See How Much I Love You

Chapter Nine

THE CITY’S ARTERIES WERE CLOGGED WITH CARS. TRAFFIC lights no longer served any purpose. The Guardia Urbana was incapable of bringing order to such chaos. Everywhere one looked, children were dragging their parents towards the parade of the Magi. The shops seemed to be in the final seconds of a race against time. Doctor Montserrat Cambra was dazed by the general bustle and the young ones’ unbounded enthusiasm. It had taken her nearly an hour to find a free cab and, when she finally did, the driver had to make a detour of several kilometres to reach Barceloneta. Once there she felt her mouth dry up and her stomach shrink. Although she was familiar with the symptoms, she felt as frightened as she did the first time that she had been there.

Years ago the city ended at the Estación de Francia. The steel web of tracks was like a cold, desolate curtain behind which one could only imagine dilapidated grocery stores, huge warehouses and perhaps the sea. Now it looked like a different city. She knew Carrer de Balboa well, but the sadness gathering in her chest prevented her from walking in that direction. Instead, she went into the Palau del Mar building. Her only time in it had been nine years before, at the opening. Her husband and their daughter, Teresa, had come along: the perfect family. Teresa was not yet ten. She could still see her running between the tables of the restaurant. The image hurt — hurt a lot. Montserrat Cambra took the lift to the top floor. As it went up, the pressure in her chest increased. She felt nauseous. A little later she sat at the entrance to the Museo Histórico, fighting back her retching. She tried to take deep breaths to stave off a panic attack. She closed her eyes, but opened them right away because she felt dizzy. Her pulse raced. She feared she might pass out. From her bag she took out a bottle of pills. She put two in her mouth and swallowed them anxiously.

On the other side of the huge window, Barceloneta appeared as if on a cinema screen. Montse opened her eyes and tried to see the landscape as she remembered it. Twenty-six years before, the building she was in was nothing but a store in ruins, about to crumble into the sea. It wasn’t unusual to spot large rats which had no fear of humans. The houses in Barceloneta echoed with transistor radios and women’s singing. Their terraces were a tangle of rickety aerials and clothes hung out to dry.

Suddenly she pictured her daughter coming out of the museum with her husband. The image was so real she had to close her eyes to blot it out. She needed fresh air. Montse left the building anxiously. The cold January weather brought her back to reality. She headed for Ayach Bachir’s house. Although the neighbourhood had changed, everything was familiar. She had no trouble finding the address. When someone came out of the building she slipped in through the door. The smell brought a number of images to mind. The flats were still all very much alike. She sat down on the stairs and waited for the lights to go off. Then she put her head on her knees and effortlessly remembered the first time she had been in the area.

One morning Santiago San Román appeared in front of the shoe shop without a car. ‘Today I feel like walking,’ he told Montse. She did not raise any objections. She pressed her books against her and walked beside him without replying. The boy had a serious expression for the first time in weeks. She didn’t have the courage to ask, but suspected something was troubling him. As they walked by a rubbish bin, she threw in her folder and books. Santiago looked at her as though she had committed a crime. ‘What are you doing?’

‘No more studying for me.’ She took him by the hand and they pressed on along Vía Cayetana. ‘I’m going to spend a few days with my parents at Cadaqués,’ she lied. ‘They really want to see me.’ Santiago frowned and stopped walking.

‘When?’

‘Saturday. My father’s coming to pick me up.’ San Román was slow to react. He looked bewildered, nearly despondent.

‘Saturday! You’re leaving on Saturday. For how long?’ Montse was deliberately mysterious.

‘I don’t know: till September, probably.’ Santiago opened his eyes as wide as they went. He looked as though he were the brink of a panic attack. ‘Unless…’ continued Montse.

‘Unless…?’

‘Unless you tell me the truth.’ That was the master stroke. He went red in the face. His pulse raced and his voice trembled.

‘What do you mean, the truth?’ Montse quickened her step, and he had to struggle to keep up. ‘Wait, sweetheart, don’t leave like this. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never lie to you…’ He trailed off when she stopped and glared at him.

