See How Much I Love You

Chapter Eight

SANTIAGO SAN ROMÁN LOOKED AT HIS WATCH OVER AND over again, as if impatience would make time go faster. The last half an hour had been the longest in his life. What the hell was he doing there on a Saturday night, past two in the morning, behind the steering wheel of a Seat 124, waiting for a signal to drive off at full speed? The more he thought of it, the less he understood how he’d become involved in all this. They had tricked him into it like a novice. He was angry and upset. The weapon he was carrying under his jacket burnt his skin. He felt like flinging it into the bushes of a garden and running away. Then he thought of Sergeant Baquedano, and was paralysed with fear.

Against his orders, he got out of the car and paced up and down the pavement, trying to remain calm. He felt awkward in civilian clothes. This too was against the rules, but at the moment it was the least of his worries. He walked back and forth, always within fifty metres of the Seat. The car had a Western Sahara plate number, and nothing indicated that it was a military vehicle. In the glove compartment he found the driver’s license and the identity card of an unknown Saharawi shopkeeper. All very suspect. Could it be a joke devised by veteran legionnaires to ruin his weekend? Whenever he touched the gun under his clothes the theory vanished. Why would they give him a gun if they were only mocking him? Just thinking of Baquedano he felt a shiver rippling through his whole body.

He sat behind the steering wheel once again. He lowered the window, lit his last cigarette, and threw the empty packet onto the back seat. He resisted the impulse to look at his watch. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the corner around which he had seen Baquedano and his two accomplices disappear half an hour ago. He was certain that the three men were up to no good. He imagined the consequences he’d have to face if he washed his hands of the whole affair and left. For a moment he saw himself lying in a ditch by a desolate road, with his stomach cut open. Only Guillermo would miss him, and by the time they found him he would have rotted under the desert sun. He definitely didn’t have the courage to run away. He felt like shit. On Friday, during break time, when Sergeant Baquedano approached him and started getting him into all this, he had not had the courage to say no. He had seen no way to extricate himself.

Friday and Saturday afternoons in the barracks were different from other days. The soldiers became especially animated as they waited to be handed their passes for the evening or the weekend. That Friday Santiago San Román was the last remaining person in his pavilion. After all, however fast he ran, he would have to queue up at the gates to show his pass like everyone else. He sprinkled himself with all the Varon Dandy left in the bottle and fastened the cap strap under his chin. When he heard a voice calling him, he thought it was a colleague hurrying him up. He turned, saw Sergeant Baquedano, and his face froze. More than the NCO’s presence, what really made him nervous was the fact that Baquedano had called him by his surname. Santiago had never exchanged a word with him, not even a gesture. He even avoided the man’s eyes. ‘Attention, San Román!’ Santiago stood to attention, stuck his chest out, pulled his stomach in, clicked the heels of his boots and saluted, saying that he was at Baquedano’s command. The sergeant stood still a few metres away, with his legs slightly apart and his fingers hooked on the buckle of his belt. ‘At ease, soldier. What I’ve come to tell you is strictly confidential.’ He outranked Santiago. Baquedano looked him up and down and cleared his throat before proceeding. It was the first time Santiago had not seen him drunk. ‘They say you’re the best driver in the regiment. Is that true?’

‘I’m a mechanic, sir.’

‘Same thing, don’t interrupt me. They tell me you can do a complete spin on the runway without touching the yellow lines.’ He paused without taking his eyes off the soldier. ‘Major Panta has heard about you and requires your services.’ A drop of sweat rolled down Santiago’s forehead, from the cap to his eyebrow. It struck him as awkward and dangerous that Baquedano had heard about him.

‘People exaggerate, sir. Besides, it’s easier to drive a car when one’s not the owner.’

‘Don’t be modest, soldier, no need for that with me.’ The sergeant came closer and casually put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You see, San Román, if I’ve come to look for you at your pavilion instead of calling you to the Major’s office, it’s because no one must know about this. You understand?’ Santiago had no time to reply. ‘I’m glad you do. The Legion needs you, lad, and that should make you proud as a bridegroom of death. But if anything of what we’re about to discuss leaves this room I’ll cut your balls off and sent them to your dad by special delivery. You understand?’ Santiago didn’t, but couldn’t utter a word. ‘Tomorrow the soldier San Román won’t get a leave permit. We need a driver with enough experience and sangfroid. Needless to say, the mission is top secret and very important. The less you know, the better for everyone. All you need to know is that tomorrow I’ll be waiting for you at the hangar at ten pm; come in uniform. Don’t carry any papers or documents that might help identify you. You’ll have a bag with civilian clothes, in case we need to blend in. Tomorrow I’ll tell you the rest, the same time as I brief the other courageous legionnaires who are coming with us. Don’t ask questions and don’t mention this to anyone, absolutely anyone, not even Major Panta. Understood?’ Santiago couldn’t talk. ‘Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. At your command, sergeant sir!’ Baquedano patted him on the shoulder, as though he were giving him his blessing.

