See How Much I Love You

Chapter Fourteen

CORPORAL SAN ROMÁN LAY AWAKE THE WHOLE NIGHT, looking at the shadows on the ceiling and the lights coming in from the aerodrome. Over the last week he’d barely managed to sleep one or two hours a day. He was wracked with anxiety in the guardroom, and his perception of reality had been growing erratic. It was barely six paces from one wall to another. The latrine gave off a nauseating smell. When he was about succumb to tiredness, the dripping of the tap in the silence of the night would attract his attention; the more he focused on it the less able he was to sleep. For more than a week he heard the drops hit the cement, an unceasing, unnerving dripping.

Following Guillermo’s unexpected visit, he felt even more edgy. He knew he would never see his friend again, and regretted the way he had treated him in the last few months. Guillermo did not deserve that. But it was now too late to make amends.

He tried to forget the memory of Andía, which was a worse kind of torture than the dripping. He felt betrayed, a bitterly familiar sensation. Even with his eyes closed he could see the girl’s face; hear her child-like voice, her adolescent laughter. It was only possible to cast her image aside when he thought of Montse. Her memory made him anxious too. He had tried to write her a letter, but was incapable of stringing two sentences together. Words did not flow. He would never have thought it was so difficult to express one’s feelings. At times he tried to picture Montse with her newborn child, his son, and was overcome with anxiety and confusion. The memories he had been able to keep under control would then resurface, flickering on his mind like a flame he had never entirely managed to extinguish.

Suddenly he thought of his mother. Something he rarely did. Now, however, he was troubled by the idea that Montse might have learned of her death. It seemed unlikely. But sometimes he wanted to believe that the girl, out of remorse, had taken the baby to meet its grandmother. If that had been the case, no doubt Montse knew the old woman had died. For a moment he imagined his mother in her black dress, lying on the bed, her arms crossed over chest, her face pale and waxen. He felt guilty: guilty of being far away, of not having attended the funeral, of assuming she would live forever, in spite of her illness.

It had been Guillermo who’d given him the news of her death. This was in late May. Guillermo had been looking for him all morning, and eventually found him at the Nomad Troops’ pavilion. He went straight to the point, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Santiago looked at him without fully grasping his words. His whole past, his mother included, lay dormant in his memory. He had only called her twice in all his time in El Aaiún. Now it was too late to do anything about it.

In the face of the situation unfolding in the Western Sahara, any news that reached them from Spain seemed unreal. When Major Panta called Corporal San Román to his office, Santiago already knew why: his mother was dead. He listened without blinking, with a grave expression. The major thought it was the shock of the news that prevented him from reacting, but in fact Santiago’s mind was elsewhere.

‘Events at the moment are very serious, Corporal. You know it as well as I,’ the major explained. ‘But the army appreciates that the sorrow caused by the death of your mother goes beyond any other problems we might have here.’ Santiago nodded, almost without moving. The major took out some papers and passed them to San Román. ‘And so, even though in the present circumstances all permits for leave are suspended, we are prepared to make an exception. You have fifteen days to go to Barcelona and be with your father, your brothers and sisters — in short, your family. The loss of one’s mother is irreparable, but no doubt sorrow is more bearable when shared.’ It didn’t occur to Santiago to tell the major that he had no father, brothers, sisters or, indeed, any family. He puffed out his chest and stood tall to convey his gratitude. ‘There’s a plane leaving tomorrow for Gran Canaria,’ explained the major, summing up the documents he’d just given him. ‘There you’ll catch a connection to the peninsula. You have fifteen days to be with your family. We expect you back on the 15th of June. You may leave now.’

‘At your command, major, sir.’ Santiago San Román walked out into the blinding sunlight in a daze. Every soldier he knew would have given everything they had to get a permit like his. And yet, the idea of getting on a plane and returning to Barcelona barely six months after leaving filled him with anxiety.

