Luis Leante - See How Much I Love You

‘I’m leaving for Zaragoza.’ Again, silence. ‘I’ve received the summons from the recruitment office at home. I have to join up the day after tomorrow.’ Montse was still quiet, and that gave Santiago confidence. ‘Have you spoken to your parents?’ he asked, mustering all the courage he had.

‘My parents? What should I speak to my parents about?’

Santiago got furious. ‘About the kid, for God’s sake, about our child.’ She wouldn’t hear another word.

‘Look, the kid is my affair, and mine only.’

‘But, I mean, it’s not like I’ve got nothing to do with it.’

‘Well you should’ve thought of that before,’ said Montse, who was now on the brink of tears.

‘Before hooking up with that blonde hussy, before snogging that…’

‘I haven’t snogged anyone.’

‘I won’t have you lying to me.’

‘I’m not lying, Montse, I swear on my mother, on all that’s holy. She’s only a friend.’

‘And that’s how you kiss your friends?’

‘I’ve told you a thousand times that we were together some time ago. But we were children. For fuck’s sake…’

‘God, I’ve been such a fool.’

‘Montse, the kid.’

‘The child is mine, do you hear? I want you to forget you’ve ever met me, to forget the child, to forget everything.’ The receiver went dead. A continuous beep announced there was no longer anyone at the other end. Furious, Santiago head-butted the glass of the booth. People passing by jumped when they heard the blow. He cut his forehead, and the blood started running down his face. He didn’t know what to do with the receiver. Eventually he banged it as hard as he could against the telephone and cracked it in two. He stepped out of the cabin like a wild animal, looking about him in a rage. He’d never felt as humiliated, as impotent as in that moment. He couldn’t hit anyone, couldn’t tell anyone how things stood, couldn’t give vent to all his rage.

Guillermo came back with a very serious face. In his hand he had the coins which hadn’t been used.

‘She’s not home.’

‘She’s not home or she’s not coming to the phone?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘None. But I’d like to know. Who picked up?’

‘I don’t know. Her sister, maybe.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘That I was a friend from university.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘That Montse was not in Barcelona. She asked me for my name and number, in case she wanted to call me. I said that it wasn’t urgent, that I would call back another time.’

As they left the main road behind, the noise of the traffic was replaced by that of the TVs in ground-floor flats. It was a warm night. Everything was still except for the February wind occasionally stirring things around. They stopped at a corner, far from the city centre. Barely any cars went by. In the distance, the moon was reflected on the shallow Saguía river. They smoked in silence. Guillermo didn’t dare disturb his friend’s thoughts.

‘Never again, I swear, never again,’ said Santiago San Román unexpectedly. ‘I’m done with her.’

‘Don’t take it like that.’

But Santiago did not seem to be listening.

‘No one’s ever treated me like that. Fuck it. From now on Montse is dead. Forever. Do you hear?’

‘I do.’

‘If I ever mention her name, or ask you to call her, or write to her, I want you to punch me in the face. Very hard. You get me?’

‘As you wish.’

‘Swear it.’

‘I swear.’

In an outburst of emotion Santiago hugged his friend and held him close to his body. Then he kissed him on the cheek.

‘What are you doing? Let go, damn it. If anyone sees us they’re going to think we’re queer.’

Santiago let go and smiled for the first time that evening.

‘Queer! Get out! We’ll have a good one tonight. Even if we wind up in jail.’

Guillermo seconded his friend’s sudden enthusiasm.

‘Let’s go back to the Oasis,’ he said.

‘Fuck the Oasis. We do that every Saturday. Let’s get a couple of whores, but good ones.’

‘And the money?’

‘We’re bridegrooms of death. Who cares about the money. Fuck the money!’

At the end of the street a Territorial Police vehicle appeared. The two legionnaires instantly grew serious and straightened up, as if the Saharawis were able to read their minds. The patrol went past them very slowly, but didn’t stop.

‘Have you ever been up there?’ asked Santiago, pointing to the ‘Stone Houses’.

‘Of course not. Do you think I’m crazy? Besides, there aren’t any bars or whores up there.’

