Luis Leante - See How Much I Love You

‘Do you play football?’ asked one of the Saharawis.

‘Of course, I taught Cruyff how to play.’

‘I support Real Madrid,’ replied Lazaar seriously.

‘Well, I also taught Amancio, you know.’ From that day on, Santiago San Román played every afternoon as a goalkeeper in the Nomad Troops’ team; and, every time they beat the Spaniards, the guys from his own battalion accused him of being a traitor.

Now, leaning over the bar at El Oasis, Santiago could see the soldiers of the passing Nomad Troops look in through the window with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He finished off his cognac and promised himself that he wouldn’t drink whenever a Saharawi might see him. He’d never felt so ashamed before. Sergeant Baquedano, the only regiment NCO who frequented the Oasis, would strut around amongst the waitresses, pinching their backsides and brushing against their breasts. His breath, always reeking of alcohol, gave him away wherever he went. Terrible stories were told about him. He was around forty, and the only things that mattered in his life were the Legion, alcohol and whores. On one occasion, they said, he had shot a recruit in the foot for marching out of step. When one saw him drunk, rubbing his groin against the prostitutes, it was easy to believe the stories. Most soldiers avoided him, but a few loudmouths would laugh at his jokes and follow him everywhere, celebrating his displays of bravado and buying him drinks. Usually they ended up being humiliated by him and were forced to endure his insults like animals. It was the prostitutes who tried hardest to stay out of his way; they knew him all too well. Sergeant Baquedano was the only person in the bar who frightened them. They were perfectly aware that if they faced up to him they might lose their job or end up in a gutter of the Smara road with their throat slit open. Sergeant Baquedano acted as a kind of gangster for Major Panta. Prostitution at the Oasis had to be supervised by Major Panta, but no high-ranking officer would have approved of his visiting a dive like that. Officers never shared whores with the troops. Not even corporals and sergeants. Nevertheless, they could not allow the local mafias to run the show, trafficking women from Spain, Morocco or Mauritania. Major Panta looked after the Regiment’s health and made sure that things ran smoothly. But the major had never seen Baquedano dead drunk, staggering between the tables, cupping his balls with both hands, and slobbering over the breasts of the prostitutes dressed as waitresses.

Santiago San Román looked away on the two or three occasions when he crossed the sergeant’s gaze. When he saw Baquedano leave, he felt a lot more relaxed, in spite of the racket the troops were making. The music merged with the TV, the thumping of bottles on the marble bar, the shouting at the poker tables, the bingo numbers being called out, and the incredibly loud conversations. Suddenly all the noise dissolved into a second of silence, and the military marches gave way to Las Corsarias, Pepe’s favourite paso doble. When San Román heard the first few bars, he felt as though the ceiling had fallen on his head. Instantly Montse’s image reared up its ugly head. The noise had become inexplicably hostile.

‘Another cognac?’ asked Guillermo.

‘No, I’d better not. I’ve got indigestion.’

‘A beer then.’

‘You have one, my stomach aches,’ lied Santiago.

‘Is that all you’re drinking tonight? It’s Saturday.’

Santiago San Román gave his friend a grave look, and Guillermo understood at once. He didn’t reply. He was perfectly familiar with his friend’s bouts of melancholy. They both left the Oasis and stumbled out into the February breeze. They sauntered in silence. The streets looked oddly empty, at least until they reached Plaza de España, where the whole city seemed to have congregated. The noise of the bars spilled out into the street. The Territorial Police patrolled the area on foot and in their vehicles, trying to look inconspicuous. Santiago and Guillermo stopped under the marquee of a cinema. Under the title of Serpico, a colour drawing of Al Pacino jumped out of a poster. Guillermo stood in front of it with his feet apart, imitating, not very well, the posture of a cop from the Bronx. He pushed his cap down to his eyebrows and fastened the strap on his chin. The girls in the queue looked at him and laughed, covering their mouths.

‘Stop playing the fool,’ said Santiago reproachfully. ‘Everyone’s looking at you.’

Guillermo hooked his thumbs on the huge silver buckle of his belt and blew the girls a kiss as they laughed.

‘I need you to do me a favour, Guillermo. I swear it’s the last time.’

Guillermo lost his party mood. He was more than familiar with those words. Santiago started walking slowly, his body slumped.

‘Let’s get out of here. This place is crawling with sergeants.’

Every rank favoured a certain area of the city. Sergeants and corporals avoided the surroundings of the Parador and the Casino Militar, in order not to have to salute their superiors all the time. The rank and file, in their turn, did not walk along main roads, which was where NCOs’ favourite bars were.

The two friends headed for Avenida de Skaikma without saying a word. They knew they would be away from the legionnaires’ eyes and walked in silence, as if they could read each other’s mind. Stopping at a telephone booth, Santiago took out all the coins he was carrying in his pockets. For some bizarre reason, the air in that spot smelled of thyme. He passed the coins to Guillermo.

‘I want you to call Montse. Well, first…’

‘I know, I know,’ Guillermo cut in, impatiently.

‘Tell them you’re a classmate from university and that you have to speak to her…’

‘Santi!’ shouted Guillermo, who felt like slapping him.

‘What?’

‘Do you know how many times I’ve phoned your girl?’

‘She’s not my girl, Guillermo, I’ve told you. And if you really don’t want to do me this favour…’

Guillermo passed his arm over Santiago’s shoulder, trying to appease him.

‘I’ll call her, okay? I’ll call her. But don’t explain to me what I have to say, because you told me a thousand times. It’s me who calls, me who writes to her, in the end it’ll be me who…’

Guillermo stopped, regretting his words. Yet his friend was so upset he didn’t even pick up on where he had been going. Guillermo put the coins in his pocket and stepped into the booth. Santiago stood a few metres away, as if embarrassed.

The last phone call had been full of drama. On that occasion he had also rung her from a booth, a few metres from the archway at Vía Layetana. When Montse finally came on, it was nearly ten in the evening. Santiago had been standing in front of her house for four hours. It was the early days of a humid, cold December, and by then he was frozen through. When he heard her voice, he went quiet, not knowing what to say. Then he regrouped and tried to control his nerves.

‘It’s Santi,’ he said in a trembling voice.

‘I know, they’ve just told me so. What do you want?’

‘Look, Montse, I’ve been calling you all evening.’

‘I’ve been to the library; I’ve just come back.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Montse, don’t do that.’

‘Are you ringing to call me a liar? You’ve got some cheek, you know?’

‘No, I didn’t mean to call you a liar, but I’ve been at your door since six and I haven’t seen you come in or go out.’ After that there was a longer, more dramatic silence.

‘But do you think I have to explain myself to you?’

‘No, Montse, I don’t want you to explain yourself; I’ve only rung to say I’m leaving.’

‘Well, goodbye, then.’