See How Much I Love You

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.’

Montse fixes her gaze on the line of jaimas below.

‘You’re right. I’d also like to think it was a hallucination. But I cannot explain away the nightmare about Tindouf. That really did happen. I feel like such an idiot now…’

Eventually she agreed to cover her head to go out. But when she crossed the door, the lady of the house went after her and didn’t leave her side, even though Montse wanted to be alone to try and find a phone. The Algerian wore a serious expression, and was visibly annoyed by the fact that Montse wanted to go out on her own. Montse found the situation so absurd that at times she wanted to laugh. At others, however, she had to struggle not to cry. The children would follow her as well, trailing a few steps behind her. If Montse stopped off, the woman did so too, and if she walked faster, the woman matched her step for step. Both looked thoroughly exasperated. Montse had decided no longer to speak to her. The Algerian barely spoke any French, and Montse knew no more than a dozen poorly pronounced phrases in the language.

After looking for a phone booth at every corner she passed, Montse thought she heard someone curse in Spanish. She turned round and saw an old truck, with a trailer covered by a hole-ridden tarpaulin, parked at a petrol station. Without thinking, she walked straight over. The Algerian woman’s shouts did not intimidate her this time. A man of about sixty was talking to the station employee. He was dressed in the remains of various military uniforms, sported a grey beard down to his chest, and had both arms covered in tattoos. Montse recognised the hat of the Legion, and saw a Spanish flag embroidered on each of his sleeves. She approached the man like a castaway who finds a floating plank at sea.

‘Excuse me, are you Spanish?’ The man turned round as though he could barely believe his ears. He looked her up and down and put his hands on his belt buckle. He was slow to reply, however.

‘For the love of God, where did you come from?’ Montse was so excited that her explanations barely made any sense. She tried to tell the stranger everything, and seemed incapable of expressing herself coherently. From across the street, the Algerian woman looked at the scene incredulously, without daring to approach.

‘I need to make a phone call. They should have collected me from the airport yesterday, but no one showed up. My suitcase is at that woman’s house, and they almost didn’t let me out.’ The Spaniard looked to where Montse was pointing. As soon as the Algerian realised they were discussing her, she covered her face and quickly walked away.

‘Don’t be afraid, madam, you’re safe with me. You’ve been very lucky to find me. Believe me, very lucky.’ In spite of his strong smell, Montse could have hugged him.

‘Can you tell me where I can find a phone?’

‘I’ll do something better. I’ll take you to the Spanish consulate and they’ll take care of everything.’ Montse could not believe it would all be solved so easily after so much trouble. She mentally pinched herself to make sure she was not dreaming.

‘My suitcase is still at that woman’s house,’ insisted Montse.

‘I know how to get there, but I would really appreciate it if you came over with me. I don’t understand what they want from me.’

‘Do you have anything of value in your suitcase?’ Montse thought for a moment before replying. Her instinct told her to be cautious.

‘Nothing expensive. What little money I have and my passport I carry on me.’ The man thought it over. He paid the employee with some dirty, crumpled notes, and said a few words to him in French.

‘Get in the truck, madam. We’re leaving straight away.’ Montse climbed into the cab and soon began to understand that things were not going to be as easy as she had thought.

As soon as the erstwhile legionnaire got behind the wheel, two other men entered the cab. They were Muslims, and were wearing turbans and army boots. From the noise Montse could tell a few other men were climbing onto the trailer. ‘They’re good people, madam. Real patriots,’ the legionnaire said, referring to the Algerians. The truck pulled out, and Montse was caught between the driver and the other two. Their smell was nauseating. Despite the noise of the engine, she could hear the shouting in the back.

‘The house is at the end of this street, on the left. Those grey blockish buildings,’ explained Montse. The legionnaire put an unlit cigar in his mouth and chewed on it while looking straight ahead. Montse got alarmed when they went past the street. ‘It’s back there, in those little houses.’ The legionnaire smiled.

