by Luis Leante
At nine in the morning, on Monday 19th of January, nothing indicated that that day in Tifariti would be any different for those who had already lost everything. Except for the absence of wind, the morning was identical to so many others in the last few months. It had been a very cold, restless night before the wind abated. Lazaar’s brothers had already gone to fetch water and were tidying the jaima. Santiago was still asleep, cuddled around Andía to keep her warm. The girl was awake but liked to stay like that, lying still until the legionnaire woke up. Yet a sudden noise shook her out of her stillness under the blanket. Santiago awoke.
‘What is it, Andía? Do you want to get up already?’
‘It’s not that. Listen, Santi.’
Santiago didn’t know what she meant. All he heard was the clinking of the teapot and the glasses. Or a goat braying in the silence. But Andía knew what she’d heard. She knew what planes sounded like.
‘I can hear a plane.’
Once again Santiago failed to hear it. He only realised how serious it was when one of Andía’s brothers came running into the jaima, shouting.
The attack came from the north. The planes flew in low from behind the rocks, where no one would be able to see them until they were almost above the camp. They didn’t even do a reconnaissance flight. It seemed as though they knew exactly where they were heading. San Román went out and shaded his eyes with his hand so he could see them. Three French F1 Mirages. He knew them well: the best aircraft in the Moroccan army. They approached in a ‘V’ formation, accurately dropping their deadly load. The first bombs threw the whole camp into a panic. Napalm and white phosphorous razed the jaimas to the ground as if they were made of paper. The noise of the explosions was followed by the flash of flames and gusts of hot air that swept everything in its wake. As the planes flew over they left a scar of fire and destruction in the village. But they were certainly coming back, and everyone ran for cover. The craters made by the bombs were so big that they could comfortably hold a person standing upright. For some the fire blocked the escape. Santiago looked for Andía, but she wasn’t there. A hundred metres off he saw some tent canvases on fire. Suddenly it was very hot. There was a nauseating smell of burnt things. Santiago ran the other way and saw what was happening. The planes were once again discharging napalm over Tifariti. Whoever was caught near the explosion died instantly, but even several metres away the women’s melfas would light up on contact with the hot air. Some people, burnt from head to toe, managed to run for a bit before dropping dead, charred by the phosphorous. No one knew where to run. They all bumped into one another. Amid the confusion Santiago stopped and looked at the sky. He felt the ground shake beneath his feet. Then a blast threw him into the air. He landed on his back, but couldn’t sit up. His body felt heavy. He knew his face was scorched. The voices died down in his head until he was completely deaf. His left arm, he realised, was badly burnt. He looked at it and saw a mass of flesh and blood. His hand and half his forearm were missing, but it barely hurt. He understood how useless it would be to stand up and run. The sky became red with fire. A moment later he felt someone grab him by the neck, trying to make him sit up. It was Andía. Her face was filled with horror. She was crying and shouting, although he couldn’t hear her. He told her that he loved her, that it was going to be all right, and his words echoed in his chest as in an empty box. Andía pressed her face to his chest and hugged him as if she were trying to keep him from going over the edge of an abyss. Then Santiago San Román no longer felt anything.
Chapter Eighteen
ALBERTO WAS THE LAST PERSON SHE WANTED TO MEET IN the corridors of the administrative department of the hospital. Montse left the director’s office convinced that she had made an important decision. She knew her conscience would throw up objections, but she was used to such internal debates. She felt good, as if she had just got rid of some ballast and her mind felt lighter. For the first time in several months she viewed the future with optimism. Perhaps this was the light at the end of the tunnel people often talked about. She made plans: go to a churrería, have a breakfast fit for a queen, call up her sister, check train timetables, make a list of everything she needed for the trip and, finally, choose a destination. It was like walking into a building you have only seen from the outside, but which exerts a powerful attraction on you. Then her thoughts darkened. She was used to ghosts coming and going. But this ghost was real.
