See How Much I Love You

by Luis Leante

  ‘No, mum, it’s only twelve. I’ll eat later.’ Santiago grabbed a packet of Chesterfields and slipped it in his pocket. Montse, although she didn’t want to appear impolite, couldn’t take her eyes off the sickly-looking woman dressed in black from head to toe. Santiago’s mother sat at a small table with some knitting patterns and a skein of wool on it. The boy gestured to Montse to wait for him and disappeared in the back room of the shop. She felt tense. She didn’t know what to do or say to the woman who was knitting without lifting her gaze from the needles. Standing still, she just looked at the piles of cigarette packs. Time moved very slowly.

  Suddenly Montse said: ‘It looks like it won’t be very hot today.’ Santiago’s mother looked up, left her knitting on the table and stood up.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,’ said the woman, as if it were the first time she’d seen her. ‘What would you like?’ Montse froze.

  ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m Montse, Santiago’s friend.’ The woman looked at her, trying to place her.

  ‘Montse, yes, of course. Santi is not here yet. He’s at the garage. If you like, I’ll tell him you came by at noon.’ Montse nodded. The woman sat back down and resumed her knitting. Presently Santiago reappeared, with a hand in his pocket. He kissed his mother.

  ‘I’m going now, mum.’ The woman said goodbye without even lifting her head.

  Out in the street, Montse tried to smile.

  ‘She’s a very handsome woman, your mother.’

  ‘You should have seen her a few years ago, I’ve got pictures form the time she came to Barcelona and met my…’ His face darkened. He took his hand out of his pocket and showed her a silver ring, then slipped it on the finger where it fitted best. Montse smiled at him.

  ‘Is it for me?’

  ‘Of course. It’s a family ring. My grandmother gave it to my mother, and now it’s yours.’ Montse took Santiago by both hands.

  ‘What’s wrong with your mother, Santi? Is she ill?’

  ‘I don’t know. The doctor says it’s nerves. I’ve always seen her like that, so I’m used to it.’ Santiago was anxious, and jumped up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘Let’s go now; it’s very hot in this neighbourhood,’ he told Montse.

  When Santiago San Román opened his eyes, the sun had already reached the balcony outside Montse’s bedroom. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was surprised to find the girl’s body beside him. He had a sweet taste in his mouth. Montse’s smell suffused the sheets and the pillows. He inhaled it. Asleep she looked so beautiful he didn’t want to wake her. He slipped out of bed and got dressed without taking his eyes off her. The house was in total silence. It was still very early. Santiago knew that, after a day off, the maid would not return until after ten, on the way back from the market. He wandered about the corridors, looking at the paintings and the furniture as though he were in a museum. It was the first time he’d been in a carpeted flat. The living room smelled of leather and the velvet of the curtains. He lingered for a bit in a study with bookshelves covering one wall, and degrees and diplomas on the other. Suddenly he felt out of place. He walked round the corridors again, found the door and ran downstairs. Once in the street he checked his pockets: he only had six pesetas. He followed the road until he reached a rubbish bin. He stuck his hands in it and retrieved Montse’s books and folder.

  Montse opened the door with her eyes red from crying. She looked at Santiago as if he were a ghost.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she said, leaning against the door frame. Santiago didn’t see what the problem was. He showed her the books.

  ‘This is yours. I don’t want my wife to be as ignorant as me.’ Montse shivered. She took him by the hand and pulled him inside.

  ‘Come on in, we need to have breakfast before Mari Cruz gets here.’

  The noise of the key turning in the lock caught them in the kitchen, while they were warming up some milk. Montse pricked up her ears like a hunting dog. Santiago’s heart jumped.

  ‘Is it the maid?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to remain calm. ‘But it’s too early, it’s not even nine.’ That was all she had time to say. Then Mari Cruz appeared, covered in sweat and carrying a big basket. She froze on the threshold, her eyes fixed on Santiago. ‘This is Santiago, a classmate from the Academy. He’s come to pick me up, as we both take the same bus.’ Mari Cruz put the groceries on the table without saying a word. Then she left the kitchen.