They had the last beer of that summer sitting outside a bar. Santiago paid with his last one-hundred-peseta note, offering it to the waiter as if he were entrusting him with his life.

‘Are you going to be honest with me?’ Santiago checked his fingernails and then sipped at his beer.

‘Okay, you’re right. I don’t work in a bank or anything like that. I made it up.’

‘I knew that already,’ replied Montse. ‘What I want to know is what you really do. Because I’m beginning to think that all those cars are stolen.’ Santiago gave a start.

‘They’re not. I swear on my mother’s life. They’re from the garage. I pick them up in the morning and return them after I drop you off at home.’

‘The white convertible too?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you work in a garage?’ Santiago slouched a bit and lowered his voice.

‘I used to.’ Montse pressed some more.

‘Have you got a new job?’

‘More or less. Well, no, they’ve sacked me.’ It was time to cut him some slack. She took his hand and kissed him very tenderly. Santiago went on talking as if his words burnt his mouth. ‘Yesterday the boss realised a car was missing. I had it, of course. He waited for me at the entrance to the garage. He says he’s going to report me to the police, and he’s refusing to pay me all the money he owes me. He’s an arsehole. He hasn’t paid me since January.’

‘And all that money you had?’ asked Montse, intrigued.

‘I know how to earn a living, what do you think? I fix old parts and leave them as good as new. Stuff you can’t find anywhere else. Anyway, that arsehole Pascualín spilled the beans.’

‘Pascualín works with you?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I thought he didn’t look like a banker,’ said Montse, trying to make him smile.

‘Banker! He can barely do a sum. He told the boss about the cars. He said that I’d only been dropping by the garage to borrow cars in the morning and return them in the evening.’

‘And all this time the boss had not been to the garage?’

‘Like hell he had. He just buys stolen cars, has them dismantled and sells the parts in Morocco. And then lives it up in Tangiers with a stash of dope and a bunch of whores.’ Santiago realised he had said too much. Montse grew serious. She wanted to believe him, but the story was too far removed from her world. ‘What is it? You asked me to tell you the truth, and that’s the truth,’ he said. Montse was slow to react.

‘I don’t care about any of it. I only wanted to be with you. It hurts that you’re a liar, though.’ San Román stuck his hands in his pockets.

‘Are you leaving for Cadaqués on Saturday?’ She had the upper hand now.

‘It depends on you. If you show me you’re sorry, I’ll stay here with you.’

‘What do I have to do to prove it?’

‘Introduce me to your parents.’ San Román went quiet. That was the last thing he was expecting. Montse stood up, offended by his silence. ‘Just as I thought, all talk and no action.’ She stormed off. She was so offended she felt capable of anything. San Román went after her and held her by the shoulders.

‘Wait up, darling, I haven’t even said no.’ Montse crossed her arms and gave him a defiant look.

‘Well I haven’t heard anything else either. And your face says it all.’

‘Fine. I can’t introduce you to my father, because I’ve never met him. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. I’ll take you to see my mother, but she’s not well: she suffers from nerves and forgets stuff all the time.’

It was the first time Montse had been beyond Estación de Francia. Had it not been for Santiago, she would never have been curious enough to venture into the area, which felt like a different city. Songs by Antonio Molina spilled from radios out into the street. The smell of stews cooking mixed with that of the diesel heating the shops and the rotting algae gathering in the Dársena de Comercio. Santiago didn’t hold her hand once. For the first time she saw that he was embarrassed. With his head lowered, he walked one step ahead of her, and greeted people half-heartedly.

Santiago San Román’s mother ran a tobacconist’s off Calle de Balboa. It was a run-down little shop, with cracked floor tiles; the counter and shelves were very old, and darkened by layer upon layer of varnish. The glass panels of the door rattled. Santiago gave his mother a kiss and said without much enthusiasm: ‘Mum, this is Montse.’ The woman looked at the girl as if from the bottom of a deep pit. Then she looked at her son. ‘Have you eaten, Santi?’

