by Luz Gabás
“Once Ismael hears the drums, it’s impossible to hold him back,” said Julia. “I didn’t know that Bisila had another child. Have you seen the color of its skin?”
“Yes, Julia,” said Kilian, looking at her straight in the eye. “This one is definitely mine.”
“Kilian!” Bisila protested, trying to catch her breath. “If I were snow, would I have melted in your hands yet?”
Kilian’s burning fingers explored her still-perspiring body and traveled across every centimeter of her skin over and over again, trying to recover the time lost.
“Not yet.” Kilian wove his fingers in hers and flattened her with his weight. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you!”
“You’ve told me a thousand times!” Bisila delicately pushed him. She could hardly breathe.
Kilian lay down and leaned on his elbow to look at her, tracing her face.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he confessed.
Bisila closed her eyes. “I had a lot of time to think of me.”
Kilian frowned. It tormented him to think of her suffering, trying to join fragments in her mind and soul, in a small village surrounded by forest, fulfilling the rites of mourning for a husband she had not loved, while a forced new life grew inside her. And it was all Jacobo’s fault. Kilian clicked his tongue and shook his head to rid the next thought. Jacobo was also the cause of Bisila’s freedom. How ironic: violence had led to happiness. If Jacobo had not killed Mosi, they would still be forced to meet in secret.
How had she been able to overcome it all?
Bisila loved him with an energy and a force unknown to him.
When Kilian sank into her, time after time, he felt as if he were a ship and she a whirlpool in the sea that swallowed him up and spat him out to swallow him again.
The assertiveness and strength of passion with which she gave herself to him transformed their intimate moments.
As if each time were the last.
“Are you annoyed?” Bisila asked.
“Why?”
“Because you wanted to hear I did nothing else but think about you …”
“Did you think of me or not?”
“Every second.”
“That’s good.”
Bisila leaned on her elbow to face him and began to caress his face, his neck, his shoulder. She moved closer to hug him and continued to stroke his hair, his nape, and his back while whispering words that he did not understand, but which made him moan.
When Bisila wanted to drive him wild, she spoke in Bubi.
“I want you to understand what I’m saying, Kilian.”
“I understand you perfectly …”
“I’m saying that you are so far inside me there is nothing I can do to get you out.”
“And I don’t intend to come out. I always want to be inside you.”
“Ah, lads …” Lorenzo Garuz rubbed his bushy eyebrows. His eyes had never seemed so sunken. “And what will I do now without you?”
Mateo and Marcial exchanged guilty looks.
“I … I’m really very sorry …” Marcial’s hands clung to the pith helmet on his knees.
“And so am I,” Mateo butted in. “But I hope you understand. We’ve been here a long time and—”
“Yes, yes.” A scowling Garuz raised his hand in the air.
He did not want to hear their reasons. He himself had sent his wife and children back to Spain, and he himself had moments of weakness when he wanted to throw in the towel and get the first transport back to the peninsula. He would not be the first manager to abandon his plantation to the mercy of the weeds and a handful of natives. His sense of responsibility, however, always managed to win out. He was not just any manager: he was the majority shareholder of Sampaka, the biggest, most beautiful, most productive, and best-run plantation on the whole island. Mateo and Marcial would happily accept any mediocre job in Spain. The new generations lacked the fortitude, the courage, the pride, and even the impetuousness of those who had built the colony. Garuz had managed not only to maintain, but to grow the property inherited from that forebearer of his who had left in search of his fortune more than half a century ago. He could not leave it in other hands.
“And don’t you ever think about leaving?” asked Mateo, as if he had read his mind.
“Until the constitution is approved and powers are handed over, Spain won’t abandon us.” He sighed loudly. “And I don’t see why I can’t keep producing cocoa, unless, of course, I end up with no workers.”
Someone knocked at the door, and Garuz gave him permission to enter. Mateo and Marcial sighed in relief.
The wachimán Yeremías poked his head in.
“Excuse me, Massa,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Of course. What’s the matter?”
Yeremías entered, took off his old hat, and held it in his hands, with his eyes glued to the floor.
“A policeman has come and says he has to talk to you urgently.”
Garuz frowned. “You haven’t forgotten to take them the usual eggs and bottles?”
“No, Massa, I haven’t forgotten. But this one isn’t from Zaragoza. He comes from the city and is wearing a very … official uniform.”
“I’ll be with him in a minute.” Garuz, puzzled, opened a drawer and took out two envelopes for his employees. “These are for you. A small reward for the fine work you’ve done over the years. Use it wisely. You both now have families to think about.”
He waited for both of them to take a look at what was in the envelope and raise their eyebrows, very pleased. Then he stood up and came over to them.
“Of one thing you can be sure, you won’t earn the same salary over there.”
Mateo and Marcial accepted the bonus with sincere thanks.
“Everything is already organized,” said Marcial. “We’re traveling by ship with all our things.”
“Nothing in comparison to the two bags we arrived with … ,” added Mateo.
A silence followed.