‘You’ll feel proud of your uniform. And then… Well, Major Panta will sign a permit for seven days’ leave to those who volunteered for the mission. Seven days, San Román, seven days to do whatever the hell you want. And all you have to do is carry out your duty.’

‘At your command, sergeant, sir!’ Baquedano was about to turn but stopped.

‘And another thing, San Román: unless there’s another officer around, don’t ever call me sergeant again. You’ll call me Señor. Here I’m El Señor. Understood?’

‘Sí, Señor. At your command, Señor!’

Guillermo crossed Baquedano at the door. He caught his breath and stood to attention. When he finally found Santiago, his friend looked very pale. He was leaning on a filing cabinet, his breathing was laboured, and his eyes seemed about to pop out of his head.

‘Are you all right, Santi?’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s my stomach again, giving me trouble.’ Guillermo believed him.

‘We’re the only ones left, Santi. If we stay here any longer we won’t find anything to drink at the Oasis.’

‘Let’s go then.’

Guillermo didn’t connect the encounter with Baquedano with Santiago’s strange behaviour. He resigned himself to taking a walk when Santiago said he didn’t feel like going to the Oasis. They went near the zoo under construction. Guillermo was proud of the building, as though the design had been his. Although in Barcelona he’d already worked as a builder, this was the most important development he’d ever taken part in. Now, seated on cement blocks, the two friends smoked and imagined what the zoo would look like when it was finished. Santiago had difficulty talking. He couldn’t get Baquedano out of his mind. He suspected that the affair would cause him nothing but trouble. If it was the Major’s idea, it was no doubt about prostitutes. But if it was Baquedano’s, it could be anything: dope, smuggled tobacco, LSD.

‘I’m not allowed out tomorrow. I’m on duty.’ His friend didn’t look surprised.

‘Well, you’re screwed.’

‘No, not at all. Afterwards they’ll give me a seven-day permit.’ This did surprise Guillermo.

‘You were born lucky, mate, I’ve always said so. There’s no one I know with as much luck as you.’ San Román couldn’t bring himself to tell Guillermo the story about Baquedano. Deep down he expected his friend to sound him out, to feel intrigued, to detect something strange about all of it. It was not to be.

‘Let’s go get a drink before it’s too late.’ Santiago suddenly started walking — he felt nervous, reckless. ‘Let’s go up to see the Stone Houses.’ He meant the Zemla quarter, where the Saharawis lived.

‘Not again. You must be wrong in the head, Santi. Don’t break my balls with the Saharawis.’ Santiago pressed on. He stopped after a while and turned.

‘You’re such a shit, Guillermo! I can never count on you for anything out of the ordinary.’ To Guillermo, that felt like a punch in his stomach. He reddened, locked his jaw and gritted his teeth. He was about to shout something, but held back. Santiago walked away without turning. He had to get rid of his obsession with that part of the city.

He gave a start on hearing Guillermo’s voice behind him. ‘That’s not fair, Santi. How can you forget everything I’ve done for you so quickly?’ Santiago turned around. Guillermo had followed him for a quarter of an hour like a faithful lapdog. Santiago knew that his friend didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. He was suddenly sorry. He threw his arm round Guillermo’s shoulder and held him.

‘Don’t go all queer on me, Santi, you know I don’t like it.’ Santiago made as if to kiss him, and then ran off, with Guillermo giving chase in an attempt to kick him.