‘No, mum, it’s only twelve. I’ll eat later.’ Santiago grabbed a packet of Chesterfields and slipped it in his pocket. Montse, although she didn’t want to appear impolite, couldn’t take her eyes off the sickly-looking woman dressed in black from head to toe. Santiago’s mother sat at a small table with some knitting patterns and a skein of wool on it. The boy gestured to Montse to wait for him and disappeared in the back room of the shop. She felt tense. She didn’t know what to do or say to the woman who was knitting without lifting her gaze from the needles. Standing still, she just looked at the piles of cigarette packs. Time moved very slowly.

Suddenly Montse said: ‘It looks like it won’t be very hot today.’ Santiago’s mother looked up, left her knitting on the table and stood up.

‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,’ said the woman, as if it were the first time she’d seen her. ‘What would you like?’ Montse froze.

‘Nothing, thanks. I’m Montse, Santiago’s friend.’ The woman looked at her, trying to place her.

‘Montse, yes, of course. Santi is not here yet. He’s at the garage. If you like, I’ll tell him you came by at noon.’ Montse nodded. The woman sat back down and resumed her knitting. Presently Santiago reappeared, with a hand in his pocket. He kissed his mother.

‘I’m going now, mum.’ The woman said goodbye without even lifting her head.

Out in the street, Montse tried to smile.

‘She’s a very handsome woman, your mother.’

‘You should have seen her a few years ago, I’ve got pictures form the time she came to Barcelona and met my…’ His face darkened. He took his hand out of his pocket and showed her a silver ring, then slipped it on the finger where it fitted best. Montse smiled at him.

‘Is it for me?’

‘Of course. It’s a family ring. My grandmother gave it to my mother, and now it’s yours.’ Montse took Santiago by both hands.

‘What’s wrong with your mother, Santi? Is she ill?’

‘I don’t know. The doctor says it’s nerves. I’ve always seen her like that, so I’m used to it.’ Santiago was anxious, and jumped up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘Let’s go now; it’s very hot in this neighbourhood,’ he told Montse.

When Santiago San Román opened his eyes, the sun had already reached the balcony outside Montse’s bedroom. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was surprised to find the girl’s body beside him. He had a sweet taste in his mouth. Montse’s smell suffused the sheets and the pillows. He inhaled it. Asleep she looked so beautiful he didn’t want to wake her. He slipped out of bed and got dressed without taking his eyes off her. The house was in total silence. It was still very early. Santiago knew that, after a day off, the maid would not return until after ten, on the way back from the market. He wandered about the corridors, looking at the paintings and the furniture as though he were in a museum. It was the first time he’d been in a carpeted flat. The living room smelled of leather and the velvet of the curtains. He lingered for a bit in a study with bookshelves covering one wall, and degrees and diplomas on the other. Suddenly he felt out of place. He walked round the corridors again, found the door and ran downstairs. Once in the street he checked his pockets: he only had six pesetas. He followed the road until he reached a rubbish bin. He stuck his hands in it and retrieved Montse’s books and folder.

Montse opened the door with her eyes red from crying. She looked at Santiago as if he were a ghost.

‘You’re an idiot,’ she said, leaning against the door frame. Santiago didn’t see what the problem was. He showed her the books.

‘This is yours. I don’t want my wife to be as ignorant as me.’ Montse shivered. She took him by the hand and pulled him inside.

‘Come on in, we need to have breakfast before Mari Cruz gets here.’

The noise of the key turning in the lock caught them in the kitchen, while they were warming up some milk. Montse pricked up her ears like a hunting dog. Santiago’s heart jumped.

‘Is it the maid?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to remain calm. ‘But it’s too early, it’s not even nine.’ That was all she had time to say. Then Mari Cruz appeared, covered in sweat and carrying a big basket. She froze on the threshold, her eyes fixed on Santiago. ‘This is Santiago, a classmate from the Academy. He’s come to pick me up, as we both take the same bus.’ Mari Cruz put the groceries on the table without saying a word. Then she left the kitchen.

‘She didn’t buy it,’ he said.

‘I don’t care. She can’t say anything, trust me.’ When Montse went to her room to get ready, the maid came back into the kitchen, as though she’d been waiting for her cue behind the door.

