‘It’s my father’s car, I don’t make enough to own a Cadillac.’ ‘In a bank, I work in a bank. Well, actually, my father’s the manager, and I’ll be the same one day.’ ‘Yes, Pascualín too; we both work at the same bank.’
Meanwhile, Pascualín and Nuria were oblivious to the conversation. As Santiago answered the questions, he dug himself deeper and deeper into a hole. ‘Pull up here, please. This is where Nuria lives,’ said Montse all of a sudden. In fact the girls were neighbours, but Nuria realised what her friend’s intentions were, and reluctantly got out of the Cadillac.
‘Will you not walk her?’ said Santiago to Pascualín, reproachfully. The convertible proceeded down the road and stopped where Montse indicated. For the first time she looked him in the eyes; he struck her as the handsomest guy she’d ever met. She let him tell more lies. Santiago, however, didn’t ask any questions. It was hard enough to have to reply to the ones Montse was continually asking him. Eventually, he said: ‘This feels like an interrogation.’
‘Do you mind my questions?’
‘No, no, I don’t mind them at all.’
It’s just that when I jump into someone’s car I like to know who the guy is,’ said Montse, coyly. ‘Don’t go thinking, though, that I do this every day.’
‘No, no, I don’t think that at all. But the thing is, I’ve told you everything, and you…’
‘What would you like to know?’ she cut in.
Santiago hesitated before asking: ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ For the first time Montse’s confidence faltered. Now it was she who hesitated before replying: ‘No, not a boyfriend as such — but I’ve got admirers,’ she said, trying to keep her cool. ‘What about you, do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No, no; I don’t like commitment.’ Even before finishing the phrase he wished he hadn’t said it. Confused and without exactly knowing why, he placed a hand on her back and stroked the nape of her neck. Montse, also without thinking clearly, drew near and kissed him on the lips. But when Santiago tried to hold her in his arms and kiss her more deeply she slipped away, pretending she was offended.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, ‘it’s getting late.’ She opened the door, got out of the car, and only stopped when Santiago San Román shouted to her worriedly:
‘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.
Chapter Four
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.’