The Saharawis called the Zemla area Hata-Rambla; it was a sort of peninsula that tore itself away from the modern part and its four-storey buildings. From afar the stone houses looked like they were made of papier-mâché. Most dwellings only had a ground floor. As the two legionnaires proceeded up the hill, they left behind what were known as the ‘half-egg’ houses, which had white roofs like upturned egg shells, especially built to channel the heat upwards. It was a holiday for Muslims, and on that evening the streets were unusually quiet. There were children playing football where the terrain was flat, but on seeing the two soldiers they ran away as if they’d never seen anything like them. The women, for their part, would go straight into their houses, only to peep through the hand-woven curtains covering the doors and windows. The men came out to take a look at the legionnaires, and would blatantly stare at them, with impertinent, clearly hostile gazes. Neither of them felt comfortable, but Santiago concealed his feelings better. He talked to Guillermo without meeting the Saharawis’ eyes. He was familiar with some of their habits and knew that it was best to act naturally. A man in a turban approached them. ‘Have you got a light, lads?’ he asked calmly, as though he were used to coming across legionnaires in those back streets. Santiago San Román offered him a box of matches. As soon as he’d heard his voice, he knew he was one of the men from Canary Islands who now lived there. Most were road hauliers or ex-legionnaires who hadn’t returned home after being discharged. The man touched the light to his pipe, a copper cylinder that got wider at the tip and was adorned with engraved lines. ‘The legion has improved since my days, my friends. They didn’t provide us with uniforms like that, and we had no money to spend on cologne.’ Santiago knew he meant his Varon Dandy. ‘Things change, gentlemen, even in the army.’

Guillermo felt ill-at-ease under the scrutiny of the man in Saharawi clothes. His rotten teeth and world-weary reflections didn’t inspire confidence. The man knew this; he gave the matches back to Santiago. ‘You bet things change. A few years ago none of us would have dared to come to up here, on a holiday, dressed like that.’ Guillermo pulled his friend by the arm. The man from Canary Islands noticed his suspicion. ‘You’ll allow a piece of advice from someone who wore your uniform too: if you’re not going to come and live up here, don’t strut around the streets of Hata-Rambla. People are very sensitive here, you know, and they might regard it as a provocation. Tempers have been running a bit high. And Muslims are not like you, compañeros.’ Then the man went back the way he’d come. With his clothes and morose walk, he looked just like a Saharawi.

Santiago dragged his friend away by the arm. Although he tried not to act like a tourist, everything he saw attracted his attention. The jambs and lintels of many doors were skirted with a band of indigo which stood out against the whitewashed stone walls. ‘Let’s get some tobacco.’ San Román wanted to visit one of the tobacconist’s he’d heard so much about among the Nomad Troops. He knew one could buy anything in those shops, however exotic it might seem, and that they were open every day of the year, day and night. He saw one a moment later and motioned Guillermo to follow him. They stepped into a room stacked up to the ceiling with all kinds of objects, and perceived a strong smell of leather and hemp. Neither knew where to look. On seeing them a Saharawi rose from the floor. ‘Salama aleikum,’ Santiago said immediately. ‘Aleikum salama,’ replied the shopkeeper, surprised. ‘Asmahlin,’ went on the legionnaire, apologetic in front of his friend’s incredulous eyes. The Saharawi welcomed him to his store: ‘Barjaban.’ San Román, for his part, thanked him: ‘Shu-cran.’

‘For a foreigner, you speak my language very well,’ said the man. Guillermo was beginning to wonder whether it wasn’t all a joke to see what he would do.

‘I’ve got Saharawi friends,’ explained Santiago. ‘And I’m a fast learner.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a packet of tobacco, please.’ In fact, the tobacco was only an excuse to enter the shop, as Santiago didn’t want his curiosity to seem impertinent. ‘Try this one: it’s very good. American. Fresh off the boat.’ The shopkeeper was still smiling. Santiago gave him a one-hundred-peseta note and waited for the change, smiling back. Then he tried to say goodbye, but the shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and stood in front of the door. ‘You cannot leave Sid-Ahmed’s house just like that.’ Santiago understood what he meant, but Guillermo was growing nervous.

‘You’ll smoke some of my tobacco and drink some tea.’ Sid-Ahmed left the shop through a door concealed by a curtain.

‘Let’s get out of here, Santi. Are you mad?’ said Guillermo agitatedly. ‘This guy wants to sell us dope.’