‘Don’t worry, madam; going into that neighbourhood is really not worth it. Only riff raff live there, thieves and whores, if you’ll excuse the language. Nothing else. If you haven’t got anything valuable in your suitcase you’d better forget about it. Trust me.’

As the last houses receded into the distance, Montse’s feelings became more and more mixed. On the one hand, she was glad to leave that hellhole behind; on the other, she knew she shouldn’t have climbed into the truck without knowing if the man was trustworthy. As her suspicions increased, the legionnaire talked and talked. He seemed to enjoy soldierly bravado. The other two men remained silent, smoking impassively. When the legionnaire paused for breath, Montse saw an opening in which to ask: ‘What city is the Spanish consulate in?’ The man was slow to answer, and Montse had the feeling he was playing for time. Then he mentioned an Arabic name that she didn’t catch. ‘And is that far from Tindouf?’

‘In the desert, madam, you can never be sure what’s near or far. It depends what you compare it with. Did you say you came from Madrid?’

‘No, I didn’t say that.’

‘I beg your pardon, I thought you had.’

‘I came from Barcelona.’

The legionnaire went on asking Montse about the details of her journey. She raised her guard, for the questions had turned into a kind of interrogation. Montse tried to disclose only half of the truth; but the man was clever and at times made her contradict herself. Eventually Montse decided to reply with monosyllables or to pretend that she couldn’t hear him over the noise of the engine.

It was difficult to say whether they’d been driving for two or three hours. The tarmac gave way to a dry, dusty path which in turn disappeared a few kilometres later. The truck lurched along the tracks left by other vehicles or simply cut across the desert. They seemed to be going increasingly far from anything. When Montse could barely take it any longer, she saw the glimmer of a village in the distance. The dark shapes contrasted with the ochre of the desert. In the dazzling noonday sun, she couldn’t make them out clearly, but she was sure that far on the horizon there were signs of civilization. She even thought she could see some rooftops shining in the sunlight. ‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked, animated.

‘Yes, madam. In five minutes you’ll be able to rest.’

As they approached the mirage, Montse felt the blood rush to her face. When they were about one kilometre away, she realised that the place was not a town, or a village, or anything of the sort. The dark shapes and shiny surfaces she had seen were in fact thousands of cars heaped up as scrap metal in the middle of the Sahara. There were so many that pathways ran between them, complete with intersections, in what looked like a monstrous cemetery.

She was dumbstruck. Her mind raced ahead of itself. She crossed her arms and tensed up, as though holding on to an imaginary object. When the men got out of the truck, she followed them, terrified but trying to keep her wits about her.

‘You told me you would take me to the consulate.’

‘All in good time, madam, all in good time. Once we’ve dealt with a couple of things, I’ll take you to the consul.’

‘My husband must be in Tindouf already, and he’ll surely alert the Algerian police.’ Montse’s words sounded like the lies of a desperate little girl. With a quick movement, the legionnaire stuck his hand in Montse’s pocket and grabbed her papers. She tried to back away, but two men took her by the arms and held her still. She tried to scream, but her voice faltered. A third man checked her other pockets and took out her wallet and passport. He passed them to the legionnaire as a dog would a gunned-down prey. The latter flicked through it and put it away in one of the several inner pockets of his uniform.

‘Now, don’t do anything stupid. Even if we let you go, you wouldn’t get anywhere on foot. You’d die of thirst and hunger first.’

The legionnaire walked off and the two men dragged Montse behind him. Among the wrecked cars was a small hovel, with a window sealed off by two planks. The man unlocked the padlocks on the door, and the mercenaries pushed Montse in. She fell flat on her face. ‘You can scream all you want. No one will hear you.’ She stifled a cry of pain. Physical resistance, she knew, was futile, but she wasn’t even capable of screaming. She let out a moan and lifted her head. Her nose was bleeding.