  ‘She didn’t buy it,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care. She can’t say anything, trust me.’ When Montse went to her room to get ready, the maid came back into the kitchen, as though she’d been waiting for her cue behind the door.

  ‘I know you,’ said Mari Cruz in a menacing tone.

  ‘Don’t think so, it’s the first time I’ve come round.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ve seen you in the neighbourhood.’ Santiago held his breath and his gaze.

  ‘Aren’t you Culiverde’s grandson?’ He thought of running away without giving any explanations, but something kept him glued to the spot. ‘Aren’t you the tobacconist’s son?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mari Cruz positioned herself in the doorway, with arms akimbo.

  ‘Look, young man, I may not know what you’re up to here, but I can imagine. You’re looking for a rich kid to cosy up to. But make no mistake. If you try to pull the wool over this girl’s eyes, I’ll report you. You understand? This is a decent household. You’d do better by helping your mother, she could use a hand.’ Mari Cruz fell silent as soon as she heard Montse’s steps in the corridor behind her. The girl picked up her books and folder from the kitchen table and gestured to Santiago to follow her. She said goodbye to the maid. ‘’bye, señorita. Shall I expect you for lunch?’

  ‘Not today. I’m eating at Nuria’s.’

  ***

  The lights of the vestibule startled Doctor Cambra. She raised her head and opened her eyes. An elderly woman cautiously approached her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Montserrat Cambra stood up and tried to appear normal.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.’

  The woman started up the stairs with great difficulty, holding onto the handrail. From her breathing Montse could tell she suffered from asthma. Her anxiety had passed. Although she knew Ayach Bachir’s address by heart, she checked the piece of paper she had in her handbag one last time.

  The Saharawi was a thin man, with clear-cut features and dark skin. He had very short hair and a two-day stubble, and looked about twenty-five. He was casually dressed, in jeans and an unfashionable jumper. He shook Montse’s hand feebly, and then invited her in. It was a modest household, with old floorboards and bare walls. In the living room there was very little furniture: an armchair, two chairs, a coffee table, a 1970s unit against the wall, and a lamp that looked even older than the other pieces. The floor was covered by a large, colourful carpet. The room gave onto a balcony, and the window, which was too small, didn’t have any curtains. It seemed as though all the furniture had been left behind by previous tenants. The unit was almost empty, as if about to be moved. In the middle of the room were a primus stove and a tray with small glasses and a teapot on it. On entering the room Montse saw a young man looking out of the window. He was younger and more slender than Ayach. She was introduced to him, but was unable to understand his name. Montse sat in the armchair and Ayach Bachir took the chair. The boy sat down on the carpet and, without saying a word, turned on the primus stove and put the kettle on. From the moment she’d come in, Montse had been able to hear a baby crying. It seemed to be coming from a room on the other side of the wall.

  After a few polite phrases, Montserrat Cambra took out the photograph and gave it to Ayach. The Saharawi stared at it. He trailed a finger over it, as if he was trying to recover from the paper the touch of his wife. Montse observed a respectful silence. She didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘You see, I didn’t
tell you everything on the phone, because I wanted to discuss the picture with you first. And now I don’t know how to say it.’

  Ayach looked at her in confusion. The other Saharawi went on preparing the tea, oblivious to Montse’s words.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the Ayach.

  ‘Let me explain. I used to know the guy in the djellaba – a long time ago, though.’

  ‘The one in the derraha?’

  ‘Yes, but that man died many years ago in the Sahara. It happened in Marcha Verde. At least that’s what they told me. Now, the other night, after your wife’s accident, I found this picture among her personal belongings. I have no doubt it’s him, but the date on the back is later than the date of his death. And I know for a fact that the dead don’t come back.’

  Montse regretted these last words, and Ayach Bachir realised she felt ill-at-ease. They looked at each other without saying anything else, until the Saharawi turned his eyes back to the picture.

  ‘This man is not dead,’ he said firmly. ‘He came to my wedding three years ago.’

  Montse took a deep breath and asked Ayach to look at the photograph again to make sure. He did so.

