See How Much I Love You (8 page)

‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Montse flirtatiously, as soon as she was close to him.

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’

‘A walk?’ Santiago had not been expecting that question either.

‘Did you not drive here?’ He blushed. For the first time he looked vulnerable. He took Montse by the hand, and they walked down the street as if they were a couple.

‘I haven’t got the convertible today,’ he said, as he opened the door of a yellow Seat 850. ‘It’s at the mechanic’s.’ Montse got in without replying. Inside it smelled of grease and tobacco.

Yet once in it, with the windows down to let the air in, Montse felt as good as the previous evening in the convertible. She looked at Santiago out of the corner of her eye: he drove as if he’d been driving all his life. They went across the Gothic
Quarter and into the Ramblas. San Román got out of the car and ran around it to open her door. She failed to conceal how much the gesture pleased her. Without asking her anything, Santiago pointed to a bar and led the way. She knew the place but had never been inside. They sat at the bar, and Santiago asked for two beers without asking her what she was having. He acted perfectly naturally; he was clearly in his element. Montse, on the other hand, felt ill at ease. She felt that everyone was watching her: waiters, customers, the passers-by on the other side of the huge windows. She tried to imagine what her friends would say if they saw her at that moment. She could barely pay attention to what Santiago was saying; his words came out in a torrent and gave her no time to reply. As she drank the first beer of her life, Montse tried to guess what lay behind his words. She drank as though she loved the bitter beverage. She accepted a cigarette and smoked it without inhaling so as not to start coughing. Everything seemed magical this afternoon. She listened to Santiago talk and didn’t ask him any questions. When they said goodbye at around ten, she let him kiss her. For the first time she trembled in the arms of a boy. She got out of the car with the combined taste of beer, tobacco and kisses in her mouth. She felt dizzy. As she opened the front door, the glass reflected San Román leaning on his car, looking at her chivalrously, perhaps smiling. She told herself she would never get in a car with him again, never again agree to see him. The experience of that afternoon was enough to gossip about with her friends for months. Nothing remotely like it had happened to any of them. She turned to say goodbye and had to squint when she saw him standing there – so handsome, so attentive to her movements, so dashing.

It wasn’t quite eight in the morning, and Montse was already standing at the corner of Vía Layetana in front of the shoe shop, waiting for Santiago’s yellow car to appear. He turned up in a red one. The night before, as soon as she’d opened the door,
Mari Cruz had told her there was someone on the phone for her. It was Santiago, calling from the booth across the road: ‘Are you my girlfriend?’ he had asked point-blank.

Montse had felt a tingle reach her neck. She’d been tipsy and happy. ‘Yes,’ she’d answered, trying to sound calm.

‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow at eight at the corner of the shoe shop.’ And she hadn’t said anything, just hung up. She knew it wouldn’t be easy to get the boy out of her mind.

She held her books and folder to her chest, as she would a pillow. In her pencil case she’d put lipstick and mascara. She hadn’t dared to apply the make-up at home. She was so nervous that she had to lean on the window of the shoe shop to stop her legs trembling. This wasn’t the way she should be doing things – she knew she should have played hard to get – but she wasn’t able to control her impulses. On hearing the horn of a red car and seeing Santiago lean out of its window, she ran across the street, barely looking at the traffic. She opened the back door, threw the books on the seat and climbed in the front.

‘Is this your father’s car, too?’ She asked it without irony or malice, but Santiago turned red with embarrassment. Montse touched her lips to his. ‘What did you put back there?’ he asked.

‘My books. At home I have to pretend I’m going to the Academy.’ Santiago smiled.

‘Clever girl.’

‘Haven’t you got work to do today?’ she asked, and this time the question was dripping with sarcasm. But Santiago didn’t notice.