“All right.” Garuz put out his hand to say good-bye. “If, one day, you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Who knows?” Mateo opened the door. “We might meet up in Madrid—”
Before he could finish, a man barged into the office. He was quite tall and strong, and his face was marked by smallpox. He wore a gray Spanish police uniform, with brass buttons on the jacket and a red band sewn onto the sleeves, lapels, and cap.
“My name is Maximiano Ekobo,” he introduced himself. “I am the new chief of police in Santa Isabel. Which one of you is Lorenzo Garuz?”
Garuz made a gesture for the others to leave and offered his hand to greet the policeman. “What can I do for you?”
Maximiano sat down. “I’m looking for some young men who are sabotaging work on the new television facilities. During the day, laborers build the access way to Big Pico for the material needed for the building, the tower, and the powerhouse. At night, someone destroys what has been done during the day. Tools disappear, reference signs are removed, and the machinery is tampered with.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“A few weeks ago, we detained one of these men. They are nothing more than Bubis who want to destroy the gift given to us by Spain. The man has confessed that the ringleader is a Simón”—he paused to observe the manager’s reaction—“who works on this plantation.”
Garuz crossed his hands behind his back and began to pace. He had just handed final paychecks to two very hardworking men. Only three Spaniards were left on the plantation: Gregorio, Kilian, and himself. José, Simón, Waldo, and Nelson made up the rest of the small team. He did not like it one bit that Simón was involved in subversive activities. In other circumstances, he himself would have gone to the police, but at that moment, he could not allow himself the luxury of losing another employee. He saw no alternative but to lie, and chose his words carefully. Now, more than ever before, it was in his interest to get on well with t
he new authorities.
“Listen, Maximiano.” He looked him straight in the eye. “I give you my word as a gentleman that I am totally opposed to any act of violence and even more so those committed against goods and property valuable for this country. But I’m afraid you have made your journey in vain. The Simón you are referring to had a serious accident. He has been recovering for over two months. He fell from the roof of one of the storehouses and broke both legs. However, if I hear anything that might shed light on your investigation, be in no doubt that I’ll get in touch with you.”
He remained totally composed, certain that his words had been convincing. He knew what these new and impertinent chiefs were made of, men like Maximiano who thought they were superior, even to whites like himself. You had to be extremely respectful, but also firm and determined.
Maximiano nodded, got up, and went to the door. “That’s all for the moment.” He left without saying good-bye.
Garuz breathed in relief and went out looking for Simón, whom he had to warn as quickly as possible. The young man would have no other choice but to pretend he had a limp, at least in front of any official uniform. And it was not in any way in his interest to be in that Maximiano’s bad books.
“No one talks about us Spaniards who are here! It’s not considered for one minute that we can form part of the future nation! But everyone else has their portion. The Bubi separatists, the neocolonial Bubis, the unitarian nationalists, the pro-independence radicals, and those who want gradual independence …”
“You forgot about the Nigerians, Kilian.” Manuel folded the Ébano newspaper and started to flick through ABC. “With the civil war in their country between Islamic Hausa and Catholic Ibos, more are arriving here every day. I’m not surprised that Nelson and Ekon are happy that their brothers have come, but there is less and less work available here.”
Kilian swigged down his gin and tonic and signaled to the waiter for another round.
“If there is really going to be independence, why have they set up a Spanish National Television transmitter on the Santa Isabel peak?”
“They have done it against the will of the spirits of the forest … ,” Simón intervened, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was comfortably sitting in an armchair, triumphantly enjoying his drink in a whites’ bar.
“This television thing is a mystery.” He raised his eyes toward the box that was placed in a corner of the room. “Remember the first program we saw in this very room three months ago? Spain, Mother of Nations or something like that.” His tone became ironic again. “What I remember are the words of your head over there.” He sat up in his seat and imitated in a high-pitched voice: “‘You know that Spain has never been a colonizer, rather a civilizer and creator of nations …’”
Kilian and Manuel smiled.
“And now it turns out,” he continued, “that the whites talk about our independence as if it was the greatest success in your country’s mission of civilization. I don’t like that one bit, no, sir. As far as I know, my people were just fine before you came.”
“But you weren’t very civilized,” the doctor joked, looking over his glasses and returning to his reading. “Now you even have a constitution approved by the majority.”
“Not on the island, remember?” Simón interrupted. “The yes won by very few votes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Kilian. “The fact is, even the news is now broadcast in Fang, Bubi, and Spanish so that the three points of view can be seen. But the money is still coming here from Spain. It’s as if they were investing at a rate of knots to show us that self-determination has its risks.” He moved his glass dangerously in the air. “How is it possible, then, to be so certain that independence will come in a matter of weeks? How do you go from complete dependence to independence? Is everything suddenly dismantled and that’s it? If we all go, who will heal you, defend you, and educate you?” Simón started to speak, but Kilian waved his hand. “I’m afraid that the administration of the country will fall into the hands of people who, at best, can barely read and write, even if they now drive around in luxury cars to give their speeches. That’s not enough to run a country.”
Kilian looked at José, who did not take his eyes off the television. Above all, he loved the football match broadcasts.
“You’ve nothing to say, Ösé?”