‘I know you,’ said Mari Cruz in a menacing tone.

‘Don’t think so, it’s the first time I’ve come round.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve seen you in the neighbourhood.’ Santiago held his breath and his gaze.

‘Aren’t you Culiverde’s grandson?’ He thought of running away without giving any explanations, but something kept him glued to the spot. ‘Aren’t you the tobacconist’s son?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mari Cruz positioned herself in the doorway, with arms akimbo.

‘Look, young man, I may not know what you’re up to here, but I can imagine. You’re looking for a rich kid to cosy up to. But make no mistake. If you try to pull the wool over this girl’s eyes, I’ll report you. You understand? This is a decent household. You’d do better by helping your mother, she could use a hand.’ Mari Cruz fell silent as soon as she heard Montse’s steps in the corridor behind her. The girl picked up her books and folder from the kitchen table and gestured to Santiago to follow her. She said goodbye to the maid. ‘’bye, señorita. Shall I expect you for lunch?’

‘Not today. I’m eating at Nuria’s.’

***

The lights of the vestibule startled Doctor Cambra. She raised her head and opened her eyes. An elderly woman cautiously approached her.

‘Are you all right?’

Montserrat Cambra stood up and tried to appear normal.

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.’

The woman started up the stairs with great difficulty, holding onto the handrail. From her breathing Montse could tell she suffered from asthma. Her anxiety had passed. Although she knew Ayach Bachir’s address by heart, she checked the piece of paper she had in her handbag one last time.

The Saharawi was a thin man, with clear-cut features and dark skin. He had very short hair and a two-day stubble, and looked about twenty-five. He was casually dressed, in jeans and an unfashionable jumper. He shook Montse’s hand feebly, and then invited her in. It was a modest household, with old floorboards and bare walls. In the living room there was very little furniture: an armchair, two chairs, a coffee table, a 1970s unit against the wall, and a lamp that looked even older than the other pieces. The floor was covered by a large, colourful carpet. The room gave onto a balcony, and the window, which was too small, didn’t have any curtains. It seemed as though all the furniture had been left behind by previous tenants. The unit was almost empty, as if about to be moved. In the middle of the room were a primus stove and a tray with small glasses and a teapot on it. On entering the room Montse saw a young man looking out of the window. He was younger and more slender than Ayach. She was introduced to him, but was unable to understand his name. Montse sat in the armchair and Ayach Bachir took the chair. The boy sat down on the carpet and, without saying a word, turned on the primus stove and put the kettle on. From the moment she’d come in, Montse had been able to hear a baby crying. It seemed to be coming from a room on the other side of the wall.

After a few polite phrases, Montserrat Cambra took out the photograph and gave it to Ayach. The Saharawi stared at it. He trailed a finger over it, as if he was trying to recover from the paper the touch of his wife. Montse observed a respectful silence. She didn’t know where to begin.

‘You see, I didn’t tell you everything on the phone, because I wanted to discuss the picture with you first. And now I don’t know how to say it.’

Ayach looked at her in confusion. The other Saharawi went on preparing the tea, oblivious to Montse’s words.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the Ayach.

‘Let me explain. I used to know the guy in the djellaba — a long time ago, though.’

‘The one in the derraha?’

‘Yes, but that man died many years ago in the Sahara. It happened in Marcha Verde. At least that’s what they told me. Now, the other night, after your wife’s accident, I found this picture among her personal belongings. I have no doubt it’s him, but the date on the back is later than the date of his death. And I know for a fact that the dead don’t come back.’

Montse regretted these last words, and Ayach Bachir realised she felt ill-at-ease. They looked at each other without saying anything else, until the Saharawi turned his eyes back to the picture.

‘This man is not dead,’ he said firmly. ‘He came to my wedding three years ago.’

Montse took a deep breath and asked Ayach to look at the photograph again to make sure. He did so.

Yes, he’s my wife’s uncle.’

‘Mamia Salek’s?’

He smiled in appreciation of her remembering the deceased’s name. He seemed moved.

‘Yes. The last time I saw him was at our wedding. My wife loved him like a father. He used to live at the Bir Gandus daira11, in the wilaya of Ausserd.’