‘I’m on holiday.’ They spent the muggy July morning driving around Barcelona. As the hours passed the sun started to bleach the colours of the streets and the buildings. Santiago wasn’t in a hurry; he drove as calmly as if he were sitting at a bar. Today it was Montse who did the talking. She was euphoric. Everything attracted her attention: the siren of an ambulance, a beggar at a zebra crossing, a couple of lovers, a man who resembled her uncle. Santiago listened to all of it and smiled
without interrupting her. They went across the city from north to south and then back, stopping for lunch at a bar for tourists with an outdoor terrace. When Santiago suggested going to the amusement park, Montse could barely hide her eagerness.

Before getting out of the car she put on the lipstick and applied mascara, looking at herself in the rear-view mirror. From the Montjuic viewpoint she surveyed the harbour as though she were an empress. Things were happening so fast she had no time to think. ‘You look like a princess,’ Santiago said, and Montse felt butterflies in her stomach. She let him hug her and, as her gaze flew from boat to boat, thought of the boys she had met in the past. None was like Santiago. They all seemed immature, childish. She let him hold her tight. Had it not been for the shiver she felt, she would have thought it was all a dream. But it wasn’t. No one would understand what she was feeling just then. The little house in Cadaqués flashed into her mind. It now seemed she had wasted many summers there, thinking it the centre of the world. ‘Can you swim?’ she asked out of the blue.

‘No, I’ve never had a chance to learn. You?’

‘Me neither,’ she lied.

They ate candyfloss at the amusement park. They shot at silhouettes in the shooting gallery. They climbed into the bumper cars. They strolled like a couple of lovers from ride to ride. Santiago made suggestions, and Montse went along with them. On the rollercoaster they held each other so tight that their arms ached. They lost themselves in the crowd, trying to go unnoticed among the few tourists. She kept on talking nervously. ‘I’d like to smoke,’ she said. And Santiago ran to a tobacconist’s to buy a packet of Chesterfields. Every time he had to pay for something he took out a roll of one-hundred-peseta notes which he wielded as if he were a bank teller. ‘Now tell me, are you really rich?’

‘Of course, richest man in the world, with you here.’

At noon Montse called home to tell the maid she was having
lunch at Nuria’s.

‘Don’t you have to call your parents?’ she asked Santiago.

‘Never. I don’t owe them any explanations. I’m independent.’ ‘You’re lucky!’ They ate at an expensive restaurant. Santiago tried hard to make Montse feel at ease. Later, when she opened the door to her building, with the books pressed to her, it seemed as though the world was spinning. She turned to say goodbye and felt him push her gently against the door. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think?’ They kissed. Montse felt a pair of hands reaching where no one had ever reached before. Her books fell to the floor with a thud. She had to make an effort to tear herself away. In spite of her tiredness she found it difficult to fall asleep. She thought she wouldn’t brush her teeth, so as to keep Santiago’s kiss in her mouth, but the taste of cigarettes was too strong. Daydreaming, she scribbled in her diary. In the morning she only hoped her family wouldn’t find out.

Montse phoned her father early the next morning. She spoke to her sister Teresa and her mother as well. She told them she found the classes at the Academy boring and, lying, said she wanted to come to Cadalqués. At half past nine she was standing by the shoe shop, nervously holding her books. Santiago appeared in a white car, though not the convertible. Montse got in as if this were part of a daily routine, smiling, wanting to be near him. ‘I don’t believe for a second that you work in a bank, or that your father is the general manager.’ The boy tensed up, stepped on the accelerator, and drove into the traffic. ‘Santi, you’re a liar. And I haven’t lied to you at all.’

‘Nor me, Montse, honest. I’m not a liar, I swear.’ She realised she was putting him on the spot. She leaned back on the headrest and gently placed her hand on his leg.

‘Tell me something, Santi. Have you loved many women?’ Santiago San Román smiled, trying to relax.

‘No one as much as you, sweetheart.’ Montse felt as though petals
were raining down on her. Her ears tingled and her legs trembled.

‘You’re a liar,’ she said, squeezing his leg, ‘but I love it.’

