Julia looked up in surprise. Someone had, in fact, managed to win his heart? She hated to admit it, but she felt a fleeting stab of jealousy.
Kilian went over to Jacobo and patted him on the back. “Dear brother,” he teased. “It sounds like your wild and crazy nights are at an end.”
Now it was Jacobo who blushed. “Well, we’re still getting to know each other.” He shrugged. “And I’m now here and she’s over there . . .”
Julia sighed. That Carmen, she thought, would have her work cut out making him into a family man.
Kilian glanced toward the horizon. This woman meant more to Jacobo than he let on. His time in Guinea really was coming to a close. Suddenly, Kilian felt a pang of regret. His brother had many defects, true, but he had never hidden anything. He, however, had been hiding his love for Bisila for months. If it could not be announced to the four corners, it could at least be shared with someone who would never betray him. But something inside him told him to wait. In spite of the bonds that joined them, he doubted that his brother would understand. He would think he had gone crazy, which was exactly how he felt: in a daze.
Julia offered to go and get another round of drinks. When they were left alone, Jacobo’s face darkened.
“Is there something wrong at home?” Kilian asked, alarmed.
“It’s Catalina. She’s very sick.”
Kilian felt a knot tightening in his stomach.
Jacobo cleared his throat. “I . . . well, I’ve said my good-byes to her. I’ve brought you a letter from Mom asking you to go home now to be with them.”
“But it is the busiest time of the year!” Kilian protested weakly. He regretted the words the minute he had said them. His heart did not want to accept a reason to be away from Bisila, but his sister was his sister. She had not had an easy life, with a sickly body and a mind weakened by the death of her only child. He had not seen her or his mother for over three years. He could not abandon them. Bisila would understand.
Jacobo lit a cigarette. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a trip home, Kilian. Things are changing. There are rumors of a ski resort on the heights of Pasolobino. Do you know what that would mean?” Jacobo’s eyes began to gleam. “The land would be worth a lot of money. It’s worth nothing at the moment. We could change our lives, work in the construction industry or in the ski resort, even set up a business! Our godforsaken village would become a tourist destination.”
Kilian listened attentively.
“Some investors with experience in this business have already visited the area. They say that the snow is the white gold of the future . . .”
Kilian felt stunned. His sister was dying. He would have to separate from Bisila. A deep pain ran through him, and yet here was his brother discussing the future.
The future was what most worried Kilian. He did not want to think of it. All he wanted was for nothing to change, for the world to be reduced to an embrace with Bisila.
“Kilian . . . ,” Jacobo said.
“I was thinking . . . that I’ll have to go home.”
Home.
It had been ages since he had thought of Pasolobino as his home.
“Soon we will all leave here for good, Kilian.” Jacobo shook his head with a mixture of resignation and relief. “The future is no longer in Guinea.”
Julia came back with the drinks. Jacobo turned to greet an acquaintance.
“Do you know, Julia?” Kilian said. “You’re right. We’re getting old.”
A few weeks later, Bisila sent Simón to bring Kilian to the hospital. Once there, she took out a piece of paper and showed him a drawing of a small rectangular bell with several clappers.
“It’s an el?bó,” she explained. “It’s for warding off evil spirits. I would like Simón to tattoo it on you to protect you on the journey. Maybe on your left armpit?”
Kilian loved Bisila’s present, something he could always carry with him. On the armpit, close to his heart, he could stroke it whenever he wanted to.
“It will hurt a bit,” Simón warned. “The drawing is small, but complicated. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
“I think I’ll be able to take it,” said Kilian.
Kilian did not close his eyes or stop looking at Bisila throughout the whole process. The last time he had gone back to Pasolobino, Bisila had had a son by Mosi. He wanted her to be sure that he would not take so long in coming back this time. He barely blinked when Simón drew out the design with a scalpel, or when he put burning pieces of palm on the wound to burn the skin. He did not even bite his lip to withstand the pain. Bisila’s enormous eyes transmitted strength and calm.
When Simón finished, he gathered his things. He smiled faintly and said, “Now, Massa Kilian, you’re a little more Bubi.”
Bisila leaned over him, dabbed his wound with an ointment, whispering almost imperceptibly, “My Bubi warrior.”
That night, Kilian wandered around the room, not knowing what to do. Bisila had not turned up. He looked at his watch. They would not even be able to say good-bye to each other! He finally lay on his bed, downhearted, and a slight drowsiness overcame him.
A little later, a dead knock made him jump up. He sensed Bisila, who silently sneaked in, closed the door, and locked it. He cried out in joy. A few steps from the bed, she motioned for him to stay quiet and close his eyes.
Bisila removed her thin overcoat and pleated skirt and blouse and took out some things from a small basket. Finally, she told him he could look.
Kilian opened his eyes and gasped in surprise.
Bisila was dressed from head to toe with tyíb? cords covering her naked flesh. The cords, full of small shells, opened over her breasts and hips, hugging her curves. On her head she wore a wide-brimmed hat with peacock feathers. A wooden pin went through both sides of the hat, holding it in place on her head.
Bisila motioned to Kilian to get up and to come toward her.
In complete silence, she slowly undressed him.
When he was naked, she poured water into a bowl and took out some colored powders that she mixed with water to get a reddish paste, which she spread over Kilian’s body, beginning with his feet and legs. She gently rubbed it on his thighs and bottom, then his back, and finally his chest.
Kilian remembered that day in the village, when he wished aloud that she and she alone would name him botuku, anointing him with ntola in a river of pure water. He wanted to circle her in his arms, but she shook her head to stop him and continued the pleasurable torture of painting his stomach and chest. She then washed her hands and took other blue and yellow powders, mixed them with water, and with the resultant paste gently drew lines on his face, as if she wanted to memorize the distance from the nose to each ear, and from his hairline to his chin.
When finished, Bisila washed and dried her hands and took Kilian’s in hers.
“I have dressed like a Bubi bride, according to the ancient tradition,” she said in a voice filled with emotion. “And I have painted you as a warrior.”