The Zemla quarter, in the high part of the city, was a Saharawi area. It was also called ‘Stone Houses’ or ‘Hata-Rambla’, which meant ‘line of dunes’. Apart from the Saharawis, only a few people from the Canary Islands lived there.

‘Tell me something. Aren’t you curious about what’s up there in those streets?’

‘Not at all. Are you?’

‘Let’s take a walk. No one in the regiment has enough balls to go up.’

‘And you do?’

‘I’ve got what it takes.’

‘You’re wrong in the head, man.’

‘I can’t believe you’re scared.’

‘I’m not, Santi, don’t be stupid. But you’ve heard as well as I have what they say about the area.’

‘All lies, Guillermo. Do you know anyone who has actually gone up there?’

‘No.’

‘Well I do.’

‘Saharawis don’t count. They live there. But haven’t you heard about the demonstrations? Those crazy guys from the Polisario are poisoning people. They’ve kidnapped two lorry drivers. Do you know what happened in Agyeyimat? Lots of legionnaires died.’

Santiago’s enthusiasm cooled as his friend talked. Yet since his first stroll around El Aaiún he’d been intrigued by that part of town, however ugly it looked.

‘That happened far away from here. We’re in civilisation. There are no traitors here. But if you’re not sure, if you’re frightened…’

‘Fuck off. I’m going back to the Oasis.’

Guillermo started walking, annoyed, and his friend followed him with a smile on his face. Santiago felt like he had always lived in that city, and knew it better than his own. He mentally summoned a picture of his old neighbourhood, his house, his mother’s tobacconist’s, but these images were hazy. Suddenly he thought of Montse, and he was incapable of remembering her face.

AT EIGHT IN THE EVENING VIA LAITENA WAS TEEMING WITH cars and people. The new century seemed to have begun with a race against time. It was impossible to get a cab. The stores were overcrowded, its windows steamed up with customers’ breath. Streams of people exited from Jaume I metro station, dispersing in all directions. The Gothic Town absorbed tourists as a dry sponge absorbs water. The Christmas music and the hot air of the shops spilled out onto the pavements. Montse had to wait for a crowd to come out of the metro before moving on. She’d been walking for over an hour, and her feet hurt. She knew where she was going, but she was putting off the moment when she would have to face up to the ghosts of her past.

The living room seemed like the set of a horror movie. After ten years everything looked old-fashioned and smaller. Even the light-bulbs struck her as weaker. Most of the furniture was covered with dust sheets, which gave the room a dismal appearance. It smelled musty. The rolled-up carpets gave off a stale, humid, odour. The curtains were faded and out of fashion. She tried to open the shutters to let some air in, but a couple had to stay closed, as the wood had swollen. The noise of the traffic, in any case, was as audible as if one were on the ground floor. When Montse looked around she felt desolate. Nothing was the way she remembered it. During the last few years, she had made it a point to think of the house as little as possible, so it now seemed unreal, as though the décor was made of washed out papier-mâché. How long had it been since the last time she’d been in the house? It was easy to calculate. She hadn’t come back since her mother had died: exactly ten years before. She started removing the sheets covering the furniture and left them on an armchair. When she uncovered a sideboard, she was startled by her own image, reflected in the moon-shaped mirror. She felt out of place, as though she were an intruder who had broken into this sanctuary through a crack in time. How many times had she put on her hair-band in front of that mirror before going out? How many times had she straightened her shirt or flattened her hair? How many times had she looked at her adolescent self — beautiful, full of plans and fury — just for pleasure? She closed her eyes, and out of nerves accidentally knocked down a picture frame. The whole sideboard was bristling with them, as if it were an altar. She looked at each one. She appeared in none. Her father, mother, grandparents, sister, brother-in-law and nieces, all were there. Her daughter too. She picked up the frame with the picture of her daughter in her first-communion dress, but didn’t feel anything. She smiled with disappointment when she realized that her mother didn’t have a single picture of her, and tried to convince herself, while staring at her reflection in the mirror, that she didn’t care at all. Then she turned her back on her reflection.