The noise of an engine brought her back to the night and the drizzle. The outside lamps flickered before going out. Darkness took over the yard.
She covered her head with a scarf and began her walk back to the hospital, making use of the transient lights of the pickup. She was not easily frightened, but at that time of night, the big yard seemed so empty and dark. She preferred to stick close to the buildings.
The pickup almost knocked her down.
It passed beside her at great speed, raising a dirt cloud that blinded her momentarily and made her cough. The vehicle stopped beside the porch under the bedrooms of the employees. Some men’s voices and laughs echoed in the dark. Bisila sensed that the laughs were coming her way.
A bad feeling ran through her body, and she decided to change direction. She would go to the laborers’ barracks through the dryers, located to the left of the main building.
A voice resonated like thunder just behind her.
“Well, well! What have we here?”
Bisila quickened her pace, but a figure out of the shadows cut off her path.
Her heart beat quickly.
“Not so fast, darky!” said a man with a strong English accent, catching her by the shoulders.
Bisila struggled with him. “Let me pass!” She tried to sound firm. “I’m a nurse in the hospital, and they are waiting for me!”
She freed herself and began to walk quickly away. No one would come to her rescue if it came to it. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm and forced her to turn around and face a tall man who reeked of alcohol.
“You’re not going anywhere,” muttered the Englishman in a slurred voice. “A woman shouldn’t be out walking alone at this time of night”—his lips curled in a nasty smile—“unless she is looking for something or someone.”
Bisila tried to free herself, but the man twisted her arm into her back, got behind her, and began walking toward his friend. Bisila screamed, but the man covered her mouth with his free hand and whispered threateningly, “You’d best be quiet.”
She tried to bite his hand, but he reacted quickly and squeezed his hand harder against her mouth while telling his friend,
“Eh! You’ll never guess what I found?”
The other man approached, also stinking of alcohol. He stretched out a bony hand and took off the scarf covering Bisila’s head.
“It looks like we still have some celebrating to do!” he said in an accent that Bisila did not recognize. He laughed. “I’m ready for more.”
He brought his hawkish nose forward and began to lewdly look over her face and body.
“I can’t see you properly.” He stroked her cheeks, bosom, and hips. “Hmmm . . . Better than I expected!”
Bisila twisted, terrorized, but the man holding her clasped her so tightly she was afraid he would break her arm. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Put the handkerchief in her mouth, Pao,” ordered the Englishman. “And get Jacobo out of the car.”
Bisila clung to a small thread of hope: Jacobo would recognize her and let her go!
Pao opened the door of the pickup and, after much insisting, managed to get the man inside to lurch out. Jacobo was barely able to stand. The Englishman shouted, “Hey, Jacobo! Wake up! The party isn’t over! Do you know where we can enjoy this beauty?”
“What about the dryers?” Pao asked hungrily.
Jacobo was having trouble thinking straight. The effects of the alcohol and iboga root had distorted his surroundings. Only once or twice before had he ventured to try the strong drug used by the natives to reduce their need for water and food in extreme work conditions. In small quantities, the bark or root of the thin-leaved bush with orange-colored fruit the size of olives had stimulating, euphoric, and aphrodisiacal properties. A large dose caused hallucinations. The quantity taken by Jacobo that night had sent him into delirium.
“There is a small room . . . where they . . . store . . . just here . . .” He turned and pointed out a small door in the porch. “The empty sacks . . . here . . . yes.” He went over to the door and rested against it. “It’s . . . comfortable,” he added, laughing.
The Englishman pushed Bisila violently.
“Come on! Move!”
Bisila tried to catch Jacobo’s eyes with a pleading look. The Englishman pushed her, and she resisted with all her strength, trying to get Jacobo to look at her. When he did, Bisila saw in horror that his glassy eyes did not recognize her. He was drugged. A sob escaped from her chest, and she began to cry.
The Englishman laid her on a pile of empty esparto sacks, then leaped on top of her, ripped her dress, and held her arms. The man was so strong that one hand was enough to hold her hands above her head. With his free hand, he ran along her body with the speedy clumsiness of someone who wanted only to satisfy his instincts. No matter how much she moved, she could not get away from his stinking breath, and he left a stream of spittle on her neck and bosom.
Bisila wanted to die.
She twisted and turned as hard as she could, like a live snake thrown into the fire. She tried to scream, but the handkerchief made her retch. She sobbed, moaning and kicking until a fist hit her in the face and she nearly lost consciousness. In the darkness, she saw the man’s face and felt a hand between her thighs and something hard penetrating her. Then another face, another breath, other hands, another body, one lunge after another, more penetration, and then a silence, a pause, some laughs, some voices, and another body and another face.
“. . . acobo . . . ,” Bisila burbled.
Jacobo stopped on hearing his name. She raised her head and tried to scream.
Again the laughs.
“Ah, Jacobo! It seems she likes you!”
“That’s what happens. You have to keep pushing, convince them what is good for them.”
“At the start they resist, but later—”
Jacobo was still, stunned by the pair of clear eyes trying to reach him. What were they asking for? What did they want him to do?
“Come on, finish up!”
More laughs.
A weak glimmer of hope conquered by the senses, Jacobo slowly rubbing himself against Bisila’s skin, gasping in her ear, quickening his pace, releasing himself into the body his brother adored, humiliating the soul that belonged to Kilian, tamely resting on her breast . . .
A prolonged moan of despair.
Some arms pulling at him.
“It’s over. Let’s go. And you, blackie, not a word!”
The Englishman tossed her some notes.
“Buy yourself a new dress!”
And then, silence.
An eternity of silence till consciousness fully returned.
A beaten and raped black woman. An ordinary black woman abused by an ordinary white man. All black women humiliated by all white men.
A short while ago, she was Bisila of Bissappoo, Kilian of Pasolobino’s wife.
When she opened her eyes, she was a heap of rubbish on top of empty sacks.