‘Please, please, please,’ she whimpered pleadingly. The door closed. Montse sat up and started asking for help in whispers, afraid to raise her voice. She soon realised she wasn’t alone. Although there was very little light, she made out three other women sitting on the floor. They looked at her with as much surprise as her own face was no doubt registering at that moment. She felt inexplicably ashamed and tried to regain her composure, but couldn’t stop whimpering. There was really no point in screaming and kicking at the door. She looked at the other women. Little by little she made out their features in the shadows. They were dressed the same as the women she’d seen in Tindouf. In spite of their hardened expressions, they looked scared. Montse tried to communicate with them in Spanish, said a few words in French; but there was no reply. One of the women gestured at her to sit down. Montse fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Could things get any worse? She cried inconsolably for a long time, until her tears and strength ran out. When she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that this was a hopeless situation, a woman sat next to her and put her hand on her shoulder.

‘Here,’ the woman said in Spanish. Montse lifted her head as if she’d heard a revelation. The woman held out a ladleful of water. ‘You’ve been losing water for nearly an hour. If you don’t drink, you’ll get dehydrated.’ Montse took the ladle to her lips. She sipped. The water was salty and smelled awful. ‘Drink,’ said the woman. ‘Better to get diarrhoea than to become dehydrated.’ Montse drank it up, trying to conceal her disgust.

‘Thanks.’ The woman went back to her place and crouched down. ‘Do you all speak Spanish?’

‘Not them.’ Montse realised that the woman was dressed differently from the others.

‘Are you Algerian?’

‘Saharawi.’ Montse sat beside her, feeling momentarily relieved.

‘From the refugee camps?’

‘Have you been there?’

‘No, I didn’t get that far. I had problems when I got to Tindouf.’ Montse started telling the unknown woman everything that had happened to her. The Saharawi listened motionless, clicking her tongue whenever there was a pause. Montse felt much better when she finished the story of her ordeal. The woman didn’t take her eyes off her, as if she wanted to make sure that she understood every single word.

‘I’m Montse,’ she said, breaking the silence.

‘I am Aza.’

‘And how did you end up here?’ Aza made a gesture of despair. She had been shut away in the junk heap with the two Algerians for two days. She’d gone to Tindouf to make a phone call and buy some ballpoint pens. On the way back to the camp, her four-by-four broke down. The two young men who were with her decided to walk the twenty kilometres to their wilaya while she remained in the vehicle, waiting for them to come back with help. She had food and water, so there was nothing to worry about. But the Spaniard’s truck came by and offered her a lift. The rest Montse could guess. ‘And what do you think they’ll do to us?’ Montse asked naively. Aza’s face grew worried, and she buried it in her melfa. She didn’t say anything.

Time stood still inside the hovel. The first two days seemed interminable. They heard the men talking outside, but couldn’t see anything through the cracks in the window. Montse had to be allowed out a few times because of her upset stomach. Seeing the sunlight and breathing in clean air was her only luxury. Aza and the Muslim women endured the imprisonment much better than she did. They could sit still for hours, without moving, drinking or eating. Montse clung to the Saharawi in order not to lose her mind. She did everything Aza told her to: she drank the stagnant water, ate the rotten fruit and tried not to move much when it was very hot. The three women, it seemed to Montse, showed superhuman endurance. When she felt she couldn’t take it anymore, she talked to Aza. She learned the Saharawi’s strong Caribbean accent stemmed from the many years she’d spent in Cuba as a student. But when Montse asked her about her life in more detail, Aza would shut down and change the subject.

‘Who are these men, Aza?’

‘Mean people, my friend.’

‘But what do they want?’

‘I don’t know, and I’d rather not think about it until the moment comes.’ She would then click her tongue and wave away the flies with extraordinary elegance.

On the third day they heard the engine of the truck roaring again. The four women grew alert, thinking the men would leave them behind on their own. But soon the door opened and they were led into the trailer. In spite of the appalling conditions, the journey felt like a small luxury in comparison with the days shut away in the hut. Montse looked at the immensity of the Sahara through the planks half-covered by the canvas. They drove for more than three hours. The truck finally stopped by the side of a well surrounded by a few trees. It was the only sign of life they’d seen in several kilometres. The rocks were smouldering.

