He sat up, and they enjoyed each other once more.
Later, when both of them had recovered their breath, Kilian sighed and commented, “I wish we didn’t have to hide . . .”
Bisila gave a timid smile. “Kilian . . . in other circumstances, would you take me as your wife?”
He looked at her intensely. His voice was hard. “What I really want is to walk with you, arm in arm in broad daylight, go dancing in Santa Isabel, and have our own house, where we would wait for the day when marriages between Spaniards and Guineans were allowed . . .”
Bisila blinked, swallowed, and dared ask, “And you wouldn’t mind what they would say about you?”
“The opinion of the whites here doesn’t worry me much, including my brother’s, who, by the way, is fed up with sleeping with black women. And the rest of my family is so far away that no matter what they said, I couldn’t hear them.” He hugged her tightly in his arms. “We belong to two different worlds, Bisila, but if you weren’t married, I can assure you everything would be different. It’s not my fault that the laws and customs are what they are.” He paused. “And would it matter to you what your family said?”
Bisila released herself from Kilian’s arms. She sat down so he could rest his head in her lap and stroked his hair. “I would have it easier. I wouldn’t stop seeing my people. I would be with you in my own place. And my father would give his delighted consent to see me marry a man he respects, for love.”
She slid her small hands across his cheeks. Kilian listened with closed eyes.
“Kilian, if I weren’t married, your situation would be difficult. You would be choosing between two worlds, and sacrificing a lot.”
Kilian was dumbstruck.
Bisila always found the hidden parts of his heart. The fact that Kilian would live his days for Bisila did not mean that the ties that held him to the House of Rabaltué could dissolve like the threads of a cobweb. He knew perfectly well that he was tethered to his past, in the same way his father, Antón, had been and many more before him. For that reason, on his deathbed, Antón had asked him to take charge of the centuries-old house, which was nothing but a millstone inherited generation after generation: a millstone whose weight was not so easy to renounce.
His brother, Jacobo, was lucky not to worry about anything. He worked and sent money home, yes, but sooner or later, he would return to Spain. He did not even consider settling in another place other than his own country.
However, for Kilian, the House of Rabaltué was a burden.
Bisila knew this. She knew it better than anyone. She understood that the ties that held him to his world were stronger than chains; they could slacken, but also become taut and squeeze harder. Maybe that was why Bisila had never asked him for anything. She was fully conscious of each one’s place in the world.
But he was as afraid as she was of the day when the whites would have to leave the island. For months they had lived in romantic oblivion, especially to the movements toward independence, a word that neither of them wanted to say out loud. Sure, it was inevitable that nearly all conversations at that time had a political bent. And it was difficult to ignore the voices, growing louder: “We’ll kick out the whites. We’ll expel them all.”
It might be the work of the spirits. Maybe it was written that their paths would end up crossing only to continue on their way. In the deepest recesses of their souls, both wanted those same spirits to stop time, so that nothing would happen, that nothing would change, that they would not be forced to decide.
Kilian took Bisila’s hands in his and kissed them.
“How do you say ‘beautiful woman’ in Bubi?”
“Muarána muèmuè,” she answered with a smile.
“Muarána . . . muèmuè,” he repeated in a hushed voice. “I promise I’ll never forget it.”
Jacobo cocked the 9 mm Star pistol, extended his arms, squinted his eyes, and fired. The bullet whizzed through the air and went through the target a few centimeters from the bull’s-eye.
“A few more weeks, and you’ll be as good as me,” said Gregorio, mopping the sweat with a handkerchief. “Who wants to try next?”
The others shook their hands and said no. Gregorio shrugged, prepared the pistol, positioned himself in front of the line, and fired. The bullet tore through the center of the target. He grunted in satisfaction, put on the safety catch, and hung the gun from his belt before sitting down with everyone else.
The afternoon sun beat down on the shooting club, just below the gardens of Punta Fernanda. Sampaka’s Spanish workers were finishing some beers. It had been a while since they had all been together. For one reason or another, there was always somebody missing. That afternoon, Mateo had invited his companions for a few rounds, like the old times, to celebrate his birthday before going to dinner at the house of his fiancée’s parents. Jacobo had suggested the shooting club, where he had been spending more time. Once he got used to the noise of the shots, he began to enjoy the marvelous view of the sea. It was also very close to Plaza de Espa?a, where Ascensión, Mercedes, and Julia could join them later.
“So what’s this? Have you now decided to learn to shoot a pistol, Jacobo?” Kilian asked. “Mountain goats are still hunted with a shotgun, yes?”
“What do you mean, goats?” exclaimed Marcial. “But weren’t you becoming an expert elephant hunter?”
Everyone laughed. They all had heard of Jacobo’s one and only excursion in Cameroon. He had repeated it so many times that it seemed he had hunted not one, but dozens of elephants.
“Actually, Dick taught Pao and me how to improve our shooting skills, just in case.”
“Is he afraid?” asked Kilian. He thought of the Englishman’s sun-blotched face and his grim blue eyes. “I thought your friend was not afraid of anything or anyone. The other, the Portuguese, seems more timid, but Dick, certainly not.”
“If you spent more time with them, you’d like them better,” Jacobo protested.
Kilian put his hands up in a sign of peace.
“You lot should also be practicing.” Gregorio pointed at them with his bottle. “In these times, it’s better to be prepared.”
Marcial shrugged. “The day things turn ugly here, I’ll collect my things and go.”
“Same here.” Mateo took a big swig of his drink. “But I don’t think I’ll have to run as fast as the new recruit . . .”