and places sounded the same. The Saharawi deciphered her writing. ‘It’s quite far from ours. We’re going to Dajla. If you want, we can take you there in a day or two.’
‘But what if they come to pick me up?’ The Saharawi cast a look at the truck. The driver was shouting at him and beeping the horn. They were ready to go.
‘Listen, señora, maybe they’ve come to collect you and left already. The plane was twelve hours late. There was a last-minute change of plans and perhaps they never found out.’ Montse was bewildered by all the shouting on the truck.
‘Go, don’t keep them waiting. I’ll stay. If they are late, I’m sure I’ll manage.’ The Saharawi walked off, not entirely convinced. He jumped on the truck, and they drove away.
Standing on the pavement with the suitcase between her legs, Montse had the feeling that all the idle men in the airport car park had their eyes fixed on her. For over two hours she stood there waiting. Eventually she sat on the suitcase, defeated. She was so tired she could hardly think what to do next. Night was falling, and fewer and fewer vehicles remained at the entrance to the terminal. There was no information available anywhere, and the gates had been closed after the passengers of the last flight had come out. In the distance the lights of a city were visible. Distressed, still hanging on to her suitcase, she approached one of the remaining vehicles. The driver was just sitting there with the door open, as if he was waiting for someone. Montse tried to ask him where she could find a hotel for the night. The man didn’t understand. He replied in French and Arabic. Montse said a few words in English, but he still didn’t understand. She tried explaining herself with gestures, and at that point the man opened his eyes wide and let out an exclamation. He seemed to be praying. Then he picked up Montse’s suitcase and threw it onto the back seat. He motioned her to climb in the front. She wasn’t entirely sure that he had understood her, but she got in without protest. The man shouted something, and a boy appeared and climbed in the back, next to the suitcase. They pulled out, driving with all windows down. The two Algerians conversed in shouts. Montse didn’t understand a word. She felt increasingly confused and anxious, but made an effort to appear calm. They drove towards Tindouf along a road that looked as though it was painted onto the desert sand.
As it lurched along the road, the old vehicle left a cloud of smoke behind it. The dashboard was covered in sand. When they entered the city, Montse’s heart sank. It was already dark, and the buildings, dimly lit by a few street lamps, looked terrifying. Barely any cars went by. Only a few people could be seen in the street. Now and again they passed a bicycle or a donkey pulling a cart. Montse had the impression they were driving through a recently bombed city. The two men still communicated in shouts, as if they were angry. Sometimes a building appeared in the distance which seemed in good condition, yet after they left the centre of Tindouf the city looked increasingly desolate. They entered an area where unlit lamps hung from wooden posts. The houses were made of brick. The doors and windows were simple holes in the walls. Yet there were people living in them. Later Montse saw constructions made of concrete blocks, without plastering or cement: two metres by two cubes, with only a curtain for a door. The car stopped in front of one of those countless cubes on an unlit street. A dog was barking like crazy. Montse saw the young man pick up her suitcase and walk into the makeshift dwelling. The other asked her to follow him. She obeyed without daring to ask anything. What she found behind the curtain sent a shiver down her spine. Six or seven children, sitting on the floor, looked at her as if she were an apparition. In the centre of the dingy room was a small gas lamp. Two women were making dinner, sitting on a faded carpet. At the back, oblivious to everything, was an old woman. The neighbour’s children soon started peering in, but the man shooed them away as if they were chickens running into the house. The two women stood up and, with their eyes fixed on her, listened to the driver’s tale. Without making a single gesture or comment, they sat back down in their places and finished making dinner. Montse tried to get the men to understand that she needed a hotel for the night. The Algerians replied at the same time, and she felt increasingly bewildered. The women, sitting on the floor, still paid no attention. With a feeling of impotence, Montse picked up her suitcase and tried to leave the house. The older man grabbed her arm and pulled her back in. She stumbled on one of the children and fell on the floor. The men went on talking to her, alternately pointing to the street and the meal, and shouting angrily. Montse bit her lip to stop herself from crying. She was trying not to lose control. She stayed on the floor, no longer trying to explain herself. An adolescent boy walked in and sat down by the women. He didn’t seem surprised at finding a foreign woman there. He barely exchanged a word with the men. Before Montse realised what was going on, a woman offered her a plate of dates and a cupful of milk. The rest of the family started eating from a dish in the middle of the room. Montse didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t hungry, but she picked up a date and nibbled at the tip. The woman took another one and show her how to dip it in the milk. Montse imitated her. Her stomach was churning, but she guessed that a refusal of food might be construed as an offence. She was so tired that her jaws ached when chewing. No one spoke or looked at her again. Outside one could hear the barking of dogs and the crying of a child. Not quite understanding what was happening, Montse succumbed to drowsiness and eventually lost consciousness.
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 he
r. 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.