by Luis Leante
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.’
‘Shut up, you fool. Who do you think you’re with? Do you think I’m an idiot?’ Guillermo swallowed his words. He didn’t know how to react. Then Sid-Ahmed appeared carrying a teapot and a few small crystal glasses. He moved away some dirty glasses on a silver tray, and invited the legionnaires to sit next to him on a carpet while the water boiled. Guillermo didn’t open his mouth. Only Santiago and Sid-Ahmed took part in the conversation. They smoked long thin cigarettes. As they waited for the water to boil, the Saharawi talked about his business, football, and how expensive life was. He showed the legionnaires a photo of his football team, which was hanging among his goods. ‘Signed by Santillana,’ said Ahmed. ‘Real Madrid is my favourite team. That Miljanic is very clever. If we had a coach like him, we’d have a first division team, fahem? You know what I mean. Here we have players as good as Amancio or Gento, but we’re missing a good coach.’ Sid-Ahmed offered a first round of tea. ‘Menfadlak. Have a sip. My wife is the expert, but she’s attending to a birth and cannot be here.’ Sid-Ahmed talked and talked. Guillermo tried to conceal his irritation, whereas his friend seemed delighted. He was expecting the Saharawi to get the dope out at any moment and sweet talk them into buying it. When they said goodbye at the door with a handshake, Guillermo was disconcerted.
‘We’ll meet again, Sid-Ahmed,’ said Santiago.
‘Ins’Alah. It’ll be a pleasure.’
The street was completely dark by the time they left the shop. They had been talking with Sid-Ahmed for over two hours. At a corner in the distance, they saw the dim light of a streetlamp. It was a dirt road. They walked in the moonlight towards the lamp. Guillermo seemed calmer now. ‘And where did you learn all those words in Muslim?’
‘It’s not Muslim, Guillermo, it’s Hassaniya.’
‘It sounds like Muslim to me.’ Santiago laughed and mocked his friend, but suddenly something hit Guillermo on the head so hard that he held it with both hands. His cap rolled onto the street. Santiago turned around, without understanding what had happened, when his friend knelt down on one knee and supported himself with his hand. There was very little light. It all happened so quickly. Guillermo moved his hand aside, revealing a stream of blood running from his face to his neck.
‘Fuck, Guillermo, what happened?’ But Guillermo couldn’t reply: he just lowered his other knee and collapsed, unconscious. The streetlamp was only a few metres away. Santiago saw the glimmer of a metal bar lying on the ground near his friend. He looked everywhere, but there was no one around. Someone must have thrown the object at them from a window, but there were no lights on. Santiago, still looking around, tried to see how bad the wound was. It was a gash above the temple, and Guillermo was bleeding profusely. Santiago tried to keep his friend’s head off the ground, lest the wound get dirty. Guillermo opened his eyes but couldn’t speak. Santiago lifted him as if he was a bag of potatoes and threw him over his shoulder. He made it to the corner, but Guillermo was too heavy. More objects started raining down. Now they were stones, and a flowerpot that broke against a boulder. Santiago was terrified. Barely controlling his panic, he carried his friend to the next corner. Guillermo’s hands and uniform were stained with blood. When Santiago took a look at him under the next streetlamp his fear increased. He called out for help. No one came out into the street; no one leaned out of a window. For a few seconds he cursed the moment he’d had the stupid idea of coming up to the Zemla quarter. He was trying to lift Guillermo again when someone hissed from a nearby doorstep. Santiago saw the silhouette of a man in a turban but didn’t dare to ask him for help. The man went on calling him and beckoning him over. Santiago was unable to move. Eventually the door opened and two young men came out. They carried Guillermo and asked Santiago to follow them into the house. Once inside, a third man closed the door and bolted it. Half a dozen cautious faces stared at the legionnaires as though they were terrifying apparitions. There were two lads and four old men in black turbans, with lined faces and grave countenances. No one said a word; they looked at Santiago San Román, and two of them laid Guillermo down in the centre of the room. It was a rectangular room, with bare white walls and a carpet that took up all the space of the floor. Against the wall was a long bench, barely half a metre high, covered with cushions. The only light came from a fluorescent tube. Santiago was unable to conceal his anxiety. He could only say: ‘Help me please, my friend is hurt.’ The men looked at Santiago and Guillermo curiously. The oldest one started giving orders, but no one obeyed him. Santiago, not knowing what to do, kneeled down beside his friend. He got even more frightened when he saw his face covered in blood and his vacant eyes. For a moment he thought Guillermo was dead. He looked at the men imploringly. The Saharawis started talking in Hassaniya all at the same time. They were obviously having an argument.
Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. The six men looked at each other and stopped arguing. A woman appeared in the room. She said something to the young men and one of them went to open the door. It was Sid-Ahmed, the shopkeeper, looking extremely angry. He glanced at Santiago without saying a word and kneeled down beside Guillermo. He pressed his ear to his chest, and when he sat up his cheek was covered in blood. He started shouting orders and got the rest moving without any further discussion. Two other women came in. Sid-Ahmed shouted at them too. Santiago looked on without daring to interfere. He couldn’t believe that this was the same shopkeeper who a short while ago had treated them to tea and tobacco with an open smile.
