Simón was down with them in one leap. His face was red from the heat. He took a brush and began to vigorously sweep the shells that had fallen from the transporter belt.
“I was with my father in several meetings between village chiefs and whites. You already know”—since he had stopped being Kilian’s boy, Simón had automatically stopped addressing him so formally—“that my people don’t like to be impolite, so they decided to consult the spirits of our ancestors.”
“Ah, and what did the spirits say?” Kilian turned, trying not to laugh, and saw Bisila approach.
She was wearing a white skirt and blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Normally she left her short fringe loose, but that day, she had her hair done in fine braids, which highlighted her enormous eyes. The sight of her beauty gave him a pleasant shiver.
She held his gaze. They said nothing so as not to raise suspicions among the other men. It was very difficult, but they tried with all their might not to show the slightest sign of their special relationship.
Bisila raised her fingers to her lips to get Kilian to keep quiet while Simón continued his explanation in a loud and clear voice.
“The spirits aren’t fools, of that I’m certain, and they spoke through different men to show us that such a thing had more to do with the Spanish interference than with actual homage. Some said that we Bubis wanted to sell the island to Spain. Others suggested to lease the island for forty years and continue with you as long as you looked after us. Others remembered that you hadn’t always wanted us, giving as an example the slaughter during the rebellion of 1910.” He paused for breath. “And others even defended you, saying there were a lot of good Spaniards, that you hadn’t come here to colonize, but to work, and that you had helped us prosper.”
“I myself have heard more than one Spaniard criticize this act and call us stupid,” José intervened, forcing the young man to shift his eyes away from Bisila and pay attention to the conversation. “They are the whites that want the Bubis to be anti-Spanish and independent, I suppose with the intention of managing the country through their native friends if independence is ever achieved.”
Kilian rubbed his forehead, shocked and confused. “I’m Spanish, I don’t have any hidden agenda, and I also think it’s stupid. So what’s it to be?”
“To smooth the situation over and offend neither white or Bubi, it was thought that they could name him simply motuku or botuku, that’s to say chief, a good man, the visible head of a district or area, or person who should be obeyed because of his character. The title would be granted in a ceremony of respect where he would receive typical mementos of Bubi artisanship . . .”
“And also a young virgin . . . ,” Bisila added as she came over. “Tu? a lóvari é. Good morning, Kilian.”
“W? á lo è, Bisila,” answered José with a smile. He could not hide how proud he was of his youngest daughter. “Ká wimb?ri lé? How do you feel today?”
“Nimb?rí lèle, potóo. I am feeling well, thank you.”
Kilian loved the sound of the Bubi language, especially on Bisila’s lips. He remembered the times she had tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to learn more than just a few words of greeting and farewell in the makeshift classroom the hospital infirmary had been turned into. A very diligent student, Kilian allowed her to take his hand to feel the vibrations in her throat when there was an especially difficult sound, but he immediately forgot all about the classes and began to gently caress her, first the neck, and then her jawbone on his way to her cheeks. She then closed her eyes, raised her chin, and offered him her lips for him to absorb the letters, words, and sentences that he did understand.
Kilian shook his head, feeling a pleasant throbbing in his groin. They were not alone now. He had to control himself.
Bisila continued, with some irony. “Ah, but the deal was that the governor had to keep her intact, just as he received her, and would accept her as his daughter, with all his love and affection.”
Simón’s face took on an air of triumph. “Between the protests and the letter we sent him asking for it to be canceled, the fact is the governor has said there will be no homage. And now, if you don’t mind”—he turned his back on them—“let’s not waste any more time and finish this as quickly as possible.”
José smiled as Simón got back to work. He turned to his daughter.
“And what brings you here today, Bisila?”
“Are you going up to Bissappoo on Saturday for the crowning of the new chief?”
José nodded while looking out the corner of his eye at Kilian, who listened intently.
“I would also like to attend,” added Bisila, “but I don’t want to go up on my own.”
Alone? Without Mosi? It was now clear to Kilian that he also wanted to go. He felt a stab of guilt in his chest. Bisila was a married woman, and in the last few weeks, both of them had acted as if she were not.
But a few days with her away from Sampaka . . .
“?sé,” he began to say, seeking an invitation, “on Friday, we will finish work on the drying. There is no reason for you not to go with Simón for such a special event.”
Kilian waited for José, finally, to say, “Maybe you’d like to attend the chief’s naming ceremony?”
“It would be an honor, ?sé,” Kilian hurriedly answered, directing a quick, satisfied glance at Bisila, who lowered her head to hide a smile before returning to the hospital.
“? má we è, Simón. ? má we è, ?sé. ? má we è, Kilian.”
“Good-bye, Bisila,” answered Kilian, who, to the astonishment of the others, tried to repeat the same words in Bubi. “? má . . . we . . . è, Bisila.”
Simón burst out laughing.
Kilian quickly went back to work. It was only Wednesday. Still three long days left to finish. He began pacing, making sure that everything was going smoothly.
Simón’s impatience had infected him.
When they left the dryers, it was almost nightfall. It had been an exhausting day, in spite of the breath of fresh air that Bisila’s unexpected visit had brought.
The men had not mentioned the political situation again, but Kilian had thought about it. While crossing the yard toward their respective rooms, he said to José, “After listening to Simón, I have the feeling that this new period is taking shape on the basis of gossip. We hear rumors rather than facts. Not in the ébano, nor in the Poto-Poto, nor in the Hoja del Lunes de Fernando Po, not even in La Guinea Espa?ola or in ABC is a word said about all the different movements. They only talk of peace and harmony between whites and blacks.”
José shrugged. “It could be that the government doesn’t want the whites to be nervous knowing that sooner or later, the colony will come to an end.”