At that moment Alberto, who was still her husband, walked out of the lift, a briefcase in his hand and a mobile glued to his ear. He smiled at her, still talking on the phone. Montse felt her optimism slip away. Her heartbeat accelerated. She’d always been slow to react. By the time she felt the impulse to turn around and go back the way she’d come it was too late. She should have foreseen the possibility of an encounter. Alberto was now walking towards her and saying goodbye to the person on the phone. He had a heartbreaking smile and was impeccably dressed, as usual. He casually kissed Montse on the cheek. She let him do it, trying not to show her discomfort. She only wanted the moment to be over soon so she could go back to her previous mood: the buoyancy, the light at the end of the tunnel. But Alberto didn’t realise, or didn’t want to realise, that he was making Montse upset. They exchanged polite phrases. Montse tried to hold his gaze but found it difficult. She had to admit that he could be very charming, even if one knew all his tricks. When Alberto asked her what she was doing there, Montse decided to test his reaction.
‘I’ve just asked Human Resources for an extended leave of absence.’
Alberto didn’t bat an eyelid. He smiled his best smile.
‘Well, Montse, that is some news. Are you stressed out?’
‘On the contrary, I’m too relaxed. I need an experience which might be a bit more… fulfilling.’
‘I see, I see. It might be a good idea. Mind you, I’ve thought of it myself. I might follow your example. Are you going to travel?’
‘Yes, that’s what I had in mind.’
‘It’s wonderful to travel in the off season.’
The phrase felt like a blow in the neck. She was annoyed at thinking like Alberto – having her thoughts, even her words, stolen by him. He’d done that ever since they met. For a long time she’d thought Alberto had such a strong influence on her that she wasn’t the mistress of her own words. Montse said goodbye in a rush, feeling she was about to cave in, to collapse. Alberto was like a screen between her and what was real.
The ride on the lift seemed never-ending. She needed air, and almost ran to the street for a breath of fresh air. She was carrying her pills in her handbag, but did not want to take them only because of the encounter. Feeling nauseous, she leaned against a car. In spite of the cold, she was sweating. She was sure she didn’t love that man. Sometimes she doubted she had ever loved him. But she had come to depend on her husband in a way that went beyond love. Alberto had a puzzling influence on the people around him. He’d had it on Montse’s parents, on her sister Teresa, and on their daughter. He’d had it, no doubt, on the lovers that shared his bed while Montse searched for unlikely explanations after discovering small signs of betrayal. No one had left an imprint on Montse’s life as deep as that of her husband. No one had manipulated her so much, nor done her as much harm.
Alberto had always looked more mature than he actually was. Montse had met him during her last year at university. He was studying on a scholarship in his final year at the department chaired by Doctor Cambra. Her father had never invited students home, but Alberto was different. At the age of twenty-four he already spoke like an experienced professor, sure of his opinions. He was handsome, elegant, polite and cultivated. He warmed the hearts of Doctor Cambra and his wife. Even Teresa had a twinkle in her eye when the scholar turned up in the house. Alberto was attentive to everyone, but especially to Montse. He was so different from Santiago San Román that everything she saw in him helped to bury the memory of the dead boy.
The news of Santiago’s death had been more painful than her confinement in Cadaqués
and her parents’ silence after the miscarriage. Montse had started university without applying herself. She had decided to hide her pregnancy from her parents until it no longer became possible. Nor was it very difficult to refuse to extend to Santiago the forgiveness he so desperately asked of her. She was so angry she barely knew what she was doing. In December, when the phone calls stopped, she felt relieved. She thought she would forget Santiago in the year it would take him to complete his military service. But things went from bad to worse when she could no longer hide the growth of her hips, belly and breasts. After her parents found out that she was indeed pregnant, the household descended into a kind of mourning. Yet Montse didn’t cry as much as she thought she would. She had run out of tears. Under pressure from her father, she confessed that she’d met someone in the summer and had fallen in love. Doctor Cambra wanted to know more, but she didn’t say another word. Just picturing her father talking to Santiago San Román made her feel sick. An enforced marriage was the last thing she wanted, and she knew her parents would never accept the boy. A few days before Christmas, Montse moved to Cadaqués to spend the winter and spring away from Barcelona. Mari Cruz, the maid, went with her. It was the saddest Christmas of her life. Everyone made her feel guilty, even the maid. Her studies were put on hold. The Doctor invented a trip to Germany in order to justify her absence, and the lies told by the family acquired epic dimensions.
