by Luz Gabás
The men went by the open door. Simón began to feel worried. He got up, put on a pair of trousers, took a lantern, and went down the stairs. Nothing could be seen or heard. He lit the lantern and retraced his steps. He saw the pickup badly parked under the porch and the sack room door ajar. He peeked in and heard a groan. “Is there someone there?”
He got another groan in reply.
“Who’s that?”
“I need help,” whispered Bisila.
As if shot from a gun, Simón got down on his knees beside her. The light from the lantern revealed that his friend was injured. She had blood on her face and body and lay motionless. In one hand she held a damp handkerchief.
“What happened to you?” he asked, alarmed, in Bubi. “What have they done to you?”
“I need to go to the hospital,” she answered in a wooden voice.
Simón helped her get to her feet. Bisila fixed her clothes with difficulty with her injured arm. He started to become enraged.
“I know the men responsible!” he murmured between his teeth. “They’ll pay for what they’ve done!”
Bisila leaned on Simón’s arm and nudged him to start walking. She needed to get out of that damned place.
“No, Simón.” She gently clasped her friend’s arm. “What has happened stays here.” She closed the door, and they went out into the yard. “Promise me you’ll say nothing.”
Simón pointed to her bloodied eye.
“How are you going to hide that?” he protested. “How are you going to explain your arm to Mosi?”
“I’m not worried about my body, Simón,” answered a crestfallen Bisila.
He could only feel rage. “And what’ll happen when Kilian finds out?”
Bisila stopped dead. “Kilian must never find out about this. Do you hear me, Simón? Never!”
Simón nodded slightly to show he had agreed, and they continued walking.
Kilian won’t find out, he thought, but they will pay for what they have done.
When they got to the hospital, Bisila gave him instructions on how to reset her dislocated shoulder. She put a gag between her teeth and closed her eyes, waiting for Simón’s blow. She let out a shriek and fainted. When she recovered, she dressed the wounds from the blows and bandaged up her arm in a sling.
Afterward, Simón took her home. Bisila waited until she was sure that everything was completely quiet. Fortunately, Mosi and Iniko were asleep. They were used to her hours. They would not see the cuts and bruises until the following day.
Simón went back to his room in the main building, still trembling with rage.
What had happened that night was nothing that had not happened before. It was one of the ways the whites imposed their power. No black woman, even if insulted and threatened, would dare report a white man. It would be her word against his, and any court would rule that she had asked for it.
In bed, Simón clenched his fists. According to the law, they were now as Spanish as those in Madrid. It was all a lie! Whites were whites and blacks were blacks, even if they were now allowed to go into the cinemas and bars. The impending independence would not change anything: others would come, and they would continue to exploit the island before the helpless eyes of those who once cared for it. That was the Bubis’ destiny.
He decided to tell Mosi everything.
Bisila had made him promise not to say anything to Kilian and he would not—at least, not for the moment.
But Mosi would know what to do.
On Monday morning, Simón looked for Mosi in the southern area of the plantation. His men advanced in rows of ten, slashing with their machetes to clear ground for planting from the jungle. He soon made out the foreman, as his head stuck out above the others. He waved for him to come over. They moved away so no one could eavesdrop.
“Bisila was attacked. Three white men. I found her.”
Mosi cursed and leaned against a tree. The expression on his face became harder. “Do you know who they were?” he asked.
Simón nodded. “There were three of them. I know who they are.”
“Tell me their names and where I can find them. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“Two of them don’t live here. They’ll leave today. Massa Dick and Massa Pao. I heard them say that they’d be back in two or three weeks.”
“And the third?”
Simón swallowed. “The third is a massa on the plantation.”
Mosi gritted his teeth and waited for the name. “The third is Massa Jacobo.”
Mosi stood up straight, picked up his machete, and ran his thick finger along its blade.
“Tenki, mi fren,” he said slowly. “I’ll look for you if I need you.”
He continued his work as if Simón had not told him anything important.
Simón returned to the plantation yard and was surprised to hear a laugh he knew well coming from the parked trucks.
Kilian had returned!
He raised his eyes to the heavens and noticed a slight change in the air.
The tornadoes would soon be upon them.
Kilian got up early, put on a loose pair of linen trousers and a white cotton shirt, and went out to the balcony. The weather was fresh. The rains of the last few days had left the air so humid that stoves were needed to heat the rooms. He decided to go in and put on a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket. He came back out onto the passageway, took a deep breath, lit a cigarette, leaned on the railing of the balcony, and cast his eyes toward the royal palm tree entrance.
At any other time, Kilian would have found the morning silence comforting. Lately, however, silence seemed set on taking over his life. Simón was distant and evasive. José was hiding something from him. And Bisila …
Bisila was avoiding him.
Just after arriving, he had gone to the hospital to see her. After months of wanting her in his arms, he had been sure that they would end up in the small storeroom. Instead, he had met a thinner, sadder Bisila with her arm bandaged and part of her face swollen. Even so, she walked between the men in their sickbeds in her normal pleasant fashion, a pleasantness that became cold when she turned to him to explain that a truck had knocked her down.
