by Luis Leante
She guessed the evening would end in his bed; his image was tinged by the wine in her glass. The drink made her pleasantly dizzy. She was wearing her best dress. When Pere went silent he gained a lot of points. He wasn’t a good lover, but nor did she need that right now. She remembered him in his underpants and couldn’t help smiling.
‘Do you find this funny?’
In fact, Montse had not been listening. She was good at switching off without showing her lack of interest.
‘Not really. It’s the way you tell it, rather,’ she justified herself.
Pere blushed. Montse stared at him until he looked down at his glass.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve been talking all evening, and you’ve barely managed to say a word.’
‘No, what you were saying – it was very interesting. I don’t want to interrupt. Besides…’
Pere Fenoll raised his head and expectantly searched for the end of the phrase in Montse’s eyes.
‘Besides?’
‘Besides, I think I’m a bit tipsy, and I wouldn’t want to sound too silly.’
‘Well, you don’t look it. You look as fresh as if you’d just got out of bed.’
Montse smiled and was momentarily lost in thought. They’d finished their dinner, so sooner or later he would invite her back to his for a drink. She felt like talking. The idea of going home on her own, to memories and silent walls, did not appeal at all.
‘Have you ever thought of taking time off work?’ asked Montse. ‘I don’t know, three months, six months, a year, even.’
‘An extended leave of absence?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘No, I’ve never thought of it. Maybe later, when I’m…’
‘Older? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘When I feel more tired, that’s what I meant.’
Montse tucked her hair behind her ear. The wine had lifted her spirits in a way she thought she had forgotten.
‘Well I’d like to. Three months, half a year. Who knows, I might ask for it at work.’
‘And what would you do in all that time?’
‘A million things. Read, enjoy the city, travel. Traveling in the off-season is wonderful.’
‘On your own?’
‘If I did it, would you come with me?’ she replied at once, as if she’d been waiting for her cue.
Pere smiled, and blushed once again.
‘It depends. If you asked seriously… Are you about to ask me?’
‘No, not now. Don’t worry. It’s only an idea that keeps popping up in my head.’
Pere Fenoll took the opportunity offered by her frankness to ask his ready-made question.
‘Shall we go to mine for a drink?’
Montse smiled, making an effort to look spontaneous when she nodded. Still, she could not manage to feign surprise.
After settling the bill, they barely exchanged a word. They walked out a bit tense and got into Pere’s car. It was cold. Montse pulled up the collar of her jacket and curled up in her leather seat. She wanted the drive to be long, so she could warm up while listening to Wagner.
‘Are you tired?’
‘No. It’s just the wine. I’m fine.’
The traffic was heavy at that time. Montse was absent-mindedly looking at the people on the pavement as Pere talked once again about work. Suddenly she thought she saw Fatma, who was walking alone, with her hair covered by a red melfa.
‘Stop for a second, please, Pere. I’ve just spotted a friend.’
‘You want me to stop here?’
‘It’ll only take a moment; no need to park.’
Pere stopped at the side of the road. He was annoyed, and saw Montse’s sudden reaction as a pointless whim. Montse got out of the car and caught up with Fatma. The Saharawi was glad to see her, even though they had last met only three days before. They greeted each other with a kiss and held hands, asking after this and that, as if they hadn’t seen each other for a long time.
‘Is the baby okay?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He’s a good boy.’
The two women were not in a hurry. But Pere Fenoll beeped the horn impatiently. This startled Fatma, who only then realised that someone was waiting for Montse. Not wanting to take any more of Montse’s time, she said goodbye. They promised to meet soon.
Pere had a serious expression on his face when Montse got back into the car. She was annoyed, and had to make an effort not to have a go at him for his impatience.
‘Well, Montse,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had such exotic friends.’
‘Exotic? Do you not approve of my “exotic” friends?’
‘No, no, on the contrary. I think one should get to know all kinds of people.’