‘They cut his head with an iron bar, Sid-Ahmed. Someone threw it at us in the dark. He won’t stop bleeding.’ Sid-Ahmed gestured at him not to raise his voice and talked to the Saharawis in furious tones. He shouted at them in Hassaniya, and the other replied in a similarly angry vein. For a moment Santiago thought it would come to blows, but nothing of the sort happened.
‘He’ll recover, don’t worry. They’ll dress the wound and sew it
up.’ As he explained this, Sid-Ahmed took Santiago to a small patio surrounded by an adobe wall. It smelled of animals and urine. They jumped over a crumbling bit of wall, proceeded to the neighbouring house, and went through a few more houses.
‘Where are we going, Sid-Ahmed? I can’t leave Guillermo here.’ The shopkeeper gestured to him to calm down.
‘Don’t worry. Your friend is in good hands. They’ll take good care of him.’ Santiago didn’t dare to ask any further questions or contradict him. He knew he was in a terrible situation. Suddenly he realised he had to be at the barracks in an hour. Without an overnight pass, he could be accused of deserting. He was so nervous he stumbled on one of the walls and fell over. Sid-Ahmed helped him up. Eventually they reached a room where a whole family was watching a TV with lots of static. No one seemed frightened to see them arrive in the dark, like ghosts. Sid-Ahmed, again sounding angry, exchanged a few words with the oldest man in the house, who pointed to the front door. They went out and across the street. Santiago followed the shopkeeper like a frightened child. Sid-Ahmed stopped at a door and knocked. A child opened. The Saharawi pushed the door and dragged Santiago in behind him. Now Santiago’s confusion was complete. From among the people drinking tea in front of the TV, a young man got up and approached the legionnaire.
‘Santiago, what happened? What are you doing here?’ It took Santiago a moment to realise that the Saharawi dressed in an immaculate white derraha10 and blue turban was Lazaar. Santiago couldn’t utter a word. Sid-Ahmed took off his shoes and sat down. He spoke so fast that Lazaar’s family had trouble following. Santiago kneeled on the carpet, his legs shaking. No one spoke when the shopkeeper finished his story. One of the old men gestured to the women to take the children elsewhere. Only five people remained in the room. Someone handed Santiago a glass of tea; he began to feel better with the first sip.
‘I need to go back to Guillermo, but I don’t know the way.’ Lazaar took a few moments before replying.
‘Your friend is fine. Don’t worry,’ he said, placing his hands on Santiago’s shoulders. ‘But you shouldn’t have come up wearing those uniforms. There are some mean people here.’
‘We were only taking a stroll…’
‘Al-la yarja mmum!’ cursed the Saharawi. ‘Do you really not know what’s happening between your people and mine?’ It was the first time that Santiago had seen Lazaar angry. He was taken aback.
‘Take your clothes off,’ ordered Sid-Ahmed. Santiago didn’t understand what for.
‘Give me your clothes,’ insisted Lazaar. ‘The women will wash the blood off.’
‘But I have to go back to the barracks.’
‘Go back? They would arrest you and ask you a thousand questions.’ Santiago started undressing; he trusted Lazaar blindly. ‘Tomorrow morning your clothes will be clean and dry. Then we’ll take you back.’
‘Tomorrow? Who’s going to take me over tomorrow? We have to be back in half and hour.’ Lazaar raised his voice for the first time.
‘Don’t be stupid! Do you want to ruin us all? Tonight you’ll sleep at my house.’
Santiago finished undressing without asking any more questions. Everyone left the room. In his socks and underwear he felt ridiculous and helpless. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. At that moment the curtain opened, and in walked a dark-eyed girl with brown hair. She casually looked the legionnaire up and down. Then she smiled, revealing her lovely white teeth. Without a word, she offered him a blue tunic and took two steps back. Lazaar returned with a turban.
‘Andía, what are you doing here?’ The girl looked inhibited and confused. She pointed to the derraha that Santiago was holding in his hand.
‘I brought some clothes for the Spaniard.’
‘Well you can go now. He’s my guest, not yours.’ Andía hung her head and, visibly embarrassed, left the room. Santiago thought Lazaar had been unfair, but he didn’t dare to reproach him for it.
‘Who was that?’ The Saharawi didn’t respond to the question immediately, but Santiago kept looking at the door.
‘She’s my sister. She’s a bit nosy, like all the women in my family.’
‘You never mentioned you had a sister, only brothers.’ Lazaar found the comment strange. He stared at Santiago.
‘There are many things you don’t know about me.’ Santiago slipped on the derraha and did up the turban on his head. He’d seen others do it so many times that he knew the movements by heart.
‘I’ve always wanted to wear one of these.’