‘Shut up, you fool. Who do you think you’re with? Do you think I’m an idiot?’ Guillermo swallowed his words. He didn’t know how to react. Then Sid-Ahmed appeared carrying a teapot and a few small crystal glasses. He moved away some dirty glasses on a silver tray, and invited the legionnaires to sit next to him on a carpet while the water boiled. Guillermo didn’t open his mouth. Only Santiago and Sid-Ahmed took part in the conversation. They smoked long thin cigarettes. As they waited for the water to boil, the Saharawi talked about his business, football, and how expensive life was. He showed the legionnaires a photo of his football team, which was hanging among his goods. ‘Signed by Santillana,’ said Ahmed. ‘Real Madrid is my favourite team. That Miljanic is very clever. If we had a coach like him, we’d have a first division team, fahem? You know what I mean. Here we have players as good as Amancio or Gento, but we’re missing a good coach.’ Sid-Ahmed offered a first round of tea. ‘Menfadlak. Have a sip. My wife is the expert, but she’s attending to a birth and cannot be here.’ Sid-Ahmed talked and talked. Guillermo tried to conceal his irritation, whereas his friend seemed delighted. He was expecting the Saharawi to get the dope out at any moment and sweet talk them into buying it. When they said goodbye at the door with a handshake, Guillermo was disconcerted.

‘We’ll meet again, Sid-Ahmed,’ said Santiago.

‘Ins’Alah. It’ll be a pleasure.’

The street was completely dark by the time they left the shop. They had been talking with Sid-Ahmed for over two hours. At a corner in the distance, they saw the dim light of a streetlamp. It was a dirt road. They walked in the moonlight towards the lamp. Guillermo seemed calmer now. ‘And where did you learn all those words in Muslim?’

‘It’s not Muslim, Guillermo, it’s Hassaniya.’

‘It sounds like Muslim to me.’ Santiago laughed and mocked his friend, but suddenly something hit Guillermo on the head so hard that he held it with both hands. His cap rolled onto the street. Santiago turned around, without understanding what had happened, when his friend knelt down on one knee and supported himself with his hand. There was very little light. It all happened so quickly. Guillermo moved his hand aside, revealing a stream of blood running from his face to his neck.

‘Fuck, Guillermo, what happened?’ But Guillermo couldn’t reply: he just lowered his other knee and collapsed, unconscious. The streetlamp was only a few metres away. Santiago saw the glimmer of a metal bar lying on the ground near his friend. He looked everywhere, but there was no one around. Someone must have thrown the object at them from a window, but there were no lights on. Santiago, still looking around, tried to see how bad the wound was. It was a gash above the temple, and Guillermo was bleeding profusely. Santiago tried to keep his friend’s head off the ground, lest the wound get dirty. Guillermo opened his eyes but couldn’t speak. Santiago lifted him as if he was a bag of potatoes and threw him over his shoulder. He made it to the corner, but Guillermo was too heavy. More objects started raining down. Now they were stones, and a flowerpot that broke against a boulder. Santiago was terrified. Barely controlling his panic, he carried his friend to the next corner. Guillermo’s hands and uniform were stained with blood. When Santiago took a look at him under the next streetlamp his fear increased. He called out for help. No one came out into the street; no one leaned out of a window. For a few seconds he cursed the moment he’d had the stupid idea of coming up to the Zemla quarter. He was trying to lift Guillermo again when someone hissed from a nearby doorstep. Santiago saw the silhouette of a man in a turban but didn’t dare to ask him for help. The man went on calling him and beckoning him over. Santiago was unable to move. Eventually the door opened and two young men came out. They carried Guillermo and asked Santiago to follow them into the house. Once inside, a third man closed the door and bolted it. Half a dozen cautious faces stared at the legionnaires as though they were terrifying apparitions. There were two lads and four old men in black turbans, with lined faces and grave countenances. No one said a word; they looked at Santiago San Román, and two of them laid Guillermo down in the centre of the room. It was a rectangular room, with bare white walls and a carpet that took up all the space of the floor. Against the wall was a long bench, barely half a metre high, covered with cushions. The only light came from a fluorescent tube. Santiago was unable to conceal his anxiety. He could only say: ‘Help me please, my friend is hurt.’ The men looked at Santiago and Guillermo curiously. The oldest one started giving orders, but no one obeyed him. Santiago, not knowing what to do, kneeled down beside his friend. He got even more frightened when he saw his face covered in blood and his vacant eyes. For a moment he thought Guillermo was dead. He looked at the men imploringly. The Saharawis started talking in Hassaniya all at the same time. They were obviously having an argument.

Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. The six men looked at each other and stopped arguing. A woman appeared in the room. She said something to the young men and one of them went to open the door. It was Sid-Ahmed, the shopkeeper, looking extremely angry. He glanced at Santiago without saying a word and kneeled down beside Guillermo. He pressed his ear to his chest, and when he sat up his cheek was covered in blood. He started shouting orders and got the rest moving without any further discussion. Two other women came in. Sid-Ahmed shouted at them too. Santiago looked on without daring to interfere. He couldn’t believe that this was the same shopkeeper who a short while ago had treated them to tea and tobacco with an open smile.

