Luis Leante - See How Much I Love You

‘Do you want to meet up some other time?’ Like a capricious child, she walked back to the car, left the books on the bonnet, scribbled something in her notebook, tore out the page, put it under the windshield wiper, picked up her books again and, after a few steps, turned and said:

‘Give me a call first. There’s the number. I’ve also written down the address and the number of the flat, so you don’t go around asking the neighbours.’ That was all. She walked to the doorway and, with some difficulty, pushed open the enormous iron door. Santiago San Román didn’t even get a chance to reply. After Montse had disappeared, he was still looking at the empty space where she had been. The girl did not have enough patience to wait for the lift. She ran up the stairs two steps at a time, hastily opened the front door, dropped the books on the floor and ran to her room, ignoring Mari Cruz’s hello. From the balcony of her room she just caught sight of the car driving into the traffic and disappearing towards the harbour. Still, she could see that the page was no longer under the windshield wiper. She pictured it folded in four, hidden in Santiago’s shirt pocket: an immaculate, nicely cut white shirt, without a crease, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and with a distinction that contrasted with the social class he so tried to hide.

Doctor Montserrat Cambra was walking down the corridor of the casualty ward in a considerable state of confusion. She held the pocket of her coat as though she were afraid that someone might snatch the picture she had just stolen from a dead woman out of it. For a moment she didn’t even know where she was. Then she thought everyone was watching her. However, none of the staff she passed looked at her. She walked into the doctors’ room and closed the door behind her. She had difficulty breathing. She sat down and swallowed a pill. It was the last in the box. The coffee that Belén had poured her hours before was still on the table. She downed it in one, without even noticing it was cold. She picked up the receiver of the phone on the table, dialled reception and said in a trembling voice:

‘Doctor Cambra speaking. Please listen carefully. When the husband of the woman from the airport comes in, I need you to let me know. Don’t forget. It doesn’t matter if I’m busy. Let me know. It’s important. Thanks.’

After hanging up, she put her hand in her pocket and touched the photograph. She sat down without taking her hand out. She experienced the absurd sensation that the picture might disappear at any time. Then it would all vanish as in a dream: another dream turned into a nightmare.

THERE’S SOMETHING GHOSTLY ABOUT THE SMARA HOSPITAL at four o’clock in the afternoon. Outside, the scorching sun and the dry, biting wind make it impossible for life to go about its business normally. Inside, the dark empty corridors seem entangled like a spider’s web that reaches far into the building. From a distance, the Smara Hospital looks like a mirage emanating from the redoubtable hammada of the Sahara.

Dressed in an olive-green uniform, Colonel Mulud Lahsen walks into the lavatories, dusting off his clothes and removing the turban from his mouth. His chauffeur waits for him in the car, under the sun. Mulud Lahsen does not take his glasses off even though the corridors are dark. Suddenly, after walking over the threshold, it seems as though he’d left the desert far behind. It smells of disinfectant. The colonel wrinkles his nose; after so many years he has never got used to the intense smell. He knows the hospital like the palm of his hand. He’s seen it grow from the foundations up, when there was nothing but sand and stones in the site. He strides confidently through the maze of corridors. He stops at the director’s office without having crossed a soul. He doesn’t knock before going in. The director is a small, restless man. Sitting behind his desk, he has his eyes fixed on a mountain of papers. He wears tortoiseshell glasses. What little hair he has left is grey. His skin is tanned and hardened by the sun. On seeing the colonel by the door, he smiles broadly. They go through a lengthy greeting of Arabic formulae, looking each other in the eye and shaking hands.

Colonel Mulud Lahsen is tall and heavily built. In comparison, the director of the Smara Hospital looks like a child.

‘Mulud, Mulud, Mulud,’ says the director when the greeting is finally over and they let go of each other’s hands.

‘With that coat and those glasses you look like a doctor.’

The director smiles. They’ve known each other since they were children, long before they had to leave their country.

‘You’re the last person I was expecting today,’ says the director.

‘I would have visited earlier, but I’ve been away.’

‘So I’ve heard. How’s the minister?’

‘He’s got a fever,’ says the colonel with a broad smile.

‘The health minister with a fever? Doesn’t he know we have plenty of beds in our hospital?’

They both laugh. The colonel takes off his sunglasses and leaves them on the desk. His eyes are bloodshot.

‘He’s that pigheaded, you know him.’

‘Yes, yes, I know him all too well.’

As he speaks, he takes two glasses out of a drawer and places them on the desk. Then he walks across the room and lights a cigarette on the gas stove. He fills up a kettle and puts it on the hob.

‘How’s everything here?’ asks the colonel.

‘Fine, fine, as usual. We’re finishing installing the new machines. Everyone’s trying to get them to work.’

‘Is that why the hospital is so quiet?’

‘Yes. Well, in fact, we haven’t admitted anyone today. The nurses are finishing tidying the library, and trying to work out how to operate the dialysis machine. All the reagents and instructions are in German.’

‘No one’s been admitted…’

‘Today we discharged a boy who had a toothache.’

‘No one else?’

‘In fact, yes. I had almost forgotten. We’ve had a foreign woman for three weeks. As I see her every day I forget she’s not really a member of staff. She almost died.’

‘A woman? A foreign woman?’

The director leaves the preparation of the tea for a moment and approaches the colonel. Very carefully he lifts his eyelids.

‘Let me see those eyes.’

Colonel Mulud patiently submits to the examination. His eyelids are opened wide, and the conjunctiva examined.

‘I sent you a message the day she arrived. In the report I explained all the details of her admission. I was surprised you didn’t reply, but then so many papers get lost en route.’

The director goes on speaking as he carefully studies Mulud’s eyes.

‘You have very serious conjunctivitis,’ he tells the colonel.

‘It’s the wind.’

‘And the sun. Yesterday I would have given you some drops, but we’ve run out. If you come back in a fortnight, perhaps I’ll be able to do something for you. I don’t like the look of this eye.’

At that point the colonel searches his jacket and takes out a letter. He unfolds it on the desk. The director stares at the piece of paper and instantly recognises his own handwriting.

‘So you got the report in Rabuni.’

‘I found it the day before yesterday among the papers I had to forward to the Ministry. As I say, I had to go away for a while. But what you say here attracted my attention.’

‘It’s an unusual case for me too. That’s why I wanted to know what procedure to follow.’

‘You say the woman will live.’

‘Yes, though a week ago I wouldn’t have been so sure.’

The two men go quiet for a moment. The director wipes his glasses with a flannel until they sparkle.

‘It’s difficult to say what happened, but now you’re here I’m glad to be able to discuss it with someone.’