On the 24th of March, the governor of the colony, General Gómez Salazar, had set in motion Operación Golondrina (Operation Swallow), in order to evacuate the Spanish population from the Sahara. Classes in both the primary and secondary schools were suspended a month before the end of term. Although some civil servants left the city that they considered home in tears, many others did not even look back, knowing full well what was coming.

The Saharawi demonstrations in favour of independence were increasingly frequent. Any excuse served to put out flags and sing chants supporting the Polisario Front. The Territorial Police and the legionnaires would cordon off the most riotous areas as soon as conflicts erupted. News from other cities was hardly encouraging for the Spaniards. The civil prison in El Aaiún was filling up with detainees.

Santiago packed up the following day and walked to the car park from where he’d been told a vehicle was leaving for the airport. He was lost in thought, going over his plans, and didn’t spot Guillermo, who was coming to meet him, until he practically bumped into him.

‘Leaving without saying goodbye?’ Santiago looked at him as he would a stranger.

‘I thought you were out on patrol,’ he lied.

‘I asked after you and they said…’ Guillermo gave him a hug, cutting him short. ‘Let go, now, or they’ll think we’re queer.’ Guillermo smiled. In view of the news, his friend’s behaviour did not seem particularly strange. He wished Santiago good luck and stayed behind as he walked away. Corporal San Román felt in his pocket, where he’d put his money and the permit. The idea of abandoning the Sahara at that moment made him anxious; but he had other plans. He changed course little by little and, instead of walking to the car park, directed his steps towards the gates. He showed his permit and left the barracks behind, walking decisively. An hour later he walked into Sid-Ahmed’s store, dressed as a Saharawi, trying to hide the bag where he’d put his uniform.

Santiago spent his fifteen days’ leave at Andía’s. The girl could barely hide her excitement. For two weeks he didn’t leave the boundaries of the neighbourhood. He would sometimes stroll along the streets of Hata-Rambla, or spend the evenings with Sid-Ahmed at the store, smoking and drinking tea. No one found his presence strange; the neighbours treated him as if he were a relative of Lazaar. Yet when the men gathered together in the house, Santiago felt marginalised. Their shared familiarity did not extend to him. He remained silent, offering tea and listening to them argue. Not that he understood much. They spoke in Hassaniya, and whenever they addressed him in Spanish it was only to utter trivial remarks out of politeness. Santiago was sure they were discussing politics. He knew they supported the Polisario, but no matter how much he had done for some of them, he was far from gaining their trust in that respect. Sid-Ahmed, when they were alone, would reveal certain things, but Santiago still had the feeling that a lot was kept under wraps.

Two days before his permit expired, Santiago confessed to Andía that he had no intention of going back to the barracks. The girl looked at him with enthusiasm and ran off to tell her mother. The mother told the girl’s aunts and, before an hour had gone by, Sid-Ahmed appeared in the house, visibly shaken. For the first time his characteristic kindness had disappeared.

‘What’s all this about deserting?’

‘I’m not deserting, I’m just not coming back.’

‘That’s desertion, my friend.’

‘So?’

‘Do you have any idea what they will do to you when they find you?’

‘They won’t. No one knows I’m here.’ Sid-Ahmed laughed with humbling sarcasm.

‘Everyone knows you’re here. Everyone, except your friends.’ His words were so categorical that Santiago didn’t doubt them for a second. ‘Our people know everything that happens inside and outside the barracks. Do you think we are stupid?’ San Román felt helpless. At that moment he regretted not having taken the opportunity to travel to Barcelona. ‘If you really love that girl,’ said Sid-Ahmed, referring to Andía, ‘tomorrow you’ll turn up at the barracks. Otherwise she and her family will be accused of housing a deserter. Can you imagine what would happen to them?’ It was impossible to counter this argument. Sid-Ahmed’s words crushed Santiago. He hung his head in shame. The man was teaching him a lesson without even meaning to. Santiago nodded in agreement. The Saharawi changed his menacing tone and once again became his usual self. ‘Andía is very attached to you. You have behaved like one of us. Don’t spoil it now.’ The phrase touched the bottom of his heart. No one else had taken his feelings for Andía seriously. They shook hands and drank some tea in silence, without further discussing the matter. That evening the house filled with men. They talked and drank tea until dawn. Once they left, San Roman told Sid-Ahmed:

‘At the end of the day, you Saharawis always look happy.’