‘They cut his head with an iron bar, Sid-Ahmed. Someone threw it at us in the dark. He won’t stop bleeding.’ Sid-Ahmed gestured at him not to raise his voice and talked to the Saharawis in furious tones. He shouted at them in Hassaniya, and the other replied in a similarly angry vein. For a moment Santiago thought it would come to blows, but nothing of the sort happened.

‘He’ll recover, don’t worry. They’ll dress the wound and sew it up.’ As he explained this, Sid-Ahmed took Santiago to a small patio surrounded by an adobe wall. It smelled of animals and urine. They jumped over a crumbling bit of wall, proceeded to the neighbouring house, and went through a few more houses.

‘Where are we going, Sid-Ahmed? I can’t leave Guillermo here.’ The shopkeeper gestured to him to calm down.

‘Don’t worry. Your friend is in good hands. They’ll take good care of him.’ Santiago didn’t dare to ask any further questions or contradict him. He knew he was in a terrible situation. Suddenly he realised he had to be at the barracks in an hour. Without an overnight pass, he could be accused of deserting. He was so nervous he stumbled on one of the walls and fell over. Sid-Ahmed helped him up. Eventually they reached a room where a whole family was watching a TV with lots of static. No one seemed frightened to see them arrive in the dark, like ghosts. Sid-Ahmed, again sounding angry, exchanged a few words with the oldest man in the house, who pointed to the front door. They went out and across the street. Santiago followed the shopkeeper like a frightened child. Sid-Ahmed stopped at a door and knocked. A child opened. The Saharawi pushed the door and dragged Santiago in behind him. Now Santiago’s confusion was complete. From among the people drinking tea in front of the TV, a young man got up and approached the legionnaire.

‘Santiago, what happened? What are you doing here?’ It took Santiago a moment to realise that the Saharawi dressed in an immaculate white derraha10 and blue turban was Lazaar. Santiago couldn’t utter a word. Sid-Ahmed took off his shoes and sat down. He spoke so fast that Lazaar’s family had trouble following. Santiago kneeled on the carpet, his legs shaking. No one spoke when the shopkeeper finished his story. One of the old men gestured to the women to take the children elsewhere. Only five people remained in the room. Someone handed Santiago a glass of tea; he began to feel better with the first sip.

‘I need to go back to Guillermo, but I don’t know the way.’ Lazaar took a few moments before replying.

‘Your friend is fine. Don’t worry,’ he said, placing his hands on Santiago’s shoulders. ‘But you shouldn’t have come up wearing those uniforms. There are some mean people here.’

‘We were only taking a stroll…’

‘Al-la yarja mmum!’ cursed the Saharawi. ‘Do you really not know what’s happening between your people and mine?’ It was the first time that Santiago had seen Lazaar angry. He was taken aback.

‘Take your clothes off,’ ordered Sid-Ahmed. Santiago didn’t understand what for.

‘Give me your clothes,’ insisted Lazaar. ‘The women will wash the blood off.’

‘But I have to go back to the barracks.’

‘Go back? They would arrest you and ask you a thousand questions.’ Santiago started undressing; he trusted Lazaar blindly. ‘Tomorrow morning your clothes will be clean and dry. Then we’ll take you back.’

‘Tomorrow? Who’s going to take me over tomorrow? We have to be back in half and hour.’ Lazaar raised his voice for the first time.

‘Don’t be stupid! Do you want to ruin us all? Tonight you’ll sleep at my house.’

Santiago finished undressing without asking any more questions. Everyone left the room. In his socks and underwear he felt ridiculous and helpless. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. At that moment the curtain opened, and in walked a dark-eyed girl with brown hair. She casually looked the legionnaire up and down. Then she smiled, revealing her lovely white teeth. Without a word, she offered him a blue tunic and took two steps back. Lazaar returned with a turban.

‘Andía, what are you doing here?’ The girl looked inhibited and confused. She pointed to the derraha that Santiago was holding in his hand.

‘I brought some clothes for the Spaniard.’

‘Well you can go now. He’s my guest, not yours.’ Andía hung her head and, visibly embarrassed, left the room. Santiago thought Lazaar had been unfair, but he didn’t dare to reproach him for it.

‘Who was that?’ The Saharawi didn’t respond to the question immediately, but Santiago kept looking at the door.

‘She’s my sister. She’s a bit nosy, like all the women in my family.’