Kilian had not believed a word of it. He even thought that Mosi might have mistreated her, but she denied it. Then … why the change in attitude?
If she only knew how much he missed her!
He had hoped Bisila would appear some night in his room, but she had not.
Leaning on the passageway railing, Kilian sighed deeply. Something inside told him that she would not come to his room ever again. Something horrible must have happened for her not to want to see him. He closed his eyes and remembered their wedding.
I promise to be faithful to you, she had told him, at least in my heart.
How could Mosi have found out about her infidelity when Kilian was in Spain?
No. Something did not fit.
The sirens marking the beginning of the workday broke the silence. Kilian hated that this terrible noise had replaced the drums. The hustle and bustle in the yard reminded him that he had to hurry up if he wanted to get breakfast before work.
Some minutes later, Jacobo came to breakfast, walking slowly and with his eyes half-closed. He was not feeling well.
“It must be because of the weekend in Santa Isabel,” said Kilian.
Jacobo shook his head. “I was to meet up with Dick and Pao, but they didn’t show. After the last night with them, I swore I wouldn’t drink again.”
“And what did you do without them?” Kilian asked sarcastically.
“I went to see a couple of girlfriends I’d been neglecting … They took me to the cinema.” Jacobo shrugged. “A very quiet weekend! I can’t make out why I feel as if I’d been run over by a train.” He put his hand on his forehead. “I think I have a temperature.”
Kilian poured him a cup of coffee. “Have something. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was som
ething new.
Kilian got up and said, “Come on, I’ll go with you to the hospital.”
With a bit of luck, Bisila will be there, he thought.
Kilian was convinced that Jacobo had malaria. His brother was always forgetting to take the quinine tablets, and some nights, especially if he had gone out, he forgot to close the mosquito net properly around his bed. The tiredness and muscular pains, the shivers and the temperature, the headache and the sore throat, and the loss of appetite were all clear symptoms of the illness. He would be in the hospital for a couple of weeks, which would give Kilian the perfect excuse to see Bisila every day, to watch her until he found out what had happened.
“Syphilis?” Kilian opened his eyes wide. “But … how’s that possible?”
Manuel raised an eyebrow. “I can think of one or two ways of catching it,” he said with irony. “He’ll be with us for three weeks. Then he’ll have to take medication for a few months. I’m sure he’ll be more careful from now on.”
He snapped his file shut and went off.
Kilian stood for a good while without daring to go into the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and went in.
Jacobo was asleep. Kilian sat in a chair. The scene brought back distant memories of his father. How many hours had he spent sitting in a chair with Antón! An eternity had passed!
He laughed to himself, remembering the sight of the Bissappoo witch doctor placing the amulets on his father’s body. If it were not for his friendship with José, he would never have thought of the idea. He remembered how furious Jacobo had gotten. Maybe he should send for the witch doctor again to treat his brother, he thought mischievously.
Someone knocked at the door, and a sweet voice asked for permission to enter. Kilian jumped to his feet as Bisila came in. She looked at him in surprise, turned her gaze to the bed, and made out Jacobo. When she recognized him, she gave a whimper and dropped the small tray in her hand.
Kilian went over and gathered up the things she had scattered on the floor. Then he gently shut the door and went to her.
Bisila’s breathing was agitated. She could not speak.
Kilian hugged her and began to stroke her hair.
“What’s wrong, Bisila?” he whispered. “What’s tormenting my muarána muèmuè?”
Bisila’s body trembled in his arms.
Making a slight gesture in Jacobo’s direction, she asked, “What’s wrong with your brother?”
Kilian separated from her just enough to look at her face.
“Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” he said. “He has syphilis.”
Bisila clamped her lips together, and her chin began to tremble. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Syphilis!” she repeated in a voice laced with hate. “Na d’a pa’o buáa.”
“What did you say?”
Bisila did not answer. She began to sob and ran out of the room. Kilian leaned on the open door. There was hate in Bisila’s look, but also sadness.
Just then, he heard a big commotion as men called for the doctor. He left the room and went to the entrance hall.
Manuel was on his knees, examining the body of a badly wounded man lying on a makeshift stretcher. Kilian noticed his friend shaking his head and curling his lips in worry. A group of men prevented Kilian from seeing who he was treating, although it seemed to be a white man.
He looked at the faces of those around him and recognized one of the men from Mosi’s brigade. He went over and asked him what had happened. The man was very upset and answered in a mixture of Pichi and Spanish. Another man interrupted, and then another. Kilian finally understood their story.
Mosi’s brigade had begun clearing the forest, like every day. They were walking in columns of around ten people, opening the way with their machetes, when one of them shouted he had found something. Suspended from a tree, rocking gently in the breeze, hung the naked, beaten bodies of two white men with their hands tied together. Several stones had been hung from their feet. One of the men was already dead when they took him down. The other was still breathing.