‘Well, you’ll be able to wear it whenever you like. All this is for you,’ said Lazaar, smiling for the first time. ‘And the slippers too. Presents from a friend. Now to bed, it’s late.’ Santiago glanced at his watch. It was only nine. The Saharawi turned off the fluorescent tube and lay down on the carpet. Santiago did the same.
‘What about your family?’ Lazaar took a moment before replying.
‘The women are cleaning your uniform, and the men are in bed.’
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed the sleeping arrangements.’
‘No, no. You’re my guest and need to be comfortable. My grandfather snores a lot. You wouldn’t sleep a wink.’ Both men started laughing, just like when the Nomad Troops scored a goal.
Santiago couldn’t shut his eyes. There had been too many emotions for one day, and things were moving too fast. He was so tired he couldn’t think straight. He tried to imagine how Guillermo was doing at that moment. He wasn’t sure that leaving him with unknown people had been the right thing to do. And he worried about what would happen if the authorities found out they had not returned to the barracks. It all got mixed up with the image of Sergeant Baquedano and his obscure words. For a moment he wished he had been arrested, so as not to have to report to the regiment; that would give him an excuse not to participate in Baquedano’s mission. Time passed very slowly during the empty night. Now and again he was startled by the distant howling of a dog. As soon as he saw light through a crack in the curtains, he got up and went out into the patio. The dawn painted the rooftops red. Only a goat was stirring in a wire pen. The cool of the morning comforted him. His uniform was hanging out to dry under a small asbestos roof; it seemed the only proof that it was all really happening. He badly wanted to smoke. To the right and left of the patio were two low doors, covered by curtains, where, in all likelihood, Lazaar’s family were sleeping. Santiago tried to recall how many brothers the Saharawi had, and at that moment Andía peered out from behind the curtains. Her eyes were swollen and her hair was tangled. On seeing him, she smiled. Santiago said good morning in a whisper, so as not to wake anyone up. Andía approached him.
‘Are you always up so early?’ asked Santiago in a kind voice.
‘Always. I’m the eldest sister and I have lots to do.’ She said it with pride, and stopped smiling for a moment. Then she picked up Santiago’s clothes and folded them carefully. ‘They’re dry,’ she said after touching her lips to the cloth to make sure. ‘As soon as everyone’s up you’ll be able to leave.’
‘You want me to leave already?’ Andía smiled, revealing her white teeth.
‘I didn’t say that. You’re my brother’s guest.’
‘How old are you, Andía?’ The girl took a moment to reply:
‘Seventeen.’ She stopped smiling. She handed Santiago the uniform and disappeared behind the curtain. He was lost for words. Perhaps he had offended Andía, who had surely lied about her age so as not to seem like a child. Suddenly she reappeared, smiling again. She took Santiago’s hand and put a necklace on his palm. This confused him.
‘It’s for your girlfriend. A present from Andía.’
‘I haven’t got a girlfriend.’
‘Not even in Spain?’
‘Neither in Spain nor anywhere else.’
‘I don’t believe you. All soldiers have girlfriends.’
‘Well, not all.’ Santiago smiled at the girl’s naiveté. ‘Unless you’d like to be a legionnaire’s girlfriend.’ Andía
grew very serious, to the point that Santiago regretted his faux pas. He put on the necklace to ingratiate himself, but she no longer smiled. A woman came out from behind the curtain and spoke angrily at Andía, startling them both. Andía went back into the room and Santiago returned to Lazaar’s side.
The sun had barely risen when they heard the loud beep of a horn. ‘It’s Sid-Ahmed,’ announced Lazaar after peering out. ‘Your friend’s with him.’ There was an immediate flurry of activity, with women and children coming and going. Santiago ran out into the street. Guillermo, with his head bandaged, was sitting in the back seat of a Renault 12. He didn’t look too well, but appeared to be okay. Santiago hugged him leaning in through the window. Sid-Ahmed moved over and Lazaar, dressed in his uniform, got in on the driver’s seat. One of Lazaar’s brothers got in as well, in the back seat, and told Santiago to do the same. San Román touched his head and felt something missing.
‘My cap, Lazaar, I forgot my cap.’ He went back into the house and out to the patio. Andía was there, feeding lentils to the goat. She had such a serious expression that Santiago thought she might be angry. ‘Have you seen my cap, Andía?’ She pointed half-heartedly to the line where the clothes had hung all night. Santiago took it down quickly and put it on. Andía came out of the pen and waylaid Santiago.
‘I do want to,’ she said, very seriously.
‘What is it you want?’
‘To be your girlfriend. I want to be your girlfriend.’ Hurried and all, Santiago could not contain a smile.
‘I’m glad, very glad. I’ll be the envy of the Legion. No soldier there has a girlfriend as pretty as mine.’ Andía smiled too. Santiago kissed her briefly and said goodbye, but before he left he heard the Saharawi’s voice.
‘Will you come up and see me?’
‘Of course, Andía, I’ll be back.’