Leaning on the passageway railing, Kilian sighed deeply. Something inside told him that she would not come to his room ever again. Something horrible must have happened for her not to want to see him. He closed his eyes and remembered their wedding.
I promise to be faithful to you, she had told him, at least in my heart.
How could Mosi have found out about her infidelity when Kilian was in Spain?
No. Something did not fit.
The sirens marking the beginning of the workday broke the silence. Kilian hated that this terrible noise had replaced the drums. The hustle and bustle in the yard reminded him that he had to hurry up if he wanted to get breakfast before work.
Some minutes later, Jacobo came to breakfast, walking slowly and with his eyes half-closed. He was not feeling well.
“It must be because of the weekend in Santa Isabel,” said Kilian.
Jacobo shook his head. “I was to meet up with Dick and Pao, but they didn’t show. After the last night with them, I swore I wouldn’t drink again.”
“And what did you do without them?” Kilian asked sarcastically.
“I went to see a couple of girlfriends I’d been neglecting . . . They took me to the cinema.” Jacobo shrugged. “A very quiet weekend! I can’t make out why I feel as if I’d been run over by a train.” He put his hand on his forehead. “I think I have a temperature.”
Kilian poured him a cup of coffee. “Have something. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was something new.
Kilian got up and said, “Come on, I’ll go with you to the hospital.”
With a bit of luck, Bisila will be there, he thought.
Kilian was convinced that Jacobo had malaria. His brother was always forgetting to take the quinine tablets, and some nights, especially if he had gone out, he forgot to close the mosquito net properly around his bed. The tiredness and muscular pains, the shivers and the temperature, the headache and the sore throat, and the loss of appetite were all clear symptoms of the illness. He would be in the hospital for a couple of weeks, which would give Kilian the perfect excuse to see Bisila every day, to watch her until he found out what had happened.
“Syphilis?” Kilian opened his eyes wide. “But . . . how’s that possible?”
Manuel raised an eyebrow. “I can think of one or two ways of catching it,” he said with irony. “He’ll be with us for three weeks. Then he’ll have to take medication for a few months. I’m sure he’ll be more careful from now on.”
He snapped his file shut and went off.
Kilian stood for a good while without daring to go into the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and went in.
Jacobo was asleep. Kilian sat in a chair. The scene brought back distant memories of his father. How many hours had he spent sitting in a chair with Antón! An eternity had passed!
He laughed to himself, remembering the sight of the Bissappoo witch doctor placing the amulets on his father’s body. If it were not for his friendship with José, he would never have thought of the idea. He remembered how furious Jacobo had gotten. Maybe he should send for the witch doctor again to treat his brother, he thought mischievously.
Someone knocked at the door, and a sweet voice asked for permission to enter. Kilian jumped to his feet as Bisila came in. She looked at him in surprise, turned her gaze to the bed, and made out Jacobo. When she recognized him, she gave a whimper and dropped the small tray in her hand.
Kilian went over and gathered up the things she had scattered on the floor. Then he gently shut the door and went to her.
Bisila’s breathing was agitated. She could not speak.
Kilian hugged her and began to stroke her hair.
“What’s wrong, Bisila?” he whispered. “What’s tormenting my muarána muèmuè?”
Bisila’s body trembled in his arms.
Making a slight gesture in Jacobo’s direction, she asked, “What’s wrong with your brother?”
Kilian separated from her just enough to look at her face.
“Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” he said. “He has syphilis.”
Bisila clamped her lips together, and her chin began to tremble. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Syphilis!” she repeated in a voice laced with hate. “Na d’a pa’o buáa.”
“What did you say?”
Bisila did not answer. She began to sob and ran out of the room. Kilian leaned on the open door. There was hate in Bisila’s look, but also sadness.
Just then, he heard a big commotion as men called for the doctor. He left the room and went to the entrance hall.
Manuel was on his knees, examining the body of a badly wounded man lying on a makeshift stretcher. Kilian noticed his friend shaking his head and curling his lips in worry. A group of men prevented Kilian from seeing who he was treating, although it seemed to be a white man.
He looked at the faces of those around him and recognized one of the men from Mosi’s brigade. He went over and asked him what had happened. The man was very upset and answered in a mixture of Pichi and Spanish. Another man interrupted, and then another. Kilian finally understood their story.
Mosi’s brigade had begun clearing the forest, like every day. They were walking in columns of around ten people, opening the way with their machetes, when one of them shouted he had found something. Suspended from a tree, rocking gently in the breeze, hung the naked, beaten bodies of two white men with their hands tied together. Several stones had been hung from their feet. One of the men was already dead when they took him down. The other was still breathing.
Kilian cleared the way and knelt beside Manuel. The wounded man had cuts and bruises all over and deep wounds on his wrists and ankles, and he breathed with difficulty. Kilian stared at his face. He had the eyes of a savage beast.
Kilian recognized the Englishman, and the blood froze in his veins.
“Do you know this man?” Manuel asked.
“It’s Dick, one of my brother’s friends. He lived in Douala, but moved to Bata a while ago. I thought you knew him as well.”
“That’s why he looked familiar. Wasn’t he always with that . . . ?” Manuel had a suspicion. He stood up and gave orders that he be taken to the operating room, although the expression revealed that little could be done. The men moved aside to allow them to pass.
They immediately brought in the dead body of the other white man. They had covered his face with a shirt.
Kilian lifted a corner of the material.
“It’s Pao.” He brought his hand up to his chin and rubbed it nervously. “Who could have done this?”
The men around them began to talk in hushed tones. Kilian only managed to get the odd word: “whites,” “spirits,” “revenge . . .”
Manuel took him by the arm and spoke in a low voice, “It’s a bad time for this to happen, Kilian. Things are starting to turn ugly for us Europeans. If this spreads, more than one will leave the country. Don’t you feel the fear? Now the natives will use this to say it’s the work of the spirits—”
“I don’t understand,” Kilian interrupted. “What have the spirits got to do with this?”