Meanwhile, the winter by the sea passed slowly, monotonously, governed by boredom. The family visited Montse in Cadaqués every weekend, but she always wished it was Monday so she could be alone. She thought of Santiago, of his silence. Now she felt guilty for not having given him one last chance to explain himself. Her hope that he might have called her at home remained, but no one ever brought her any news or letters. Whenever she asked if anyone had called her in Barcelona, Teresa refused to discuss it. Even her sister seemed to be against her.
In February Montse started bleeding and having contractions. Her father came from Barcelona with a doctor he trusted. Two days later Montse had to be operated on and the child didn’t survive. It was a painful experience, but she felt relieved. Thereafter the family kept a resentful silence. Montse stayed in Cadaqués until Easter. On her return, although she had recovered, she remained in very low spirits – everyone was led to believe she’d been in Germany, attending university. She resumed her studies, but barely passed a subject in June. That summer the family didn’t holiday in Cadaqués. While Montse revised for her September exams, the rest of them moved about the house in silence, as if they were standing guard. Every time the phone rang she was startled. Montse only studied out of fear: her heart was not in it. Books and wall charts felt like flagstones under which she might end up crushed. But she was so afraid of her parents that she would have done anything to please them. Little by little Santiago’s image lost its contours. She would swing from nostalgia to hatred, from hatred to melancholy, from melancholy to despair. She was sure the boy had forgotten her already. Yet she sometimes would dream of him and wake in a sweat, nervous, fearful. She constantly tried to imagine what he might be doing at that precise moment, an exercise that increased her anxiety. This went on until October.
Alberto appeared in the autumn. His presence proved healthy for the sad atmosphere in the household. Doctor Cambra’s mood changed when the young man paid them a visit. Alberto had a winning way with people. Even Mari Cruz, the maid, succumbed to his charms. Whenever he came round for dinner, she made something special and laid the table with the best china. Montse did not appear particularly impressed. And perhaps that was why he showed an interest in her. She was rather aloof, did not listen to the stories he told, and seemed to be thinking of other things when he was present. She would ask to be excused and go to her room as soon as she could. Such indifference hurt Alberto’s pride. He came to be captivated by Montse. Doctor Cambra realised this and secretly approved, but his major concern was that Montse should start her university career without distractions.
At the end of the year, Santiago San Román was still very much on Montse’s mind and in her heart. She knew that sooner or later he’d be discharged and come back to Barcelona. More than once she was tempted to go to his mother’s tobacconist in Barceloneta, but the thought of Santiago’s finding out filled her with embarrassment. Nor did Santiago make the slightest contact with her during the first few months of 1976. Montse’s feelings started to cool. She often compared Santiago with Alberto and realised that she’d been blind for over a year.
It took her some time, but eventually she went to the tobacconist. It was a difficult decision. She didn’t know what she would say. At the last moment she came up with an excuse: to give back the silver ring the boy had given her. If it really had belonged to her grandmother, it might have some sentimental value.
Something had changed, though. The door was new. She walked in a bit hesitantly. Santiago’s mother was no longer behind the counter. In her place were a couple who must be around fifty years old, both plump and kind-looking. Montse froze, again not knowing what to say.
‘I’m looking for the owner of the shop,’ said Montse eventually.
The woman tensed up, thinking she was trying to sell her something.
‘I’m the owner, how can I help you?’
‘Oh, well, I was looking for a lady who used to own this… some time ago.’