José cleared his throat, joined his hands on his lap, and said, “With the help of my spirits, I intend to stay as far away as possible from damned politics.” He moved his head in the direction of the television. “Difficult times are coming, and even more so for the Bubis. Macías is Fang.”
On the box was the image of a slim man, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, passionately speaking through a microphone. He had narrow and slightly separated eyes. The four of them stayed quiet to listen to what the vice president of the autonomous government had to say, a former colonial civil servant, son of a famous witch doctor from Río Muni, who had begun in politics as mayor of his village on the continent.
He promised a minimum wage, retirement pensions and grants, loans to fishermen and farmers, and benefits for civil servants; he repeated his motto was unity, peace, and prosperity. He finished his speech with the phrase “What Macías promises, Macías delivers.”
“He is strong and charismatic and has conviction,” Manuel commented, “but frankly, he seems unstable. Sometimes, he talks of Spain as if it were an intimate friend, and others, he opposes any Spanish initiative. On Bata radio a month ago, he himself asked for a no vote on the constitution, and now look at him, in full election mode.”
They stayed silent for a few minutes. Kilian looked around him. Apart from a group of eight to ten whites gulping down their gin and tonics, most of the people in the bar were natives. Kilian stared at the whites. They were sitting around a round table with metal and leather briefcases at their feet. They wore short-sleeved shirts and flared trousers. One of them, a young man in his twenties with a round face, short beard, and bright eyes, raised his glass in salute to Kilian, who reacted in kind. He must be a recent arrival, since his skin was not sunburned, and while he drank, he did not stop looking around him with the amazement, curiosity, and fear of someone who had just landed on Fernando Po. How has he ended up here at this time? Kilian asked himself. He sighed, took a sip of his drink, and turned to José and Simón.
“Do you know who you’ll be giving your vote to next week?”
“Oh yes,” Simón answered in a low voice, leaning forward. “And I can assure you I won’t be giving it to the cock!”
José laughed. “Macías’s motto is ‘Everyone for the cock,’” he explained, also lowering his voice. “And I won’t be voting for him either.”
Manuel folded the newspaper and put it down on the table. “But many others will,” he said. “The current president of the autonomous government, Bonifacio Ondó, is campaigning for Spain. Nobody knows Atanasio Ndongo. And Edmundo Bosió’s Bubi Union will get votes only on the island. It’s obvious, Macías is seen as the devoted and convinced defender of his Guinean brothers and their interests. He’s being very well advised by that lawyer, García-Trevijano. He’ll be president. And the autumn of 1968 will go down in history.”
The four fell quiet.
After a while, Simón broke the silence. “Massa Kilian, don’t get annoyed, right?” Kilian raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Sometimes it seems to me that you’re against us getting our freedom …”
Kilian meditated on Simón’s words. “I’m not saying that I don’t want you to get independence,” he said finally. “It’s just that I don’t want to leave, Simón.”
The noise of chairs being violently dragged along the floor interrupted them. They turned their attention to the whites. The bright-eyed young man was standing beside the bar with a drink in one of his hands and the other extended to signal to his friends not to move. The man apologized to another patron standing in front of him in an aggressive manner.
“I’ve said I was s
orry.”
“I’m sure you don’t blow cigarette smoke in the faces of your white friends,” responded the other drunkenly. “Does it upset you that we now come to your bars?”
“What upsets me is that you don’t know how to accept an apology,” said the young man, keeping his calm. He quietly walked back to his table.
The man at the bar paid for his drink and made to leave but, before doing so, announced, “Not one of you will leave here alive. We’ll slit your throats. All of you.”
An unpleasant silence followed, broken by Manuel whispering, “You’ll see, Kilian. Julia doesn’t pay me any attention either, but in the end, we’ll have to hightail it. All of us.” He shot a look of certainty at him. “Even you.”
“Are you sure that this is for the best?” Julia asked, her eyes filled with tears. “Dad, Mom … we still have time to change our minds.”
Generosa tidied her hair in front of the mirror on the sideboard in the dining room, beside the elephant tusk. The reflection was very different from that of decades ago, when Emilio and she founded the store and set up house on the floor above. She remembered the tears she had shed leaving her only child with her grandparents until they could give her the kind of life they wished for, and the many happy moments the three of them had had in Santa Isabel. The years had flown by, removing the shine from her dark hair and adding deep lines around her eyes. She sighed.
“Now at least we can leave with something, not much, but more than what we would have when they kick us out.”
“But … ,” Julia protested, “if it was so obvious that this was going to happen, why did a Portuguese want to buy the shop?”
“João knows as much as I do.”
Emilio finished sorting out some papers on the table, where there were also four or five 1968 issues of ABC, with large photos on the front pages of the latest happenings in Guinea. He stood up and walked with a stoop toward the window.
“Nobody is forcing him to buy the business. I think he’s brave. If only we had had the guts not to recognize the new republic, as Portugal has done.”
He looked at his watch and then out the window impatiently. He wanted João to get there quickly so they could complete the unpleasant task. A mountain man had his pride. He cleared his throat before adding, “Also, he has a load of children here with a native woman. More than enough reason to stay …”