Kilian cleared the way and knelt beside Manuel. The wounded man had cuts and bruises all over and deep wounds on his wrists and ankles, and he breathed with difficulty. Kilian stared at his face. He had the eyes of a savage beast.
Kilian recognized the Englishman, and the blood froze in his veins.
“Do you know this man?” Manuel asked.
“It’s Dick, one of my brother’s friends. He lived in Douala, but moved to Bata a while ago. I thought you knew him as well.”
“That’s why he looked familiar. Wasn’t he always with that … ?” Manuel had a suspicion. He stood up and gave orders that he be taken to the operating room, although the expression revealed that little could be done. The men moved aside to allow them to pass.
They immediately brought in the dead body of the other white man. They had covered his face with a shirt.
Kilian lifted a corner of the material.
“It’s Pao.” He brought his hand up to his chin and rubbed it nervously. “Who could have done this?”
The men around them began to talk in hushed tones. Kilian only managed to get the odd word: “whites,” “spirits,” “revenge …”
Manuel took him by the arm and spoke in a low voice, “It’s a bad time for this to happen, Kilian. Things are starting to turn ugly for us Europeans. If this spreads, more than one will leave the country. Don’t you feel the fear? Now the natives will use this to say it’s the work of the spirits—”
“I don’t understand,” Kilian interrupted. “What have the spirits got to do with this?”
“Two white men appear, murdered in the ancient manner. They’ll begin to say that the spirits don’t want the whites here. There are rough seas ahead!”
Kilian stayed silent. He looked at Pao’s body again. “They told my brother that they’d come to spend the weekend, but they didn’t. He thought it was odd.”
“Tell your brother to tread carefully.”
“Why do you say that? Do we also have to be careful?”
Manuel shrugged and, raising his hands, exclaimed, “Yes, I suppose!”
He went to the operating room but not before telling a couple of men to place the dead body in the mortuary until the plantation management decided what to do.
The men moved aside to let Pao’s lifeless body through. Kilian followed with his eyes. After a few meters, the men carrying the body stopped.
Kilian saw how Bisila lifted up a corner of the shirt that covered Pao’s face and let it fall again. Bisila clasped her hands together, squeezed them hard against her bosom, and closed her eyes. She did not notice that Kilian was watching her closely.
Beside him, he listened to two nurses murmuring something in Bubi. He turned and asked, “What does something like ‘Na á’a pa’o buáa’ mean?”
One of them looked at him in surprise. “It means ‘I hope he dies.’”
Kilian frowned.
One man was dead, the second was sure to die, and Bisila wanted the death of a third.
Kilian found José and Simón in the stores. The news had spread like wildfire through the plantation.
“And what do you two think?” Kilian got straight to the point. “Was it the work of the living or the dead?”
José said nothing. It was obvious that Kilian was in a temper.
Simón stood in front of him.
“And what do you think, Massa?” he said. “Do you think it was us, the peace-loving Bubis? Or maybe a Fang on the island on vacation? Or the Nigerians celebrating black magic? I bet it never crossed your mind that it could be other whites who killed them.”
José motioned to him to be quiet. Kilian gave him a hard stare.
“The whites,” he muttered, “don’t tie their victims to trees or hang rocks from their feet.”
“Of course not,” replied Simón. “They have other ways …”
Kilian exploded. “Simón! Is there something you want to tell me
?” His eyes flared, and his fists were clenched.
“And you”—he looked at José—“what are you hiding? I thought we were friends!” He started to pace up and down, waving his arms. “This is driving me crazy! Something happened here. I know it’s got something to do with Dick, Pao …” He paused. “And my brother!”
José looked furtively at Simón, who turned away.
Kilian went over to them. “What did they do, José? Who wants revenge?” He caught hold of Simón’s arm and forced him around. “What the hell did my brother do? Do you want to hang him from a tree as well?”
José opened his mouth and shut it again.
“We won’t tell you anything,” said José.
“If you two won’t tell me,” grumbled Kilian, “who will?” He looked to the sky, defeated, and asked, “Bisila?”
Simón cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, barely audible.
Kilian felt his strength leave him.
He remembered Bisila’s arm and the wounds on her face and suddenly felt like throwing up.
Bisila wanted his brother dead!
What had they done? He leaned against the wall to stop himself falling.
It could not be true! Not his brother!
He remembered that his brother was ill with syphilis, and he retched.
He would kill him. He would kill him with his bare hands!
José came over and put an arm on his shoulder. Kilian moved away. He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together, feeling only hate inside.
“I have two questions, José, and I expect you to answer both,” he warned. “Does Mosi know?”
“I told him,” Simón responded.
“And the second,” continued Kilian. “Will he come for Jacobo?”
José nodded. “Let Mosi do what he has to do,” he said sadly. “This is none of your business.”
Kilian clenched and unclenched his fists. “Don’t tell me what I have to do, José!” he shouted.