Montse didn’t like his tone. Before the car started moving, she opened the door again, got out and said:
‘You know what, Pere, I never thought I would say this to someone, but then I never thought I’d go to bed with someone like you either. Fuck off!’
Pere Fenoll was speechless. He knew he had blown it, but it was now too late to make amends. He stayed in the car with Wagner playing in the background, while Montse quickly walked away, cursing him.
Chapter Sixteen
WHEN MONTSE AWAKES, THERE’S NO ONE IN THE jaima. Once again she feels embarrassed to be the last one to get up. Layla’s aunt is cooking in the kitchen. They say good morning in Arabic. Montse is a fast learner. For breakfast she has coffee and goats milk, bread with marmalade and an orange. The food revives her. The Saharawi starts explaining to Montse that Layla is at the corrals on the outskirts of Bir Lehlu. She understands without difficulty. The children are running everywhere, making the most of the holidays. As soon as they see Montse, they come to say hello. The morning sun is beginning to make its presence felt.
Montse decides to go for a walk. She covers her head with a scarf to protect it from the sun. A few little boys are playing football. Others are fighting over the only bicycle. Suddenly a kid who is sitting on his own, far from the group, attracts her attention. She recognises the one-eyed boy from the day before. He’s looking at her without moving from his place. Montse approaches him slowly, as though she were just strolling by. Once near him she says hello. The boy doesn’t reply. His head has often been hit by stones and bears the marks. Montse doesn’t want him to run away, and so keeps her distance. It’s Layla’s nieces who run away, as though they were frightened of getting close to the boy. Montse asks him his name, again without getting an answer. She decides to leave him alone. And then, after taking a few steps she hears him say something.
‘Spanish? Spanish?’
She turns and stares at him.
‘Spanish, yes. And you, Saharawi?’
The boy stands up and comes close to her. Seeing him up-close, with his hollow eye-socket, Montse understands why the girls have scampered away. The boy put his hand in his pocket and takes out a piece of paper. The moment she takes it, he starts running away and soon disappears from view. Montse is so intrigued that she nearly tears the paper as she unfolds it. It is a squared sheet from a notebook, a school notebook no doubt. The handwriting is both careful and elaborate.
Dear friend,
I thank Allah for having saved your life. The news fills me with joy. I have travelled this far only to see you. I have got news that might be of great interest to you. I think your Spanish friend is still among us. Mohamed will tell you where to find me. He’s my sister’s son. Don’t speak of me to anyone, I beg you.
Aza
Montse’s hands start shaking. She can barely finish reading the note. When she takes her eyes off it, she cannot see the boy. She calls out his name. She walks in the direction where she saw him disappear. There are children everywhere, but none is Mohamed. She wanders around the jaimas and eventually gives up. She puts the note away after rereading it several times, and holds on to it in her pocket. Then, without hesitating, she makes for the corrals to get Layla.
Th
e nurse notices how nervous Montse is as soon as she sees her. She carefully reads the note, then looks at Montse, looks back at the note and rereads it. Layla put her hand on her forehead and a moment later clicks her tongue in her characteristic way.
‘It wasn’t a dream, Layla. I told you Aza existed.’
The nurse does not speak. She looks around to make sure no one’s watching. They are alone. Montse looks calmer now. ‘But her nephew has disappeared. I don’t think I’ll find him again, Layla.’
The nurse smiles. Her calm face contrasts with Montse’s gestures.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. If I’m not wrong, he’s hiding behind those rocks there.’
Montse looks in the direction that she’s pointing but sees nothing. Layla calls out Mohamed’s name, uttering phrases in Hassaniya. Presently the boy appears. He was right where she said he had been. Mohamed approaches them with a look of embarrassment. Layla shows him the note and exchanges a few words with him. She sounds cross. Montse quickly asks her to translate.
‘It’s true, his aunt is Aza. She’s in Edchedeirîa.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not far. It’s a daira in Smara,’ she says, pointing to the horizon, where all that can be seen are rocks and sand. ‘It takes a while at a brisk pace.’
