Kilian lit a cigarette and concentrated on the magazine in his hands. He was enthralled by an article on children baptized between 1864 and 1868: Pedro María Ngadi, José María Gongolo, Filomena Mapula, Mariano Ignacio Balonga, Antonio María Ebomo, Lorenzo Ebama . . . It was odd. The first names were typical, but the surnames sounded African.
Next, he read an article on the more than five million German children who lost their families in 1945. How distant the war seemed to him! He vaguely remembered letters from his father that his mother had read aloud—before folding them and devotedly putting them in the pocket of her skirt—letters in which he described a worrying social atmosphere on the island because of the nascent nationalist movements led by fears of being invaded by British and French troops. His father recounted how most everyone on the island wanted to remain neutral, though some were pro-Allies, and in the governor’s circle, they were more pro-Nazi. In fact, there was a time when German newspapers with Spanish subtitles were freely available.
The Spanish Civil War and the European war were now over. But from what Kilian had read during the voyage, Africa had not escaped political conflict. One article detailed how excommunication was threatened for any Kenyan sympathizer of the Mau Mau religious movement and its leader, Jomo Kenyatta, because it defended the expulsion of European influence on Africa and a return to their pagan rites.
The column made Kilian think. Expel the Europeans from Africa? Hadn’t they brought civilization to a savage land? Were Africans not better off? These questions were beyond his understanding, but that did not mean he did not mull over them. Anyway, the idea he had of the black continent came mainly from his father’s generation, a generation proud of serving God and country. And from what they had told him hundreds of times, working in the colonies meant serving the Almighty and the Spanish nation. Though they returned with their pockets full, they had also accomplished a noble mission.
Nevertheless, Kilian had many questions about how to relate to people so different from him. The only black man that he had met worked in the bar on the ship. Upon first seeing him, he had stared impolitely, looking for big differences between them apart from the colors of their skin and the man’s perfect white teeth. But there was nothing. As the days went by, he stopped seeing a black man and came to know Eladio the waiter.
It was most likely that the stories he had heard about blacks had little bearing on reality. When Antón and Jacobo talked to their family in Pasolobino, they referred to the coloreds doing this and the coloreds doing that. José was the exception; all the others seemed to be just an impersonal mass. Kilian remembered seeing an old postcard Antón had sent to Jacobo. It showed four naked-breasted black women. Antón had written in pen: “Look at how peculiar the black women are. This is how they dress on the streets!”
Kilian had studied the photo closely, finding the women pretty. They wore fabrics rolled and tied at the waist like skirts, the clote, which covered them down to their ankles. From the waists up, they were completely naked except for a simple necklace and some fine cords on their wrists. Each one had different breasts: high and firm, small, separated and generous. Their figures were svelte and their facial features extremely pretty, with full lips and large eyes. Their hair was gathered into what seemed like thin plaits. It was a beautiful photo. Though it was strange to find it on a postcard. The postcards he had seen were of monuments or picturesque corners of a city, country, or landscape, even people dressed elegantly, but . . . four naked women? They could not have known how it would be used. The photo made him feel strange, as if they had been treated the same way as an interesting insect.
He had the same feeling now while looking at one of the many photos from the magazine he was reading. It showed a group of blacks dressed like Europeans, with shirts and jackets, caps or hats. It was a normal photo, but for the caption: “The joy of Christmas brings about these scenes of outlandishly dressed men on farms and in villages.” He was surprised, knowing from his father that on special occasions, some natives dressed up as na?güe, a type of carnival clown to make people laugh, whom the missionaries called mamarrachos. But he had imagined them with masks and straw suits, and not dressed as Europeans . . .
Jacobo’s hoarse voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I hope we’ll be able to travel there by plane soon. I can’t take any more of this!”
Kilian smiled.
“If you didn’t drink so much at night, perhaps you wouldn’t get so seasick.”
“Then the days would seem longer and less bearable . . . And Manuel?”
“He’s at the cinema.”
Jacobo joined Kilian, took off his hat, and glanced at the magazine.
“Have you anything interesting for me today?”
Kilian began to give him the daily report. In less than two weeks, they each had developed their own routine. Manuel and Kilian read while Jacobo slept. When he woke up, they shared anything that had intrigued Kilian.
“Just now I was going to read an article about Bubi—”
“What a waste of time,” Jacobo interrupted him. “You won’t need Bubi there for anything. The majority of the natives speak Spanish, and you will spend your time surrounded by Nigerian farmhands on the estate. You should study the Pichinglis dictionary I gave you. You will need it all the time.”
On the table, there was a small brown book with a worn cloth cover titled Dialecto Inglés-Africano o Broke English, written in 1919, as announced on page one, by a priest from the Missionaries, Sons of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Kilian had tried to memorize some words and phrases, but he found it very difficult, as he had never heard it spoken. In the book, a word or phrase appeared in Spanish with the translation into African English, Pidgin English, Pichinglis or Pichi, as the Spanish called it, and its pronunciation.
“I don’t understand why the language is written in one form and pronounced in another. It makes it double the work.”
“Forget about how it is written. You won’t have to write letters to the Nigerians! Concentrate on the pronunciation.” Jacobo took the book and his brother’s new black pen with its gold cap. “Look, the first thing you have to do is memorize the basic questions.” He underlined the page. “And then you learn the expressions that you will say or hear.”
Jacobo closed the book and left it on the table.
“They will tell you that they are sick, that they can’t work, that they don’t know how to do it, that it’s very hot, that it’s raining a lot . . .” He lay back in the deck chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and sighed. “The blacks always look for excuses not to work. The same as children! You’ll see!”