‘You never mentioned you had a sister, only brothers.’ Lazaar found the comment strange. He stared at Santiago.

‘There are many things you don’t know about me.’ Santiago slipped on the derraha and did up the turban on his head. He’d seen others do it so many times that he knew the movements by heart.

‘I’ve always wanted to wear one of these.’

‘Well, you’ll be able to wear it whenever you like. All this is for you,’ said Lazaar, smiling for the first time. ‘And the slippers too. Presents from a friend. Now to bed, it’s late.’ Santiago glanced at his watch. It was only nine. The Saharawi turned off the fluorescent tube and lay down on the carpet. Santiago did the same.

‘What about your family?’ Lazaar took a moment before replying.

‘The women are cleaning your uniform, and the men are in bed.’

‘I hope I haven’t disturbed the sleeping arrangements.’

‘No, no. You’re my guest and need to be comfortable. My grandfather snores a lot. You wouldn’t sleep a wink.’ Both men started laughing, just like when the Nomad Troops scored a goal.

Santiago couldn’t shut his eyes. There had been too many emotions for one day, and things were moving too fast. He was so tired he couldn’t think straight. He tried to imagine how Guillermo was doing at that moment. He wasn’t sure that leaving him with unknown people had been the right thing to do. And he worried about what would happen if the authorities found out they had not returned to the barracks. It all got mixed up with the image of Sergeant Baquedano and his obscure words. For a moment he wished he had been arrested, so as not to have to report to the regiment; that would give him an excuse not to participate in Baquedano’s mission. Time passed very slowly during the empty night. Now and again he was startled by the distant howling of a dog. As soon as he saw light through a crack in the curtains, he got up and went out into the patio. The dawn painted the rooftops red. Only a goat was stirring in a wire pen. The cool of the morning comforted him. His uniform was hanging out to dry under a small asbestos roof; it seemed the only proof that it was all really happening. He badly wanted to smoke. To the right and left of the patio were two low doors, covered by curtains, where, in all likelihood, Lazaar’s family were sleeping. Santiago tried to recall how many brothers the Saharawi had, and at that moment Andía peered out from behind the curtains. Her eyes were swollen and her hair was tangled. On seeing him, she smiled. Santiago said good morning in a whisper, so as not to wake anyone up. Andía approached him.

‘Are you always up so early?’ asked Santiago in a kind voice.

‘Always. I’m the eldest sister and I have lots to do.’ She said it with pride, and stopped smiling for a moment. Then she picked up Santiago’s clothes and folded them carefully. ‘They’re dry,’ she said after touching her lips to the cloth to make sure. ‘As soon as everyone’s up you’ll be able to leave.’

‘You want me to leave already?’ Andía smiled, revealing her white teeth.

‘I didn’t say that. You’re my brother’s guest.’

‘How old are you, Andía?’ The girl took a moment to reply:

‘Seventeen.’ She stopped smiling. She handed Santiago the uniform and disappeared behind the curtain. He was lost for words. Perhaps he had offended Andía, who had surely lied about her age so as not to seem like a child. Suddenly she reappeared, smiling again. She took Santiago’s hand and put a necklace on his palm. This confused him.

‘It’s for your girlfriend. A present from Andía.’

‘I haven’t got a girlfriend.’

‘Not even in Spain?’

‘Neither in Spain nor anywhere else.’

‘I don’t believe you. All soldiers have girlfriends.’

‘Well, not all.’ Santiago smiled at the girl’s naiveté. ‘Unless you’d like to be a legionnaire’s girlfriend.’ Andía grew very serious, to the point that Santiago regretted his faux pas. He put on the necklace to ingratiate himself, but she no longer smiled. A woman came out from behind the curtain and spoke angrily at Andía, startling them both. Andía went back into the room and Santiago returned to Lazaar’s side.

The sun had barely risen when they heard the loud beep of a horn. ‘It’s Sid-Ahmed,’ announced Lazaar after peering out. ‘Your friend’s with him.’ There was an immediate flurry of activity, with women and children coming and going. Santiago ran out into the street. Guillermo, with his head bandaged, was sitting in the back seat of a Renault 12. He didn’t look too well, but appeared to be okay. Santiago hugged him leaning in through the window. Sid-Ahmed moved over and Lazaar, dressed in his uniform, got in on the driver’s seat. One of Lazaar’s brothers got in as well, in the back seat, and told Santiago to do the same. San Román touched his head and felt something missing.

