Images came to mind of the beautiful woman whom he had fantasized about for so many nights. He had felt her fresh breath on his face in that bed when he was sick, after the death of his father; he visualized her figure walking determinedly through the plantation toward the hospital, the pharmacy, the church, or the stores; he remembered the softness of her hands on the skin around his ankle when she removed the chigger.
Kilian sighed. He had barely been back on the island for a couple of minutes but felt as if he had never left. It had taken him weeks to adjust to Pasolobino and recover his place in the House of Rabaltué. He now understood that just as the passing of the centuries had not undermined the strength of the house, he could never renounce the responsibility of his role in it. At the same time, as he faced the same tasks in the same fields as his forefathers and paced the same paths, his soul was comforted by and reconciled with his past and his present. His father was no longer there, but he was, and his house was still alive after five hundred years. Contributing to this certainty was also the infectious strength of Mariana, who took care of everything as if time stood still, as if Antón and Jacobo were to arrive at any moment from Fernando Po, as if Kilian were not going to depart, leaving her with the sole company of a weak Catalina, who spent most of her time in Rabaltué, trying to absorb some of her mother’s energy to get over the death of her only child, or simply to survive.
He inhaled deeply, and the smell of the cocoa trees filled his lungs. The man who the talkative Simón was bringing up to date with the latest happenings was not the impressionable and inexperienced young man who missed his home and could not tell the difference between a good cocoa bean and an excellent one. Kilian knew exactly what would happen next. The entrance to the plantation. The royal palm trees. The wachimán Yeremías and his hens. The roasted cocoa. The friends. Her.
Would she still be so beautiful?
“So, Massa?” Simón distracted him from his thoughts. “Are you happy to be back?”
Kilian’s heart skipped a beat when the vehicle turned into the royal palm tree avenue. The answer was so clearly inscribed on his mind that he felt a little guilty.
“I think so, Simón,” he responded dreamily. “I think so.”
Kilian wanted to clean himself up before going up to Obsay. Simón had prepared his same room. He hung up his jacket and started to unpack. Minutes later, someone knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.
“I see the holidays have treated you well!” Jacobo flung himself at his brother and gave him a strong hug. “How are things at home? How are our women?”
Kilian found Jacobo as bright and robust in health as when he had left. He had gained a bit of weight, so his belt now did not fit at his waist.
“They’re fine. You’ll never guess what I have in the cases. Food and more food!” He raised his eyes, and Jacobo laughed. “Mom thinks we never eat here.”
He tapped his brother a few times in the stomach, went over to the mounted wooden washbasin, poured in some water, and prepared to shave.
“And you? Are you still going from one party to another with your friends?”
“I do what I can . . . I’m lucky that Dick and Pao come from Bata fairly often, because Mateo and Marcial are more and more tied down by their girlfriends.”
Jacobo sat down, and Kilian started to lather his face.
“How do you think the plantation is looking?”
“The little I saw surprised me. Everything is very tidy and clean. It’s obvious you didn’t miss me.”
“No one is indispensable, Kilian!” joked Jacobo. “Last week we were honored by a visit from the one and only regional governor of Equatorial Guinea. Can you believe it? You should have seen Garuz! They gave us a couple of days’ warning, and he had all of us fixing up the plantation day and night. Waldo spent a whole day waxing the Mercedes that the governor was going to use to tour Sampaka.”
Kilian smiled.
“His visit coincided with another from some journalists from La Actualidad Espa?ola who wanted to do an article on our cocoa.”
“In all this time, I haven’t heard much about the island.” Kilian remembered how much he had missed the weekly news from Fernando Po’s Hoja del Lunes. Apart from a tiny announcement about a book on elephant hunting and the showing of two films, On the Beaches of Ureca and Balele, in the provincial edition of La Nueva Espa?a newspaper, only four lines had appeared about the decree from March’s ministers council that divided the Guinean territories into two Spanish provinces: Fernando Po and Río Muni.
“I also thought that nobody could be interested in daily events in Guinea, but according to them, the article will help show many Spanish readers how well things are done in the colony.”
“Precisely now . . . ,” said Kilian while looking for a white shirt in the case. “On the plane, I heard a conversation between two men, I think they were civil guards . . .”
“Many of them are coming. Of course, double salary, a six-month tour, and six months of vacation . . . Things can’t be going very well in Spain. The other day, Garuz said that in spite of the new economic plan that was supposed to attract companies from abroad, many Spaniards are emigrating to Europe. Just as well that for the moment, we have a guaranteed salary here!”
“They commented that new times are coming, that the colonies’ days are numbered.”
Jacobo waved a hand in the air. “The day the colonies disappear, these people are lost. Also, what sense would there be in forming the provinces if they weren’t sure that things would continue as is?”
Kilian remembered the argument Julia’s father had with Gustavo in the casino and the conversation that New Year’s Day in Manuel’s house. Now the colonies were more closely linked to Spain, so independence was not necessary. Was that not what Emilio had said his friend Gustavo was afraid of?
“I don’t know, Jacobo. The world is changing very quickly.” Still echoing in his ears was the noise of the airplane that had flown through the air at over four hundred kilometers an hour. The day before, everything had been stone and slate in the mountains and new apartments being built on the lowlands; a few hours and several airports in different African countries later and he was on the island.
Jacobo nodded. “Who could have told us that there would be black mayors in Bata and Santa Isabel and black representatives in Parliament? And coloreds in the cinemas. Even they feel uncomfortable and out of place. Well, I won’t repeat the nonsense that some people are saying, but I admit it seems strange.”
“And what are some people saying?” Kilian finished buttoning his shirt and turned toward the mirror.
“Well, they are saying that”—Jacobo lowered his eyes to the floor and hesitated—“that . . . even if they are suddenly now all Spanish, they’re still monkeys.”
Kilian gave his brother a long and hard look. Jacobo coughed, a little embarrassed. Finally, Kilian took a deep breath and turned around.
“How is everyone else?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Santiago left for good about two months ago . . . He said he was too old for this type of work. And there is a new man with me in Yakató.”