Free See How Much I Love You by Luis Leante Page A

formally that it was as though he were on parade. The other mechanics wanted nothing to do with the business. Only Santiago San Román took care of the four lads. ‘We cannot make it start,’ continued the young man. ‘If we can’t fix it, we’ll be arrested.’ Santiago could not take his eyes off the four Saharawis. Presently the other mechanics laiddown their tools and went out to lunch. Their faces made it quite clear they had no intention of getting stuck with the job. Santiago was annoyed at their behaviour, but didn’t want to get into an argument. The Saharawis looked like castaways in the middle of the ocean. Without further ado, he stuck his head into the jaws of the vehicle and started untangling the web of wires. When his colleagues came back from lunch, Santiago was still waist deep in the bowels of the Land Rover. The four Saharawis looked on in silence, not daring to break his concentration. As in a trance, Santiago spoke to the engine of the vehicle and, every now and again, said something to the soldiers. They looked at each other, wondering whether the legionnaire might be a bit crazy. After several hours changing parts, examining hoses and sweet-talking the engine, Santiago San Román got in the vehicle, turned the key, and the car started with a sickly cough. He revved it up a few times, releasing black smoke which soon turned lighter, and then the Land Rover started sounding more normal. ‘Jump in,’ he told the Saharawis, and all four obeyed as they would an officer’s orders. Santiago San Román drove a few times round the barracks, tested the wheel and the brakes, and finally stopped in front of the Nomad Troops’ block. He got out of the car without cutting the engine and said: ‘It’s all yours. You can tell Major Lobo he’s got a Land Rover for another ten years.’ As he went off, the Saharawis seemed lost for words, but when he was a few metres away they called him back. He stopped. ‘Thanks, my friend, thanks.’ Santiago brushed aside their thanks, but one of the men ran after him. The Saharawi took his hand and kept it in his.
    ‘I’m Lazaar.’ Santiago San Román introduced himself. ‘We’re always here, in this block. Come and pay us a visit; you are always welcome. You’ll make many friends.’ That day, when Santiago walked into the soldiers’ mess, he had the impression that the words had been sincere.
    The first time Santiago San Román set foot in the NomadTroops’ block he thought he had ventured into another world. The soldiers, away from the officers’ watchful eyes, behaved as if they were in a large jaima . Seated around a stove at the very entrance, a dozen of them were chatting in Hassaniya and drinking tea, and were so relaxed that the place didn’t look like a barracks at all. When they saw Santiago, however, they grew serious, and conversation ceased. San Román was about to turn round and retrace his steps when he spotted the reassuring presence of Laazar. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he excused himself. ‘I didn’t know…’ Laazar addressed his friends in Arabic, and the conversation resumed. The Saharawi took him by both his hands and asked him to sit down near the tea. It wasn’t long before Santiago began to feel more comfortable.
    ‘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