  Yes, he’s my wife’s uncle.’

  ‘Mamia Salek’s?’

  He smiled in appreciation of her remembering the deceased’s name. He seemed moved.

  ‘Yes. The last time I saw him was at our wedding. My wife loved him like a father. He used to live at the Bir Gandus daira11, in the wilaya of Ausserd.’

  Montse could not hide her disappointment on hearing those words. She hung her head and looked at the boy making tea.

  ‘Then there’s been a confusion,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘The man I was referring to was Spanish, but they look so alike…’

  ‘I didn’t say that this man was Saharawi, only that he was my wife’s uncle. My wife would have told you lots of stories about him. But one thing I’m sure of is that he was born in Spain.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Yusuf, they called him Yusuf. I don’t know his Christian name. The other man in the picture is Lazaar Baha, his brother in law. He died when Mauritania attacked the capital, like our president. I was born that year.’

  ‘Does the name Santiago San Román ring a bell?’

  ‘No, I’ve never heard it.’ Ayach Bachir fixed his eyes on the photograph once again. ‘I didn’t see him much. We barely exchanged a few words, I can’t remember. My wife had more recent pictures of him. He’s changed a lot. He was badly wounded in the war. He didn’t strike me as being entirely together. They say the death of his wife upset the balance of his mind.’

  The other Saharawi held out a small tray to Montse. She picked up a glass and Ayach Bachir another. Montse’s hands trembled as she took it to her lips. Now the child’s crying was louder. At that moment she understood it had been a bad idea to come over. The past could not be changed. Not even hers. And yet she could not help asking:

  ‘So he was married?’

  ‘Yes, to my wife’s aunt. A daughter of his studies in Libya and his son was killed by a landmine near the Wall.’

  What wall? Where was Ausserd? What was a wilaya? Montse tried not to think about these things, but questions kept popping into her head. A woman came into the living room and stood still on seeing Montse. She had long black hair, and was wearing jeans. She apologised for interrupting and exchanged a few words with Ayach Bachir in Arabic. The other Saharawi said something as well; he sounded upset. The woman looked worried. All three spoke in low voices, as if they didn’t want to disturb their guest. Ayach left the room. The other Saharawi started preparing a second round of tea. He looked up and smiled. Then he went back to what he was doing. Ayach came back and apologised.

  ‘I’m sorry. Fatma’s son is ill. And she’s worried because she doesn’t know what the problem is.’

  ‘Was that him crying?’

  The Saharawi nodded. Montse stood up and left her handbag on the armchair. The two men looked at her in confusion. Montse’s face, all of a sudden, had grown serious and tense. She looked cross.

  ‘Where is the child?’

  ‘In the women’s room.’

  Montse went to the corridor and let the crying guide her to the room. Fatma and an elderly woman, both sitting on the floor, were trying to appease the child. The doctor approached and asked their permission to pick him up.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.’

  Fatma’s face lit up. She stood up and gave her the baby. Montse lay him down on a mattress. He must have been four or five months old.

  ‘He’s been crying since noon. And he refuses to be fed,’ explained Fatma, weeping.

  ‘When did he last suckle?’

  ‘At ten,’ said the other woman without hesitation.

  The two men looked in from the door, disconcerted, without daring to take part in the conversation.

  A sacred silence descended on the room as the doctor examined the baby. She lifted his clothes, undid the nappy and felt his groin, stomach and chest.

  ‘He needs liquid. He’s nearly dehydrated.’

  ‘He won’t open his mouth,’ said Fatma, bursting into tears.

  The doctor turned over and examined the faeces in the nappy.

  ‘He’s got a strong colic. Don’t cry, please, it’s nothing serious. We need to give him an infusion of fennel, camomile and aniseed. In babies the gallbladder is not fully developed and it’s common for this to happen. For now we’ll give him some camomile with a syringe for him to swallow. If it works with cats, it must work with babies,’ she said, trying to dissipate the tension and make the mother smile.