Layla looks serious, engrossed as she is in Montse’s tale. After a moment of silence she clicks her tongue and looks towards the jaimas, which are barely visible in the declining sunlight.

‘Why do you do that?’ asks Montse.

‘Do what?’

‘That clicking with the tongue.’

‘It’s a habit.’

‘Aza used to do just that. She can’t be a hallucination.’

‘No, it doesn’t sound like she was. But let’s go now, it’s getting dark.’

The jaimas are set considerably wide apart, and there are no streets between them. The mud buildings have no identifying feature: they all look the same. Layla moves in the dark as if she were in broad daylight. They walk slowly. When they reach her jaima, Layla starts shouting to the people inside. A woman comes out and starts shouting in her turn. She looks angry and startles Montse.

‘She’s my aunt, don’t worry. She’s telling me off for being late.’

They walk into the tent, and Montse is amazed by the world that opens before her eyes. Men and women are crouching down on brightly coloured carpets. A fluorescent tube powered by a car battery hangs in the middle of the jaima. There are several children about. The women’s melfas and the girls’ dresses are like bursts of colour in the white light. Montse’s heart misses a beat. She takes off her boots and starts to greet everybody. Almost everyone speaks Spanish, with a strong Arabic accent. The children want to touch her and sit beside her. Layla introduces everybody, and Montse cannot remember the names for more than a few seconds. She retains the expression in the eyes, the smiles, the gestures. She feels tired, and finally sits down.

Layla speaks for her. Montse likes to hear her talk in Hassaniya. Someone offers her a glass of tea, which she gladly accepts. Children from other jaimas keep pouring in. Layla’s aunt tries to frighten them away as if they were chickens, but the children offer resistance. An old man shouts at them and, finally, they reluctantly leave, though they sit outside in the sand, only a few metres away from the entrance. Montse cannot cope with the attention from so many people. For a moment she is overwhelmed. Layla looks at her and understands she is very tired. The nurse stands up and starts making gestures. No doubt she is asking the others to leave. Montse tries to stop her, but Layla is determined. Everyone gets up without a fuss. One by one, the men shake Montse’s hand and walk out. Then it’s the womens’ turn. Layla’s aunt lags behind. She keeps giving her niece instructions. By the time they are both alone, Montse is exhausted.

‘You shouldn’t have sent them away. I’m pleased to meet them.’

‘They talk too much. They’ll stay here all night if you let them. They are in no hurry. They’ve been known to spend four days chatting and drinking tea just because there was a visitor from another daira.’

Montse smiles but shows signs of fatigue. Layla takes a couple of blankets from the cupboard and spreads them over the carpet.

‘Tonight no one will bother you.’

‘No one bothers me, Layla. Don’t tell me you’re sending your aunt away, too.’

‘She’ll be fine anywhere else. You’re my guest.’

Montse has no strength to argue. She looks quietly at Layla, who’s looking for something in the cupboard. Eventually she takes out a pair of scissors. She sits down next to Montse and tells her to lower her head.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m cutting your hair. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Montse smiles. She tries to feel as peaceful as Layla seems to be. She draws near and lets her do as she wishes. The Saharawi cuts lock after lock, making a little heap on the floor. The rhythmic sound of the scissors and Layla’s hands make Montse sleepy, but she doesn’t want to miss a thing. She struggles to stay awake.

‘Layla.’

‘Yes?’

‘I lied to you.’ Layla doesn’t say anything. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly lie, though I didn’t tell you the whole truth either.’

Montse goes quiet, but the nurse doesn’t want to press further lest she give the impression of being too curious.

‘I do have a daughter. But she died last year.’

It’s the first time Montse has spoken about her daughter since her death. She feels relieved. Layla clicks her tongue and goes quiet.

‘She had an accident on her motorcycle. She was nineteen, and her name was Teresa, like my sister.’

After that she only hears the sound of the scissors and the wind beating against the canvas of the jaima. The last thing she hears before falling asleep is Layla’s voice:

‘Thank you.’