‘Not always, my friend, but tonight we had good reason to be so. Our brothers have triumphed in Guelta.’

Santiago didn’t understand these words until the following day, when he went back to the barracks. The situation was one of near chaos, and amid the confusion no one noticed that he hadn’t used his permit to travel to Spain. News about the Polisario travelled from mouth to mouth, inflated by rumours and surrounded by official silence. The army’s retreat from Guelta was seen as a step towards the definitive withdrawal of the Spaniards from the Sahara. In the first two weeks of June, the prison filled with Saharawis arrested in demonstrations and street riots. Santiago’s job, on his first day back, was to act as a guard at the civil prison. The building, barely in use a few months previously, was now full of men who had barely any space to sleep in the crowded cells. It was situated at the end of a long street off Edchera. From afar one could see the huge security operation run by the Spanish Army. Most of the detainees were forced to spend their days and nights in the courtyard. Orders and counter-orders were given by sergeants who did not quite know how to deal with such a critical situation. The phones rang off their hooks. Soldiers ran up and down, carrying out commands that were reversed a minute later. Amid the chaos, Santiago recognised the faces of a few Saharawis. He spoke to some of them, trying not to attract the soldiers’ attention. In just one morning he promised at least twenty people he would give their families news of their whereabouts. Although all permits had been cancelled until further notice, it wasn’t difficult for Santiago to reach Hata-Rambla. And, as soon as the locals got wind that many of their relatives were still detained in El Aaiún, they started entrusting him with messages. His role as a messenger became an everyday occupation.

That summer was the saddest one in recent memory. Civil servants continued to be repatriated. In July a number of bars closed for the holidays. The population surmised, and it was later confirmed, that these holidays would last many years. The Oasis shut its doors. The summer cinema never opened. Fewer and fewer children were seen in the streets. By August only half of the population remained in the city. It was most noticeable in the suburbs: many houses were empty and locked up. More shops closed down. People would walk hurriedly along main roads with very little traffic. The street market reflected the suspicion and desolation which was taking hold of the city. Although the evacuation became better organised than it had been in spring time, everyone was in a hurry to sort out their affairs: selling off cars and television sets, calling in loans, settling the rent.

News of the Caudillo’s illness did nothing but increase the uncertainty. Although many refused to believe that Franco would die, even high-ranking officers were waiting for first-hand news in the telegrams and calls that came from Spain. Yet the result of all this information was a perpetual confusion that swelled the numbers of sceptics.

In mid-October a rumour that had circulated among the best informed became fact. An hour before dinner, the TV in the canteen showed the king of Morocco addressing his people. His voice sounded resolute. Almost no one paid attention, but Santiago was hypnotised by the seriousness in Hasan II’s face. He didn’t understand much beside a word here and there which didn’t make a lot of sense. But, before his speech ended, Santiago told Guillermo:

‘Something’s not right.’ Guillermo looked at the screen without much interest. He didn’t understand the troubles in Morocco and the Sahara. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ said Corporal San Román, ‘but something strange is going on.’ He stood up and walked briskly to the Nomad Troops’ pavilion. Security had been tightened inside and outside the barracks. As soon as he stepped in, he knew his intuition had not failed him. The Saharawis had the TV on, but no one was paying any attention to the Moroccan propaganda. Instead they were all sitting around an old radio. No one noticed the legionnaire until he asked them what was happening.

‘Nothing, Corporal, nothing.’

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. I know something’s going on.’ The soldiers knew him well. Many of them had sent messages to their families through him. He’d been playing football with them for several months. He knew many of their fiancées, and had been invited to a number of the soldiers’ houses. And so he stood his ground, and, annoyed, asked: ‘What did Hasan say on TV?’

‘He says he wants to invade Sahara and annex it to Morocco.’ San Román did not see how that would be possible.