‘Come with me, please.’
‘On foot? No way. You’d get dehydrated.’
Brahim drives with both hands on top of the wheel. His pipe hangs from his lips. Montse’s sitting in the middle and Layla by the door. Mohamed is riding in the back, as he’s refused to sit between the women. Brahim exchanges phrases with Layla. He sounds angry. Montse asks the nurse if he’s annoyed at having to drive them, but she says he isn’t.
‘Not at all. He’s happy to take us, but he likes to grumble. If men don’t grumble, they’re not real men.’
Montse laughs. Brahim smiles at her; he doesn’t understand a word.
There’s no difference between Edchedeiría and Bir Lehlu. The landscape of jaimas and adobe constructions is identical. Mohamed jumps out of the truck and runs away. Brahim goes straight after him. He has to drive carefully as there are a lot of children running around, chasing a plastic ball. Eventually he stops at the door of an adobe house. The two women enter and take off their shoes. Aza stands up, covers her face with her hands, slaps her forehead, takes her hands to her heart and finally hugs Montse. She seems to be praying. Her words sound like a pitiful litany, like prayers said after someone’s death.
‘My friend, my friend,’ she says, in Spanish. ‘You have baraka, my friend. I assure you of that.’
The presentations take nearly an hour. Aza introduces her to all her family in Edchedeiria. Montse introduces Layla. The two women talk for quite a while in Hassaniya. Brahim, who has stayed outside, is soon chatting to the neighbours. He seems to know everyone. The women of the household offer Montse some tea, and bring her perfume for her hands and face. The girls present her with necklaces, bracelets, and wooden rings with pretty decorations. She lets them fête her. Layla speaks with everyone as if they’d known each other for years.
‘You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend who was a legionnaire,’ says Layla after listening attentively to the others.
‘You didn’t ask,’ jokes Montse, laughing. ‘But it doesn’t matter, really.’
Aza and Layla smile. Montse feels it’s the right moment to talk about Santiago San Román. But, at the same time, she’s embarrassed about making her story so public. After all that’s happened, everything to do with Santiago feels very remote.
‘I think I’ve found the man you spoke of,’ explains Aza, waiting for Montse’s reaction. ‘Other Spaniards like him settled here, but most have died, or gone to Mauritania.’
‘It seems my story made an impression on you. After all we’ve been through, you haven’t forgotten what I told you.’
‘Not a thing. My mother helped me. She’s very old, but has a good memory. She put me on the right track.’
‘I’m not so sure I want to see him now.’
Layla and Aza look at each other, disappointed at the Spanish woman’s reaction.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ says Layla reproachfully. ‘Now you have to find out whether he’s been thinking of you all this time.’
Montse smiles. She has the impression the two Saharawis regard all this as a soap opera.
‘Fine,’ says Montse, ‘tell me what you know.’
‘In Ausserd there’s a Spanish man who fled with the refugees. He used to be a soldier, and now lives in La Güera, like me.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Not his real name, no. But I think they call him Yusuf or Abderahman, I’m not sure.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘I’ve met him, but I didn’t know he was Spanish. He looks like one of us. I haven’t seen him for a long time, though. His children attended my school.’
‘Are you a teacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘What other surprises have you got in store for me?’
Aza goes quiet and smiles. Layla clicks her tongue.
As they travel through a hammada without paths or roads, Montse wonders what might move a man who wasn’t born in the desert to be anchored for so many years in this part of the world. The beauty of the landscape and the generosity and hospitality of the Saharawis do not seem reason enough. Neither does love.