‘My cap, Lazaar, I forgot my cap.’ He went back into the house and out to the patio. Andía was there, feeding lentils to the goat. She had such a serious expression that Santiago thought she might be angry. ‘Have you seen my cap, Andía?’ She pointed half-heartedly to the line where the clothes had hung all night. Santiago took it down quickly and put it on. Andía came out of the pen and waylaid Santiago.

‘I do want to,’ she said, very seriously.

‘What is it you want?’

‘To be your girlfriend. I want to be your girlfriend.’ Hurried and all, Santiago could not contain a smile.

‘I’m glad, very glad. I’ll be the envy of the Legion. No soldier there has a girlfriend as pretty as mine.’ Andía smiled too. Santiago kissed her briefly and said goodbye, but before he left he heard the Saharawi’s voice.

‘Will you come up and see me?’

‘Of course, Andía, I’ll be back.’

That morning, Guillermo and Santiago were the first to join ranks. No one could have guessed they had spent the night away from the barracks. As they themselves had done on other occasions, their fellow soldiers had kept their absence secret and covered their backs. No one asked any questions. Santiago and Guillermo entered through a hole in the wall known only to the Saharawis. It was Lazaar who told them what to do. They went round the Nomad Troops’ pavilion and reached their building just when reveille was sounded. It all happened so quickly that they didn’t have time to reflect about what they were doing. Later, in the soldiers’ mess, the two legionnaires were surprised at how easy it was to get in and out of the barracks, and at the fact that the Saharawis knew secrets that no one else did.

Santiago San Román was short of breath when he saw Baquedano’s silhouette appear among the shadows. Without his uniform, the sergeant lost the authority and pomposity he had in the barracks. He was wearing a blue jacket with its collar up and synthetic trousers with flared bottoms. Behind him were the two old legionnaires. Although not running, they were walking at some speed. As soon as he recognised them, San Román tensed up. He was lucky to be back in the car, as Baquedano had instructed. When the sergeant got in he had already started the engine.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, San Román! Quick!’ the sergeant shouted.

Santiago stepped on the accelerator and released the clutch at the same time. The car lurched forward with a noise of screeching tires. Santiago didn’t know which way to go.

‘Not that way, you idiot! To the square,’ shouted Baquedano. ‘I want you to drive twice around it for everyone to see you. And do one of those spins of yours.’

For the first time Santiago turned to look at the sergeant, and noticed that he had a blue hold-all between his legs.

‘And you, cover your faces!’ he ordered to the legionnaires riding in the back seat.

In the rear-view mirror San Román saw the two veterans cover themselves with sacks like the one Baquedano held in his hand. The sergeant did the same. As Santiago skidded and did a spin at Plaza de España, he felt naked before they eyes of a group of young people sitting in the gardens. He didn’t quite understand what was going on. The sergeant put the hold-all on the floor with a clinking sound.

‘To the Smara road,’ shouted Baquedano. ‘Floor it!’

Santiago obeyed without thinking. As he went past the Parador Nacional, he saw a lieutenant get out of his car. Santiago didn’t dare to ask the sergeant what was going on. The fear that that man instilled in him ruled out any initiative.

They left the city lights behind. The road looked like a continuation of the desert. The sergeant patted him on the shoulder.

‘Well done, lad. You’ve got balls.’

After about four kilometres Santiago turned into a dirt road. He soon found the Land Rover in which they had left from the Alejandro Farnesio headquarters. He turned off the lights and cut the engine. The sergeant directed every one of his moves. Their eyes took a while to adjust to the moonlight.

‘I want you to put on your uniforms and pretend you’re just out on leave.’

As they got dressed, San Román looked at the veterans out of the corner of his eye. One seemed euphoric, while the other wore a serious expression and remained silent. Baquedano approached him from behind and forced him to stick his chin out.

‘Are you a chicken?’

‘No, sir, of course not.’

‘Then what are you?’

The legionnaire hesitated but then said, as loud as he could:

‘I’m a bridegroom of death, sir!’

‘That’s right. You should know who your mother is,’ said Baquedano, pointing to the flag. ‘And who’s your bride.’

‘Sir…’ said the legionnaire, and then went quiet.

‘What’s the matter? You’ve never seen anyone get killed?’ shouted Baquedano, anticipating the man’s thoughts.

‘No, sir, never. It’s the first time…’

‘Be grateful then, as you now know your bride’s face.’ Baquedano was shouting so much that his neck swelled. Then he took a deep breath and started singing: ‘No one in the regiment knew / who that legionnaire was / so fearless and so bold /who enlisted in the Legion.’