‘But he can’t: we have the superior army,’ he said naively.

‘He’s asking civilian volunteers to enter the Sahara. He says it’ll be a peaceful occupation. He’s mad.’

San Román stayed with the Saharawis until the call to quarters was sounded. When he lay down on his bunk, those words were all he could think about. He stayed awake but motionless until they sounded reveille. That day the barracks were in great confusion, with orders and counter-orders being given all over the place. Rumours spread faster than ever. At times it seemed that they were all getting ready to march towards the North. At others, it looked as though they would evacuate Africa that same day. Amid the chaos, Santiago San Román managed to leave the barracks the last Friday of October. His plan was to walk up to Zemla. But it proved quite difficult to get there.

The situation in the area was as confusing as in the rest of the city. People were stocking up on food. Most shops had no supplies left. The first thing Santiago did was visit Sid-Ahmed. The Saharawi tried to sound reassuring, but he looked unusually nervous. They went over to Andía’s house together. The girl did not seem to be aware of what was happening. She was aloof and annoyed at the legionnaire for not having visited her in almost three weeks. They drank tea for over an hour. When the moment came to say goodbye, Santiago noticed that the family made an effort to leave him alone with Andía. It was the first time they tried so hard to please him, and so he didn’t at first realise what was happening. The girl sat in front of him and let him take her hands.

‘When the time comes to leave, I’ll take you with me to Barcelona. You’ll like it. You’ll like it a lot.’ Andía smiled. It wasn’t the first time Santiago had made promises to her.

‘And what about your girlfriend there?’ Santiago pretended to get angry. He knew it was a game.

‘There’s no one waiting for me, I swear.’ Eventually, as usual, she smiled, pleased.

‘I want to ask you something, Santi. It’s a favour for me, just for me.’

‘Of course, anything.’ She put her hand in her melfa and took out an envelope.

‘This is for Bachir Baiba. Tell him it’s from her sister Haibbila. You can read it if you like.’ San Román smiled. He knew Bachir well. He’d been to his house, and knew his family. His sister Haibbila was a close friend of Andía’s; it was she who had offered Santiago a bracelet as a gift. He had no intention of taking the letter out of the envelope, even if it was open. It seemed rude. Besides, he was sure it would be written in Hassaniya.

The letter reached Bachir Baiba. It was the first thing Corporal San Román did on arriving at the barracks. The Saharawi read it in front of him, and his serious expression did not make Santiago suspicious. He started to say goodbye, but Bachir asked him not to go yet. They drank tea and smoked for a while. Bachir Baiba was kind but distant. When it was finally time for Santiago to leave, the Saharawi asked him:

‘When are you going back home?’ San Román understood immediately.

‘I’d like to go up tomorrow, but it’s become very hard to get a permit.’

‘I see,’ Bachir said, trying to find a solution. ‘We have no way of getting out of here. They’ve taken away our arms and there are no permits at all.’

‘I know.’

‘Will you do a friend a favour?’

‘Tell me.’

‘When you get a permit, come and see me. I’ve got stuff for my mother: dirty clothes and stuff like that.’ Santiago knew what the other meant, but he raised no objections.

On Friday 31st October, Santiago walked to the exit gate carrying a bag that weighed over fifteen kilos. He naively thought that no one would take any notice of a corporal leaving the barracks on foot, like so many other times, and so he didn’t realise that, near the sentry box, a lieutenant and two sergeants were exchanging nervous looks and shaking their heads.

‘What have you got there, corporal?’ The question caught him unawares. He blushed and his voice trembled.

‘Here’s my permit,’ he replied. The lieutenant didn’t even look at the piece of paper.

‘I’m not asking you for that. I’m asking you what you have in your bag.’

‘Dirty clothes and stuff like that.’ As soon as he said it, he understood he was in serious trouble. The bag was too heavy. When he put it down it made a suspect noise. Before he even opened it, the two sergeants were pointing their guns at him. When the contents came out, the lieutenant went pale and nearly dived for cover. Among the clothes were hand grenades, detonators and explosives. In less than an hour, the news had spread throughout the barracks like the darkest of omens.

