The foreman smiled. That a man like him would risk his life on the word of a black was ironic. Fear truly changed people.
“Have you not realized yet that I’m a man of my word, Massa Gregor?” he asked.
Gregorio lowered his eyes and gave in. He let Sade go, tilted the pistol toward the ground, and calmly waited for Nelson to collect it.
“Ekon, stay with the women until I come back.”
Nelson took the man by the elbow and guided him quickly to the door.
Bit by bit, the party resumed. Sade agreed to have a drink with Oba and her friends.
“He deserved a good hiding,” murmured Sade.
“Nelson did the right thing, Sade,” said Lialia firmly. “It’s best not to escalate matters. No matter how much they talk about equality, in the end, it’s us who would get punished.”
Ekon brought more drinks. The band played a catchy tune, and Lialia took her husband by the hand to dance. When they were left alone, Oba asked, “What did he want?”
Sade shrugged arrogantly. “Every man who has been with me has wanted to have another turn.” She grimaced and took a sip of her drink.
All except one.
And because of him, all her life, she would have to bear the secret that the real father of her child was someone as disagreeable as Massa Gregor.
In December 1963, the referendum on self-government was accepted by the majority, though the vote was seventy percent in favor in Río Muni and seventy percent against on the island of Fernando Po. Just as Gustavo had suggested, everyone interpreted the result according to their own interest, either as a sign of the island’s loyalty to Spain or its desire to become independent separate from Río Muni.
Spain granted self-government for the old provinces by decree. From that moment, the pro-independence Guineans began to be appointed by the Spanish authorities to the top posts in the administration and the recently formed autonomous government, including that of first president and vice president, given to an individual named Macías. All those appointed declared their loyalty to Spain. Many of those who had been persecuted for being pro-independence now began to earn good salaries.
“Such is life, Julia,” Kilian commented. “I am still collecting cocoa, and Gustavo is a minister in the autonomous government. Who would have imagined it? I still remember the argument he had with your father in this very place—how long ago was it?”
Julia, wearing a light sleeveless dress, placed her hands over her swollen abdomen. It was a glorious afternoon. A pleasant breeze cooled down the day’s intense heat. As on every Sunday, they were meeting up with the rest of the group, but the others were late. Each time it was becoming more difficult to get Manuel to take his head out of his research, and even more so after the good reviews he had received for his first book on the island’s plant species. Ascensión and Mercedes were each busy with preparations for their weddings to Mateo and Marcial, which they had decided to hold together in the Santa Isabel cathedral. Given that the brides had been born and raised on the island, the decision had been an easy one. It would be a simple wedding so that the grooms’ sides would not seem so small, and although there were still months to go before the day, they wanted to have everything ready in good time, especially the dresses. For their part, the grooms were working as hard as they could during the week, including holidays, to make up for their honeymoons.
Kilian had continued to socialize in order not to raise suspicions about his relationship with Bisila. He alternated between meetings with her and with the people in his circle. His life, he thought sadly, would continue to be divided between two worlds—the mountains and the island, white and black—neither of which he fully belonged to. What he most wished for at that moment was to have Bisila in Julia’s place, quietly lying in the hammock, enjoying a tranquil Sunday afternoon. He imagined her hands on her stomach, swollen with the fruit of the union between them. Was that too much to ask for?
The shouts of the young people in the swimming pool reached the terrace. Someone put a Chuck Berry song on the record player, and enthusiastic hoots joined the frenetic sound of rock and roll.
“Don’t say it, Kilian.”
“Don’t say what?”
“That we’re getting old.”
“What! You must be talking about yourself.”
Kilian awkwardly tried to twist to the music’s beat, and Julia laughed. The young, sensitive novice from his first years on the island had become a happy, satisfied, and confident man. If she had not known better, she would say that he seemed to be in love, with that permanent smile and dreamy look. Julia knew those symptoms perfectly, although it had been years since she settled into a peaceful affection.
“Hello, hello!” a voice said. “I bring you a small bag full of snow!”
Kilian gave a start. “Jacobo! We weren’t expecting you until next week.”
“There was a mistake with the airplane ticket, and I had to book an earlier flight.”
The brothers hugged fondly. They had not seen each other for six months. Unlike Kilian, who had a good reason not to leave, Jacobo had been going to Spain after each campaign to enjoy his vacation. Each time it became more and more difficult to return, he said, as if he had the feeling that his time in Africa was coming to an end.
Jacobo pointed to Julia’s bump. “Manuel told me. Congratulations once again.”
“And how were the holidays?” Kilian asked. “You’re looking good.”
Jacobo smiled and looked him up and down. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. Is it my imagination . . . or are you happy?” He squinted. “How come you never get tired of the island?”
Kilian felt himself going red and sat down. “Did everything work out with the car?”
Jacobo had bought a beautiful black Volkswagen in Guinea and taken it to Spain. His eyes lit up in excitement.
“I had no problem reregistering it. And the trip to Pasolobino . . . The whole road to myself! You should have seen the faces of the neighbors when I parked in the square and beeped the horn!” Kilian could imagine Jacobo’s smug face at being the center of attention. “It was the biggest story for months. Everyone asked where the TEG on the number plate was from, and I had to explain to them a million times that it meant the car was from the Spanish territories in the Gulf of Guinea . . . You should have seen the amount I spent on petrol taking everyone here, there, and everywhere—”
“I suppose you had to take more than one lady here, there, and everywhere as well,” Kilian interrupted, amused.
“All the women of marriageable age fought for the chance.”
Julia rolled her eyes. The world changed, but Jacobo did not.
“Well, I’d prefer to know if anyone in particular repeated the trip,” joked Kilian. He could not imagine his brother going out with the same woman more than twice.
Jacobo cleared his throat. “Her name is Carmen. I met her at a dance. She’s not from Pasolobino.”