‘I swear I’m not lying to you. I swear on…’ He trailed off. Judging from his face, a dark thought must have crossed his mind.

For a week Montse’s books travelled in the back seat of a number of different cars. She had the feeling of seeing the world from above, of gliding over the city, only to put her feet back on the ground when she went back home. Every evening, before saying goodbye, Santiago would push her into the huge central shaft of the spiral staircase, and she would let him explore her body. They would kiss for hours, until their stomachs ached. Thousands of questions popped in her mind, but she didn’t dare ask them for fear of breaking the spell. Santiago’s background was obvious. He sounded like an outsider, behaved impulsively, contradicted himself. Although he tried to hide his hands, his broken, grease-stained nails looked more like a factory worker’s than a banker’s. But whenever Montse hinted at it he would squirm, and she didn’t feel like giving him a hard time. Later, lying on her bed, she tried to take a step back and see things clearly. Every night she promised herself she would speak to Santiago the next time she saw him, but when it came to the crunch she was afraid of frightening him away.

Almost twenty-six years later, lying on that very bed, she was turning the same thoughts over in her mind. The pictures of Santiago in military uniform had sent her back in time. She seemed to have been looking into that gaze of his only a few hours ago as they had said goodbye huddled in the staircase shaft. She looked at her hands and felt old. Remembering these things was like digging up a dead person. She took out the picture she’d found in the hospital and placed it on the blanket, next to the other photographs. It was him, no doubt about it. She tried to recall her feelings when they told her that he had died. She could perfectly remember the faces of the tobacconist
and her husband. Had it been Santiago’s idea? Had he tried to take his revenge on her by faking his own death? Had it been some macabre joke or a rumour no one bothered to confirm? Montse’s eyes stung from staring so hard at the pictures. She decided to go through with her plan, and took her mobile out of her bag. She looked up the number she’d quickly scribbled in her diary and dialled it. Her stomach was a bundle of nerves. It felt like lifting a tombstone to make sure the body was still there. She waited impatiently as the rings went on. Eventually someone picked up. It was a man’s quiet voice.

‘Mr Ayach Bachir?’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Dr Montserrat Cambra. May I speak to Mr Ayach Bachir?’

‘It’s me. I’m Ayach Bachir.’

‘Oh, hello, I’m calling from Santa Creu hospital.’

‘The hospital? What now?’

‘Nothing, rest assured, nothing’s happened. I just wanted to have a word about your wife.’

‘My wife is dead. We buried her two days ago.’

‘I know, Mr Bachir. I signed the death certificate.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Montse found it almost unbearably painful. She took a deep breath and continued.

‘You see, I only wanted to tell you that, when they gave you back your wife’s belongings, something was left behind in the hospital. It’s a photograph. I’d like to give it back to you in person and have a word with you.’

‘A photograph? What photograph?’

‘One of the ones your wife was carrying in her bag.’

‘They gave me those back.’

‘I’m sorry to insist, but one of them was mislaid,’ lied Montse, still firm. ‘I know this is not a good moment, but if you don’t mind I’d like to give it back to you. I can come to your house
if you like.’

Again there was a pause.

‘To my house? What did you say your name was?’

‘Montserrat Cambra. I got your address from the hospital files. I’ve got your file right here,’ she lied again. ‘Carrer de Balboa. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s where I live.’

‘So if you don’t mind…’

‘I don’t, that’s very kind of you.’

Montse breathed out, relieved, as though she had just walked over quicksand.

‘I’ll come by tomorrow then, if that’s convenient, of course.’

‘It is convenient, yes. Any time. You’ll be welcome.’

Montse hung up and put the phone in her bag. She tied the letters together with the red ribbon and returned them to their place. Her hand touched something inside the drawer. It was a blackened silver ring. She took it out and looked at it against the light, as though it were a prism. Her heart quickened once again, and she realised that a tear was rolling down her cheek and into the corner of her mouth.

I
T IS THE BEGINNING OF
M
ARCH, 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 which 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.