It was always like this, for the last . . . how many? Five years?
No, her first sight of Kilian did not go back to her wedding day, when she was fifteen and he had asked her why she looked so sad. The answer was very simple. She did not love Mosi. But Kilian was a white man and, therefore, unattainable. That this white man would lower himself to even congratulate her on her wedding day, and that he could read in her eyes that she was not happy, was more than she could ever have imagined the first few times he had come to her village with José.
From a distance, an adolescent Bisila had observed him so attentively that she had learned all his features and gestures by heart. Kilian was young, tall, and well built. He had dark hair with light-copper streaks, always worn short and combed back, and a pair of expressive green eyes that were often half shut because he smiled so much. His smile was honest and sincere, the same as his eyes. His hands, big and accustomed to hard work, danced in the air each time he told a story, but very often he crossed them under his chin to hold his head up. Then his look became dreamy, and Bisila thought she noticed that Kilian’s spirit transported him to his own world, establishing a silent dialogue between his two homes.
Despite her youth, Bisila was fully conscious that she would never know Kilian’s world. Probably, they would never even speak to each other. He was a young, handsome white man who had come to Fernando Po to make money and who, one day, would return home to raise his own family. She was a black teenage girl from an African tribe on a small island. Her life was decided for her when she was born. No matter how hard she studied, nothing would save her from marriage and bearing children. With a little bit of luck, she would be able to get work in something that had nothing to do with the land, and that idea partially consoled her. She had managed to maintain her illusion in secret, well hidden under layers of conformity and renouncement.
But that was a long time ago. Things had changed. Thanks to her marriage to Mosi and her work in the hospital, she could live on Sampaka and be close to him. For a long time, the vision of Kilian on the plantation, even if he did not pay her any attention, had been enough for her to get up every morning and go to her work in the hospital and return at night to the bed she shared with an insatiable Mosi. She even had been fortunate enough to hold Kilian’s hand after his father died. The memories of that caress and the minutes during which she held his foot when he came looking for her to extract the chigger had accompanied her every night of his vacation at home and had prevented her from sinking into despair at the thought that she might never see him again.
How distant those sad days now seemed! She remembered how during the first weeks of his absence, she had to make a huge effort not to submit to the idea that it had been nothing but a childish dream and that she had to continue with her life and do what was expected of a wife who had been lucky enough to marry a good man. Mosi did not complain about the hours she spent outside the home. He supported her in her work. He wished only that Bisila would give him a son. She had contrived, thanks to her knowledge of traditional medicine, to delay that moment as long as she could. In her heart of hearts, she feared that a son would join her to Mosi forever.
But the months passed, Kilian did not return, and Mosi began to lose hope of becoming a father. Bisila finally decided to let nature take its course, continue with her real life, and relegate her fantasy to her nights of insomnia. Thanks to the spirits, being pregnant with Iniko had acted as a balm for her state of mind, and his birth had given her a peace and happiness that she had believed impossible at her twenty years.
This superficial calm had threatened to become a storm when Kilian appeared at Iniko’s christening and learned her name. Since then, several weeks ago, it was rare that they did not bump into each other in the plantation yard.
Bisila was now convinced that it was not just her imagination. Kilian shared in her feelings.
The path from where the Europeans lived to the dryers did not go near the hospital. That could only mean that Kilian changed his normal route to see her. And he had increased the frequency of his visits to the infirmary, always complaining of some pain or other. Bisila had finally figured out that Kilian’s injuries were imaginary, an excuse for her to touch him, take his temperature, and look after him and, what both most desired, to listen to each other.
Once again, Bisila silently gave thanks to the spirits for those brief, happy encounters. They filled her days with smiles, accelerated heartbeats, and trembling knees. When she arrived home at night, she had to pretend to be tired after her day at work. That lie, together with the effort of raising a child—who she really only saw at night—managed to keep Mosi away when she got into bed. Then she closed her eyes and slept, counting the minutes left for a new day, when dusk gave the dryers a golden hue as she waited to meet her beloved.
Bisila greeted her father, José, and Simón, but she did not see Kilian and did not ask for him either. She prowled around for a few minutes, pretending to stretch her legs and showing a feigned interest in the quality of the beans before claiming she had to get back to work.
She decided to walk past the main house in a final attempt to meet up with Kilian, and suddenly stopped dead.
Sade was going up the stairs to the employee rooms. She was wearing a tight turquoise chiffon dress with matching high-heeled sandals, and her long hair was tied up in a high ponytail. Two men passing turned to say something, and she smiled flirtatiously while continuing her undulating walk to the upper balcony. Once there, on turning right, she noticed the woman looking at her from below and found her face familiar.
Bisila waited a few seconds, chest tight.
Sade stopped in front of Kilian’s room, knocked on the door, waited for him to open it, and went in.