Encouraged by the sergeant, the men sang along.

‘No one knew his story / but the Legion supposed / that a great pain was biting / his heart like a wolf.’

Santiago, frightened, added his voice to the chorus:

‘I’m a man whom fortune / hurt with a beast’s claws / I’m a bridegroom of death / who will tightly embrace / his faithful companion.’

As they finished putting on the uniforms and sang at the top of their voices, Baquedano loaded the three hold-alls onto the back of the Land Rover. He took something out of one of them and put it on top of the car. It was a silver chalice. San Román didn’t understand a thing. Then the sergeant gave each of them a piece of paper.

‘A promise is a promise: here’s a week’s permit. I don’t want to see you near the barracks until the week is out. We’re all in this together, and if anyone spills the beans I’ll flay them alive.’

Santiago was about to retrieve the keys from under the passenger seat, but Baquedano got there first. He took him aside and said almost in a whisper:

‘You stay here. I want you to wait until we’re gone. Then you’ll take the Seat and wheel it down that ravine over there. Set it on fire and leave. But don’t move until it’s completely burnt. You understand? You can be back in El Aaiún in under an hour.’

Santiago didn’t reply. He was relieved to part company with the others. Before the sergeant got behind the wheel, he gave Santiago the chalice that he had taken out of the bag.

‘Leave this in the back seat. Don’t forget it.’

Santiago held it in his hand, touching the relief figures as if they burned. Meanwhile, the Land Rover started and the two legionnaires broke into song, encouraged by Baquedano:

‘Just to come and see you/ My faithful lady/ I’ve become a bridegroom of death/ I held her tight/ And her love became my flag.’

Santiago was tempted to dispose of the chalice and run away, but fear prevented him. He took a deep breath and, in the moonlight, looked around for the ravine that the sergeant had indicated. Like an automaton, he got into the car, threw the chalice onto the back seat and drove down a gentle slope scattered with bushes. In the damp cold night he inhaled the strong smell of earth. A dazzled hare froze in front of the headlights. Santiago thought he saw himself reflected in its terrified eyes. He turned off the lights. He didn’t quite know what to do. His uniform burned his skin. After undressing slowly, he put his civilian clothes back on. He opened the petrol tank and threw in a match. He recoiled at the sudden flash.

He walked across the field to the road. From there he could see the car in flames. He headed towards El Aaiún. Not one car came his way. When he arrived, dawn was barely an hour away. It was Sunday and he felt lost. He slumped on a wooden bench, under a palm tree on Plaza de España. And it was at that moment that he realised what had happened. There was a commotion at the entrance to the church. A crowd of people was standing there as though they were at the box office of a cinema. Santiago drew near with a mixture of fear and curiosity. He learned that the church had been robbed. The police were keeping people away. A stretcher was brought out with a dead body covered by a blanket.

‘Is that the priest?’ asked a woman.

‘No, the sacristan. So they say. They’ve stolen all the objects of value from the sacristy. The poor man must have been sleeping. He never saw it coming.’

Santiago walked away trying hard not to run. He felt cheated, furious, scared. He didn’t know where to go or what to do with his seven days’ leave. Without much thought he directed his steps to the Zemla quarter. As he started uphill he opened the bag in which he had his uniform and change of clothes; he took out the turban Lazaar had given him and put it on while walking along the empty streets. He wandered about without quite knowing what he was doing. No one took any notice of him. He went into a store and bought some tobacco. He tried to make sense of what had happened. At mid morning he recognised the Renault 12 and the front door of Lazaar’s house. He was about to knock when he noticed the door was open. Inside, seated on the carpet, two women were painting their fingers with henna.

‘Salama aleikum,’ said Santiago.

They greeted him back without any sign of surprise, and asked him in. He thought one of them was Lazaar’s mother, but they looked so alike under the melfa that he couldn’t be sure. Suddenly Andía rushed in from the street, nearly out of breath. She had seen Santiago from afar. She smiled, breathing heavily. Then she went out into the patio and started shouting. The men of the family came into the room and, one by one, shook Santiago’s hand. Andía lit a small brazier and put the kettle to boil.

‘Lazaar is not in,’ explained Andía with a smile. ‘Now you’ll be my guest.’

10. Derraha: Traditional Saharawi male dress made, like the melfa, of a single cloth but without covering the head. The most frequent colours are white and blue.