‘Yes, Culiverde’s daughter. She was very ill. She died.’ Montse wasn’t counting on that, but tried not to appear surprised.
‘And her son? She had a son called Santiago. He must have finished his military service one or two months ago. He was in Zaragoza. You see, I have to give him back something which belonged to the family.’
Montse showed them the ring on her palm. The man came out from behind the counter to talk to her more easily. He’d become serious. A customer walked in.
‘You say he was called Santiago?’ said the shop keeper. ‘Yes, I think that was his name.’
‘A tragedy,’ the woman put in. ‘He was killed in an accident in the Sahara.’
‘In the Sahara?’
‘Yes, during Marcha Verde. Isn’t that right, Agustín?’
Agustín was the customer who’d just walked in.
‘Who are you talking about? Culiverde’s grandson?’
‘Yes, this young lady here is asking about him.’
‘The poor lad. He was caught in that mess in Hasan last year. They say he was blown up by a grenade.’
‘It wasn’t a grenade,’ corrected the tobacconist. ‘It was one of those tanks; you know, ran him over.’
‘It was a grenade. They say it was in the papers.’
‘Anyway, a grenade, a tank, what’s the difference?’ concluded the woman. ‘The thing is, this girl here was looking for him.’
Montse heard the conversation as if from a great distance. She didn’t feel anything. She simply stood there with her hand still stretched out, the ring on her palm.
‘Let me see that, love.’
The woman picked the ring and examined it from up close. She was disappointed when she saw that it wasn’t valuable, and presently gave it back. When Montse left, the other three carried on their discussion about the exact cause of Santiago San Román’s death.
From then on Montse started being more receptive to Alberto’s attentions. Yet it still took him two years to persuade her to go out for dinner. His career, meanwhile, took off. He was offered a position in a hospital at an age when most doctors are still revising for entry examinations. Doctor Cambra didn’t quite approve of his leaving his academic career, where he had a brilliant future. But he tried to hide his annoyance in public. The young man would shine in any field he chose.
***
Ayach Bachir pressed the bell, and Montserrat Cambra buzzed him in. The Saharawi arrived with a smile. He offered his hand as he always did, limp and slightly tilted. Following a rite that she enjoyed, Montse asked him about work, his family, Fatma, the baby, the car, and his broken-down fridge. Ayach
asked questions too, smiling at every reply. In fact, they had seen each other only two days before. Montse offered to make him a cup of tea with a teabag, but Ayach preferred coffee.
‘I’ve been looking for you in the hospital,’ said the Saharawi. ‘I thought you’d be on duty, but they told me you wouldn’t be coming into work for the next few days.’
‘For the next few months, Ayach. I’ve taken some time off.’
As Doctor Cambra made the coffee, Ayach went on talking about this and that. She was sure the man had come to speak to her about something important. But she knew he was in no hurry: first he had to receive his host’s attentions, drink some coffee, smoke a cigarette, and only later would he say what he had to say. She found the behaviour at once amusing and irritating, but was getting used to it.
‘There’s something urgent I need to tell you,’ explained Ayach at last.
Montse could only laugh. Now she understood why, as she had read somewhere, the rate of cardiac arrest and angina pectoris was abnormally low among Saharawis.
‘I’m listening. What’s so urgent?’
‘You see, in five days there will be a flight to Tindouf. I can book you a seat if you want. There are three left.’
Montse fidgeted in her armchair. Destiny was putting her to the test.
‘Tindouf? Me?’
‘Yes, it’s a safe city. It’s quite far from Algiers, so it’s not affected by terrorism. You can reach the Saharawi camps in an hour.’
Montse froze. Her eyes glazed over for the first time in a long while. She wasn’t sure of anything. Ayach Bachir appreciated her silence. He looked her straight in the eye. At last Montse smiled.
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t be coming to your house to play a joke like that on you. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you got a valid passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you decide. That’s all I need for the visa.’