Jacobo trying to explain to a mute Manuel.
“He tried to attack me,” he said over and over again. “You saw it.”
Mateo shaking his head. “It’s obvious that the whites aren’t wanted here anymore.”
And Jacobo: “We’ll all end up sleeping with a gun under our pillows. Thanks be to God nothing happened to you, Kilian.”
And Mateo: “I’d never have thought Mosi would do something like this!”
Bisila knelt beside Mosi’s body.
All was water and silence.
“Run, Bisila. Go and tell your son his father is dead.”
People and more people.
Water and more water.
Kilian needed something to lean on.
And Jacobo: “He tried to attack me. You saw it, Kilian. I had no choice. It was in self-defense.”
“Who did you pay, Jacobo, who did you pay to get you the pistol?”
“Why did you jump on top of him? Did you want to save him?”
Bisila picking up his hat from the ground, stroking it with her soft hands.
And Jacobo’s voice: “Best let Manuel have a look at you. I’ll sort all this out with the police.”
“Go, Jacobo. They’ll come for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Get off my island.”
18
B?k?ttò
Days of Sorrow
1965–1971
Lorenzo Garuz personally sped up the paperwork so that Jacobo could terminate his contract with the Sampaka plantation and return to Spain. The latest happenings needed to be forgotten about as quickly as possible. Jacobo shot someone who had already killed two Europeans. Case closed. For his own safety, it was best that he left immediately, without a farewell party or dinner: only a few pats on the back from his upset friends and two light pecks from Julia, who showed him support and understanding—something he missed from Kilian and Manuel—by clasping his hands for a few wordless seconds.
Kilian did not go to the airport with his brother. He did not go to Mosi’s funeral. José had convinced him it was better like that. None of the fellow workers or neighbors of Bisila’s husband would understand. Now Kilian was just another white.
Since Mosi’s death, it had not stopped raining. The wind blew in their corner of the island stronger than Kilian ever remembered. He had not seen Bisila for twenty days. He had asked José, but he had refused to reveal her whereabouts, and to approach the barracks would have been unwise. The workdays felt unbearably long on the plantation as the men prepared for the coming harvest. The tornadoes brought to mind his father’s words: “Life is like a tornado. Peace, fury, and peace again.”
As time passed, he started to better understand many of the things Antón had told him. At thirty-six, Kilian had enjoyed little peace and much fury. Only Bisila had been able to offer him moments of calm. And he needed more. When would they see each other again?
At last, one night, someone opened the door of his room after he had gone to bed. He sat up, frightened, but an unmistakable voice hastened to calm him, “You still leave the door unlocked.”
“Bisila.” Kilian sprang up and ran to her.
Bisila’s head was covered in a scarf. Her eyes shone in the darkness. Kilian wanted to hold her in his arms and breathe her in, whisper in her ear the torrent of emotions that were overwhelming him, kiss her face and body, make her understand that nothing had changed . . .
Instead, he stood still, waiting for a sign to let him know that she wanted the same.
“I have to talk to you,” she said gently.
She raised her hands to her head and took off her scarf. Kilian gasped in shock when he saw that her head was shaved.
“Your hair, Bisila! What happened?”
She took his hand in hers, took him over to the edge of the bed, and sat down beside him. She began to stroke it, and then she brought it to her lips and kissed it. At that moment, he felt hope course through him.
The moonlight filtered through the room. Even with no hair, Bisila was more beautiful than ever. The hardness in her eyes had disappeared, and her lips had lost the bitter grimace of their latest meetings and formed a timid smile.
“I’m so sorry,” he began to say. The words came streaming out, tripping over each other. “I shouldn’t have gone. All I want is for everything to be as it used to . . . Mosi is dead . . . Now you are free to be with me—”
Bisila put her hand on his lips and said, “I said that that was possible only if the woman carried out the mourning ritual fully. I’ve never given up my beliefs. What I feel for you has temporarily taken me from what I once was, but something inside me is asking me to go away and think about what has happened, what I want, and who I really am.”
Kilian frowned. “Do you need time to admit that in your heart, I’m your real husband?”
Bisila gave a sad smile. “Before the eyes of the divine and the human, Mosi was my husband. As far as my people are concerned, the mourning period is necessary. But there’s something else.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice trembled. “The memories of that night are always there, in my mind. I can’t get rid of them. And their words, Kilian . . . They not only seized my body, but also my soul. They made me feel as insignificant as a worm. I have to recover. Otherwise, I won’t be free to love you. I don’t want to compare you to them, Kilian, with the whites who have abused us for so long. That’s why I have to distance myself from you.”
Kilian got to his feet and paced the room. The attack suffered by Bisila hurt him deeply, but the dread he felt now was worse.
“Tomorrow I’ll go to Bissappoo. I’ll be alone for another twenty days in a cabin on the outskirts . . . ,” she added.
“Almost another month!” exclaimed Kilian.
Bisila bit her bottom lip. “Then I will lodge in a house beside my mother’s, where Iniko will stay. Mosi didn’t have any family, so nobody will come looking for my son, which is a relief. I will paint my body in a clay paste, and I will decorate my knees, arms, wrists, and waist with esparto bands. No one will be able to see me dressed in widow’s weeds for a couple of days. Then I’ll be able to go out and walk wherever I wish, but neither will I come down to Sampaka nor will you come up to see me during the mourning period.” She finished. “That’s everything.”
“And how long will you be like that? How long will we be like that?”
Bisila murmured something.
“A year,” she whispered as she got to her feet.
Kilian froze. “Don’t ask so much of me,” he whispered in desperation. “What am I going to do here?” He looked for her eyes. “Aren’t you afraid our time is running out?”
She met his gaze with firm determination.
“You can’t stop me from coming to see you in Bissappoo . . .”
“If you come . . . ,” Bisila warned him, “I’ll never return! You have to promise me!”