Brahim drives in silence, with his hands on the top of the wheel. The three women have squeezed together in the cab of the pick-up. It feels like a lengthy journey, with the difficulty of the terrain. La Güera is no different from the rest of the camps. Amid the dairas one can see the two white buildings where the school is. They look like ships stranded at the bottom of a dry sea. Aza gives directions to her house. They welcome them pretty much as they had in Edchedeiría. Aza’s mother is an old, nearly blind woman. She speaks Spanish as if she were salvaging it from the depths of her memory. At once she sets everything up to look after her guests. Presently Brahim strikes up a conversation with the men. Montse knows she’ll have to wait for the rite of hospitality to be over before asking after the Spaniard who lives in La Güera, so she doesn’t say anything yet.
They eat with the whole family. Brahim has been invited to the neighbours’ jaima. In the course of the meal, Montse learns more about Aza and her family. Her father was once the mayor of the old Villa Cisneros, and a member of parliament at the Cortes Españolas. When Morocco and Mauritania invaded, he was taken prisoner by the Mauritanians. Aza was a child back then. They spent more than ten years in the country. Eventually they were allowed to go, along with the rest of the Saharawis, to the Algerian hammada. Aza’s mother recalls her dead husband with contained emotion. Then she explains to her daughter once more where to find the man they’re looking for.
Montse is very nervous. Her food feels stuck in her throat. At times it all feels like a dream. She has imagined a possible encounter with Santiago San Román many times, but not at all in the way it is happening now. Suddenly, a Saharawi steps aside from the group of men talking to Aza, offers Montse his hand, and greets her in Spanish, with a strong Arabic accent. He’s wearing a black turban and a blue derraha. His skin is as dark as any Saharawi’s. His eyes are red like theirs, and his teeth are tea stained. His gaze is as piercing as that of the men from the desert. It’s hard to judge his age, like most Saharawis after thirty. Montse feels that the hand which squeezes hers is actually burning. Aza speaks to him in Spanish, and he replies in that language and sometimes in Hassaniya.
‘Yes, I’ve been a legionnaire,’ he tells Montse. ‘But that was many years ago.’
Montse is almost certain that the man cannot be Santiago San Román, but when she looks him in the eye she wavers.
‘My name is Montse. They told me about you, and I didn’t want to leave without saying hello.’
The man is obviously very flattered. He smiles. He finds the foreigner’s attitude a bit strange. He invites all three women to drin
k tea at his house. Layla excuses herself, explaining they should be getting back to Smara. The man insists. Now Montse is sure it’s not him. But she cannot help asking:
‘Did you know a young man called Santiago San Román? He was a soldier like yourself.’
The man thinks for a moment, tipping his turban slightly backwards. Under the cloth appear a few grey hairs.
‘I’m not sure. There were thousands of soldiers like myself. He must have gone back home when he was discharged. I stayed.’
‘He stayed too.’
‘Some died or were taken prisoner,’ the man explains, smiling all the while.
Montse knows this is leading nowhere. But deep down she’s relieved not to be in front of Santiago San Román. It’s a paradoxical feeling.
On the way back, Brahim drives more slowly. Aza has stayed back in La Güera. Montse has promised to visit her at the school in a few days’ time. She and Layla are both silent. The sun is setting at their back. Little by little the sky turns a deep red that takes Montse’s breath away. When they are near Smara, she asks Brahim to slow down. She wants to preserve the beauty of that sunset in her memory. Layla seems indifferent to it. Suddenly she points something out to Montse. A few metres from the tracks, a dromedary lies on the ground, dead. It is a vision that makes a deep impression on the foreigner. Montse asks Brahim to pull over. He does so without replying. Intuitively, he can guess the kind of feeling a sight like that might give rise to in a European woman. In the distance, one can see the jaimas of Bir Lehlu.
There in the desert, the body of the dead dromedary is like a red brushstroke on a white canvas. Montse cannot look away. There are no flies, no carrion-eating birds. Brahim smokes leaning on the pick-up and the women stand a few metres away from the carcass. There isn’t even a bit of wind that might profane the silence of the evening. Layla tries to understand what it is that so captures her friend’s attention. Montse looks into the horizon. In the middle distance, on a slight elevation, some rocks stand out in profile.