“I know you’re not going to listen, but I think you’re taking too much cortisone. In fact, it was Bisila who showed me some very effective remedies prepared from Namibian devil’s claw . . .”
Father Rafael shook his head forcefully. “Never. You think I’m going to trust a plant named devil’s claw? I wonder what side effects it has! I’d rather put up with the pain.”
“As you wish.” Manuel shrugged. “But you should know your arthritis is not going to get better. Maybe you should think about moving to a dryer climate.”
“And what would I do without my children in Guinea? What would they do without me? If it is God’s will, I’ll be here until the end of my days, come what may.”
Manuel diverted his gaze toward the window, drenched by the last rays of the evening sunlight. He thought the priest’s words coincided with those of many of his patients. For the priest, it was God’s will; for the others, the will of the spirits. Manuel did not agree with any of them. It was the will of men that made the world go crazy.
“You and me, Manuel”—Manuel listened to the priest—“we owe it to our patients. You wouldn’t abandon a wounded man in the middle of an operation? Then . . .”
“Why are you telling me all this, Father?”
“I’ll be frank with you, son. I’ve spoken to Julia, and she told me that you’d like to leave. She doesn’t want to.”
Manuel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Sooner or later, she’ll agree it’s the best thing for our children. Don’t take it the wrong way, Father, but I have two children I can save. If you could bring everybody, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do it. I have seen many sick people in my life, Father, and I can assure you that the sorrows of the soul are nothing compared to physical pain.”
“Ah, Manuel! Blessed are you! If you say that, it’s because nobody has really done you any harm.” Father Rafael got up. “Let me not delay you any further. I’ll come around again some other time.”
Alone once again, Manuel thought of his words. Maybe the sorrows of the soul were much worse than physical pain. Bisila’s arm was healing, and the bruises were disappearing. But there was no medicine, neither native nor foreign, that could mend her grief.
Bisila entered the hospital as Kilian bumped into her. She could see the fire in his eyes and felt an iron grip on her heart. For a few seconds, he held her arms, calming down.
Bisila drew away slowly, but he did not release her.
“Bisila,” he murmured.
The words choked in his throat. He wanted to tell her that he missed her, that he loved her, that he was sorry for her suffering, that she should let him share her pain, and that he would always be by her side. But he did not know how to begin.
“I know everything. I’m sorry.”
He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms. He wanted to take her from there, go up to Bissappoo, and shut themselves up in the house where he had been her king and she his queen, in that place where they had loved each other.
Bisila cautiously drew away.
“Kilian . . .” It had been ages since she had said his name out loud. Her voice was sweet. He needed sweetness after the bitter discussion with his brother, after the anguish of the last few weeks and the last few months. “I need time.”
We don’t have any, Bisila, he thought. Time passes very quickly when we are together. We’ll run out of it, and then we’ll be sorry.
But he agreed.
“I want you to tell me one thing, Bisila.” He inhaled deeply. The question was not easy. “When is Jacobo getting out of the hospital?”
Bisila turned away, clenching her jaw. She despised that man, just as she had the other two. When she saw their lifeless bodies, she felt no remorse. The hurt would not be erased with their deaths. No. It would stay with her, between them, all their lives.
She knew that Kilian wanted to protect his brother. Protect him from Mosi. But Mosi would not be stopped. Of that she was sure. Jacobo would also pay for what he had done. Kilian should not ask her anything to do with Jacobo.
“I have to know,” he insisted.
Bisila fixed her eyes on his and saw him sway between his loyalty to her and to his brother. For her there was no possible justification that could erase Jacobo’s sweating face over hers. But he wanted her to understand that in spite of everything, he was still his brother. He was asking her to help him save his life. He was asking her to name the time and place when Mosi’s vengeance, and of course her own, would be enacted. What would she do in his position? Would she save her brother? Or would she allow hate to blind her?
“Saturday afternoon,” she said in a hard voice. “You could have asked the doctor.”
“Does Mosi know?”
Bisila lowered her eyes and began walking toward the door. Kilian quickly put his hand on the knob to stop her.
“You taught me something,” he mumbled, “and I believed you. You told me that even when a bad man escapes punishment of this world, he will not escape punishment in the next. Let the baribò deal with him.”
Bisila closed her eyes and whispered, “Mosi knows. He will come for him. At dusk.”
It would take Kilian years to erase the memory of Mosi’s enormous body crushing him against the ground, the feeling of asphyxia and shock. Throughout his life, he would often wake up in the middle of the night startled by the sound of a gunshot.
On Saturday, the spirits conspired so that Kilian would not arrive in time to collect his brother. The blasted truck broke down in the most distant part of the plantation. Kilian shouted at Waldo to hurry up, to fix it no matter what. Waldo became nervous with the massa’s shouting. At last, he got the engine running, but they had wasted a lot of time, and the vehicle could not go any faster. Sitting beside him, Mateo did not understand the rush.
On the horizon, the darkening speck told them that soon the world would become quiet, an intense calm would precede the noise of thunder, the roar of the wind, and the breaking of trees.
The downpour unleashed as Kilian approached the hospital.
Everything was water.
He put on his helmet and jumped from the truck. Behind the liquid curtain, Jacobo was holding a pistol, threatening Mosi. Why had Mosi come to the very entrance to the hospital? Or had he planned to follow Jacobo and the unexpected storm had given him the perfect opportunity? On the steps, a desperate Manuel shouted at Mosi, trying to get him to stop. The wind and the water swallowed his words.
Mosi was not afraid. He moved closer to Jacobo, wielding a machete in his hand. Jacobo shouted at him to stop, that he would not hesitate to shoot, but Mosi was not listening. Followed by a stunned Mateo, Kilian ran toward them like a madman, bawling at Mosi not to go any farther.
Jacobo’s arm tensed. Mosi took another step. Kilian threw himself at him, and a shot was heard.
The bullet grazed Kilian’s head and embedded itself in Mosi’s chest.
Everything happened at once: Kilian in the air, the bullet close to his head, Mosi’s blood mixing with the rain, Kilian on the ground, and the giant falling on top of him.
Steps approached.
Someone got Mosi off him, helped him up.
The doctor. Nurses.