Bisila loved him with an energy and a force unknown to him.
When Kilian sank into her, time after time, he felt as if he were a ship and she a whirlpool in the sea that swallowed him up and spat him out to swallow him again.
The assertiveness and strength of passion with which she gave herself to him transformed their intimate moments.
As if each time were the last.
“Are you annoyed?” Bisila asked.
“Why?”
“Because you wanted to hear I did nothing else but think about you . . .”
“Did you think of me or not?”
“Every second.”
“That’s good.”
Bisila leaned on her elbow to face him and began to caress his face, his neck, his shoulder. She moved closer to hug him and continued to stroke his hair, his nape, and his back while whispering words that he did not understand, but which made him moan.
When Bisila wanted to drive him wild, she spoke in Bubi.
“I want you to understand what I’m saying, Kilian.”
“I understand you perfectly . . .”
“I’m saying that you are so far inside me there is nothing I can do to get you out.”
“And I don’t intend to come out. I always want to be inside you.”
“Ah, lads . . .” Lorenzo Garuz rubbed his bushy eyebrows. His eyes had never seemed so sunken. “And what will I do now without you?”
Mateo and Marcial exchanged guilty looks.
“I . . . I’m really very sorry . . .” Marcial’s hands clung to the pith helmet on his knees.
“And so am I,” Mateo butted in. “But I hope you understand. We’ve been here a long time and—”
“Yes, yes.” A scowling Garuz raised his hand in the air.
He did not want to hear their reasons. He himself had sent his wife and children back to Spain, and he himself had moments of weakness when he wanted to throw in the towel and get the first transport back to the peninsula. He would not be the first manager to abandon his plantation to the mercy of the weeds and a handful of natives. His sense of responsibility, however, always managed to win out. He was not just any manager: he was the majority shareholder of Sampaka, the biggest, most beautiful, most productive, and best-run plantation on the whole island. Mateo and Marcial would happily accept any mediocre job in Spain. The new generations lacked the fortitude, the courage, the pride, and even the impetuousness of those who had built the colony. Garuz had managed not only to maintain, but to grow the property inherited from that forebearer of his who had left in search of his fortune more than half a century ago. He could not leave it in other hands.
“And don’t you ever think about leaving?” asked Mateo, as if he had read his mind.
“Until the constitution is approved and powers are handed over, Spain won’t abandon us.” He sighed loudly. “And I don’t see why I can’t keep producing cocoa, unless, of course, I end up with no workers.”
Someone knocked at the door, and Garuz gave him permission to enter. Mateo and Marcial sighed in relief.
The wachimán Yeremías poked his head in.
“Excuse me, Massa,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Of course. What’s the matter?”
Yeremías entered, took off his old hat, and held it in his hands, with his eyes glued to the floor.
“A policeman has come and says he has to talk to you urgently.”
Garuz frowned. “You haven’t forgotten to take them the usual eggs and bottles?”
“No, Massa, I haven’t forgotten. But this one isn’t from Zaragoza. He comes from the city and is wearing a very . . . official uniform.”
“I’ll be with him in a minute.” Garuz, puzzled, opened a drawer and took out two envelopes for his employees. “These are for you. A small reward for the fine work you’ve done over the years. Use it wisely. You both now have families to think about.”
He waited for both of them to take a look at what was in the envelope and raise their eyebrows, very pleased. Then he stood up and came over to them.
“Of one thing you can be sure, you won’t earn the same salary over there.”
Mateo and Marcial accepted the bonus with sincere thanks.
“Everything is already organized,” said Marcial. “We’re traveling by ship with all our things.”
“Nothing in comparison to the two bags we arrived with . . . ,” added Mateo.
A silence followed.
“All right.” Garuz put out his hand to say good-bye. “If, one day, you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Who knows?” Mateo opened the door. “We might meet up in Madrid—”
Before he could finish, a man barged into the office. He was quite tall and strong, and his face was marked by smallpox. He wore a gray Spanish police uniform, with brass buttons on the jacket and a red band sewn onto the sleeves, lapels, and cap.
“My name is Maximiano Ekobo,” he introduced himself. “I am the new chief of police in Santa Isabel. Which one of you is Lorenzo Garuz?”
Garuz made a gesture for the others to leave and offered his hand to greet the policeman. “What can I do for you?”
Maximiano sat down. “I’m looking for some young men who are sabotaging work on the new television facilities. During the day, laborers build the access way to Big Pico for the material needed for the building, the tower, and the powerhouse. At night, someone destroys what has been done during the day. Tools disappear, reference signs are removed, and the machinery is tampered with.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“A few weeks ago, we detained one of these men. They are nothing more than Bubis who want to destroy the gift given to us by Spain. The man has confessed that the ringleader is a Simón”—he paused to observe the manager’s reaction—“who works on this plantation.”
Garuz crossed his hands behind his back and began to pace. He had just handed final paychecks to two very hardworking men. Only three Spaniards were left on the plantation: Gregorio, Kilian, and himself. José, Simón, Waldo, and Nelson made up the rest of the small team. He did not like it one bit that Simón was involved in subversive activities. In other circumstances, he himself would have gone to the police, but at that moment, he could not allow himself the luxury of losing another employee. He saw no alternative but to lie, and chose his words carefully. Now, more than ever before, it was in his interest to get on well with the new authorities.