Montse could not hide her disappointment on hearing those words. She hung her head and looked at the boy making tea.

‘Then there’s been a confusion,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘The man I was referring to was Spanish, but they look so alike…’

‘I didn’t say that this man was Saharawi, only that he was my wife’s uncle. My wife would have told you lots of stories about him. But one thing I’m sure of is that he was born in Spain.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Yusuf, they called him Yusuf. I don’t know his Christian name. The other man in the picture is Lazaar Baha, his brother in law. He died when Mauritania attacked the capital, like our president. I was born that year.’

‘Does the name Santiago San Román ring a bell?’

‘No, I’ve never heard it.’ Ayach Bachir fixed his eyes on the photograph once again. ‘I didn’t see him much. We barely exchanged a few words, I can’t remember. My wife had more recent pictures of him. He’s changed a lot. He was badly wounded in the war. He didn’t strike me as being entirely together. They say the death of his wife upset the balance of his mind.’

The other Saharawi held out a small tray to Montse. She picked up a glass and Ayach Bachir another. Montse’s hands trembled as she took it to her lips. Now the child’s crying was louder. At that moment she understood it had been a bad idea to come over. The past could not be changed. Not even hers. And yet she could not help asking:

‘So he was married?’

‘Yes, to my wife’s aunt. A daughter of his studies in Libya and his son was killed by a landmine near the Wall.’

What wall? Where was Ausserd? What was a wilaya? Montse tried not to think about these things, but questions kept popping into her head. A woman came into the living room and stood still on seeing Montse. She had long black hair, and was wearing jeans. She apologised for interrupting and exchanged a few words with Ayach Bachir in Arabic. The other Saharawi said something as well; he sounded upset. The woman looked worried. All three spoke in low voices, as if they didn’t want to disturb their guest. Ayach left the room. The other Saharawi started preparing a second round of tea. He looked up and smiled. Then he went back to what he was doing. Ayach came back and apologised.

‘I’m sorry. Fatma’s son is ill. And she’s worried because she doesn’t know what the problem is.’

‘Was that him crying?’

The Saharawi nodded. Montse stood up and left her handbag on the armchair. The two men looked at her in confusion. Montse’s face, all of a sudden, had grown serious and tense. She looked cross.

‘Where is the child?’

‘In the women’s room.’

Montse went to the corridor and let the crying guide her to the room. Fatma and an elderly woman, both sitting on the floor, were trying to appease the child. The doctor approached and asked their permission to pick him up.

‘Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.’

Fatma’s face lit up. She stood up and gave her the baby. Montse lay him down on a mattress. He must have been four or five months old.

‘He’s been crying since noon. And he refuses to be fed,’ explained Fatma, weeping.

‘When did he last suckle?’

‘At ten,’ said the other woman without hesitation.

The two men looked in from the door, disconcerted, without daring to take part in the conversation.

A sacred silence descended on the room as the doctor examined the baby. She lifted his clothes, undid the nappy and felt his groin, stomach and chest.

‘He needs liquid. He’s nearly dehydrated.’

‘He won’t open his mouth,’ said Fatma, bursting into tears.

The doctor turned over and examined the faeces in the nappy.

‘He’s got a strong colic. Don’t cry, please, it’s nothing serious. We need to give him an infusion of fennel, camomile and aniseed. In babies the gallbladder is not fully developed and it’s common for this to happen. For now we’ll give him some camomile with a syringe for him to swallow. If it works with cats, it must work with babies,’ she said, trying to dissipate the tension and make the mother smile.

Fatma stopped crying. Ayach Bachir looked at Montse awkwardly, without knowing what to say. He still had the picture in his hands. For a moment he tried to imagine the woman’s story.

‘Tomorrow I’ll call Rabuni,’ the Saharawi said. ‘If this man is the Spaniard you believe he is, then my father must know him. He’s got the memory of an elephant: he can still recite from memory the names of all the dead he left behind in our country before he fled.’

Doctor Montserrat Cambra smiled at him with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty.

11. Daira: A smaller Algerian administrative division, akin to a county.