  Fatma stopped crying. Ayach Bachir looked at Montse awkwardly, without knowing what to say. He still had the picture in his hands. For a moment he tried to imagine the woman’s story.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll call Rabuni,’ the Saharawi said. ‘If this man is the Spaniard you believe he is, then my father must know him. He’s got the memory of an elephant: he can still recite from memory the names of all the dead he left behind in our country before he fled.’

  Doctor Montserrat Cambra smiled at him with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty.

  11. Daira: A smaller Algerian administrative division, akin to a county.

  Chapter Ten

  THE TRUCK IS GLIDING ALONG THE HAMMADA. IT ISN’T A long way between the Smara Hospital and the daira of Bir Lehru, but to Montse it feels like an eternity. She’s travelling in the cab, between the driver and Layla. In the back are three young men and a goat. The Saharawi who is driving has not uttered a single word during the whole journey. Now, as Bir Lehru comes into view in the distance, he exchanges a few phrases with Layla. The nurse seems angry with him. Yet the man remains indifferent to her reproaches. One could even say he enjoys seeing her like that. Montse does not understand a thing, and doesn’t dare to ask questions.

  The vehicle goes up a gentle slope and stops in front of a humble brick-and-cement building with a whitewashed façade. Layla extricates herself from the truck and helps Montse out. The driver smiles with his pipe in his mouth. By way of goodbye Layla slams the door and utters a phrase that sounds like an insult.

  ‘He’s a cretin,’ she explains to Montse. ‘He won’t takes us any nearer my jaima. He says it’s getting late and has to be home. He’s a friend of my father’s, but I didn’t want to marry him when I returned to the Sahara.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ replies Montse, amused. ‘This is a lovely place.’

  In the sunset, the pale colours of the houses in Bir Lehru set off the intense ochre of the desert. The small elevation where Montse and Layla are standing, and on which a special-needs school has been built, commands a superb view of the desert. The roofs of the jaimas break up the monotony of the horizon. Against the last slanting rays of sun the water tanks shine brightly. There’s a slight breeze blowing, which makes the landscape of the daira more pleasant. Now and again, the bleating of a goat shatters the seemingly sacred silence. The
bluish green of the jaimas contrasts with the much poorer adobe buildings.

  Montse takes a deep breath. She feels tired. The beauty of such an arid place sends a shiver down her spine. The desert and the sky meet in an almost imperceptible line.

  ‘Look,’ says Layla, stretching her arm. ‘Down there is my house.’

  Montse looks where she’s pointing, but all the jaimas look the same.

  ‘Wait a moment, I’d like to enjoy the fresh air,’ says Montse. Layla pulls up her melfa and sits on the ground. Montse does so as well. In one of the far areas of the camp stands a mud wall, almost completely covered in sand, which surrounds two or three hectares planted with trees and tomato bushes. Montse is surprised to find an oasis like that in the middle of such a hostile desert.

  ‘We built that orchard. It looks like a picture, but it’s real. The water is very salty here, but it yields tomatoes and some lettuce.’

  ‘And the school?’ asked Montse, pointing to the brick building.

  ‘It’s for sick children, mentally handicapped ones, actually.’

  ‘Now, if you’ve managed to build hospitals and schools, how come you’re still living in tents after twenty-five years?’

  Layla smiles, as if she had been expecting the question and has a ready-made answer.

  ‘We could lay down foundations for buildings, plan streets, dig drains into the ground. But that would mean we’re giving up. We’re only here temporarily, because our country is occupied by invaders. Once the war is over, we’ll go back. And all this will be swallowed by the desert. Right now the tents can be taken down in two days, and we could be in our country in less than a week.’

  Montse doesn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t have thought that within a fragile-looking woman like her friend lurked such firm courage and resolve. She winks at her and takes her hand. Layla goes back to being her usual gentle self.

  ‘Last night you spoke in your sleep again,’ she says, drawing the melfa behind her ears. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of now. I’m sure that woman is only a mirage. If she had existed, our soldiers would have found her. The dead don’t disappear so easily in the desert, although it might seem so. Besides, a scorpion sting causes hallucinations.’