Insomnia and fleas were turning the guardroom into a dungeon. But it was the absence of news that most distressed San Román. He felt terribly alone, more alone than ever. He could picture the commotion that would erupt in the barracks as soon as the death of the Caudillo became known. Yet all he cared about was his own situation. That day he finally slept normally, at the usual hour. But no one deigned to explain to him what was happening. He kept his eyes and ears open to every noise, every movement outside. Any moment now they would come for him and take him to the Canary Islands or Spain. Worse than the wait was the fatigue. His eyes stung, and his whole body ached as if he were running a temperature.

In mid afternoon the door opened and Guillermo turned up in uniform, armed with a Cetme rifle. He only said:

‘Time for your walk, Corporal.’ And stepped aside. Santiago went out, deeply moved. He walked towards the end of the runway, as he’d done in previous afternoons. Guillermo followed a few metres behind, holding the Cetme with both his hands.

‘I’m really sorry, Guillermo. I’d like to have your forgiveness for everything,’ said Santiago without turning back.

‘I don’t want to hear a word from you, Corporal.’

Tears welled up in San Román’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. It felt good. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t a good friend, I’m sorry I…’

‘One more word and I’ll shoot you.’

Santiago knew he didn’t mean it, but did not say anything else. When they reached the end of the runway, Guillermo walked away a few metres. He stood with his back turned to Santiago, looking at the dunes, seemingly oblivious to everything. Santiago made a run for the Land Rovers. With each step he felt closer to freedom. He jumped into one of the vehicles, retrieved the key from under the seat, and drove off as fast as he could. Guillermo started shooting into the air. No one reacted, no one noticed what was going on. In a few minutes, the vehicle disappeared down the road, leaving a trail of black smoke behind.

Santiago had never thought he would see the city so desolate. The streets were almost deserted. None of the shops were open. Some areas had been completely evacuated. Others, however, were now cordoned off with barbed wire, and no one could leave. His uniform and the military vehicle did not attract anyone’s attention, given all the units deployed by the army. It wasn’t hard to reach the Zemla area. He drove to Andía’s house and got out of the car without even cutting the engine. Inside he only found the women. He asked where Andía was, and someone went to fetch her. The girl ran to see him, short of breath. On seeing him she burst into tears. She knelt down on the floor, and started to tear her hair out. The women tried to calm her. San Román was frightened. This was not the reaction he had been expecting.

‘I thought you were dead, Santi,’ Andía was saying through her sobs. They told me you’d been executed.’

Santiago had never seen anyone cry like that. He forgot all the reproaches he wanted to make to her. The neighbours turned up, and started shouting. Disconcerted, unsure of what to do, Santiago went out into the street. Someone had gone out to inform Sid-Ahmed he was there, and the shop-keeper came running to meet him. He tried to give Santiago a hug, but he pulled away.

‘It’s my fault, not the girl’s,’ said Sid-Ahmed. ‘She’s only a child, you can’t blame her.’

‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘And I am. That’s why I trusted you. You have baraka, my friend, you have baraka. Now you’re one of us.’

Santiago thought at first that he was being tricked, but the Saharawi’s words got through to him. Eventually he let Sid-Ahmed hug him.

‘They are invading us, my friend. Didn’t you know? There’s no time for arguments between ourselves.’

‘You only needed to ask. Just that. I would have done anything for you. Anything. There was no need to deceive me.’

Sid-Ahmed took him by the arm and led him into the house. Andía was laughing and crying at the same time. She clung to Santiago like a little girl and spoke to him in Hassaniya. Santiago could no longer pretend he was angry. He drank a glass of tea, accepted a cigarette and settled himself on the floor against a wall. Andía would not leave his side. The legionnaire’s eyes slowly closed. Suddenly all the tiredness accumulated in the days previous took hold of his body. His eyelids, his arms felt heavy. He had no strength left to talk. A moment later he was completely asleep.