“Listen, Maximiano.” He looked him straight in the eye. “I give you my word as a gentleman that I am totally opposed to any act of violence and even more so those committed against goods and property valuable for this country. But I’m afraid you have made your journey in vain. The Simón you are referring to had a serious accident. He has been recovering for over two months. He fell from the roof of one of the storehouses and broke both legs. However, if I hear anything that might shed light on your investigation, be in no doubt that I’ll get in touch with you.”
He remained totally composed, certain that his words had been convincing. He knew what these new and impertinent chiefs were made of, men like Maximiano who thought they were superior, even to whites like himself. You had to be extremely respectful, but also firm and determined.
Maximiano nodded, got up, and went to the door. “That’s all for the moment.” He left without saying good-bye.
Garuz breathed in relief and went out looking for Simón, whom he had to warn as quickly as possible. The young man would have no other choice but to pretend he had a limp, at least in front of any official uniform. And it was not in any way in his interest to be in that Maximiano’s bad books.
“No one talks about us Spaniards who are here! It’s not considered for one minute that we can form part of the future nation! But everyone else has their portion. The Bubi separatists, the neocolonial Bubis, the unitarian nationalists, the pro-independence radicals, and those who want gradual independence . . .”
“You forgot about the Nigerians, Kilian.” Manuel folded the ébano newspaper and started to flick through ABC. “With the civil war in their country between Islamic Hausa and Catholic Ibos, more are arriving here every day. I’m not surprised that Nelson and Ekon are happy that their brothers have come, but there is less and less work available here.”
Kilian swigged down his gin and tonic and signaled to the waiter for another round.
“If there is really going to be independence, why have they set up a Spanish National Television transmitter on the Santa Isabel peak?”
“They have done it against the will of the spirits of the forest . . . ,” Simón intervened, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was comfortably sitting in an armchair, triumphantly enjoying his drink in a whites’ bar.
“This television thing is a mystery.” He raised his eyes toward the box that was placed in a corner of the room. “Remember the first program we saw in this very room three months ago? Spain, Mother of Nations or something like that.” His tone became ironic again. “What I remember are the words of your head over there.” He sat up in his seat and imitated in a high-pitched voice: “‘You know that Spain has never been a colonizer, rather a civilizer and creator of nations . . .’”
Kilian and Manuel smiled.
“And now it turns out,” he continued, “that the whites talk about our independence as if it was the greatest success in your country’s mission of civilization. I don’t like that one bit, no, sir. As far as I know, my people were just fine before you came.”
“But you weren’t very civilized,” the doctor joked, looking over his glasses and returning to his reading. “Now you even have a constitution approved by the majority.”
“Not on the island, remember?” Simón interrupted. “The yes won by very few votes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Kilian. “The fact is, even the news is now broadcast in Fang, Bubi, and Spanish so that the three points of view can be seen. But the money is still coming here from Spain. It’s as if they were investing at a rate of knots to show us that self-determination has its risks.” He moved his glass dangerously in the air. “How is it possible, then, to be so certain that independence will come in a matter of weeks? How do you go from complete dependence to independence? Is everything suddenly dismantled and that’s it? If we all go, who will heal you, defend you, and educate you?” Simón started to speak, but Kilian waved his hand. “I’m afraid that the administration of the country will fall into the hands of people who, at best, can barely read and write, even if they now drive around in luxury cars to give their speeches. That’s not enough to run a country.”
Kilian looked at José, who did not take his eyes off the television. Above all, he loved the football match broadcasts.
“You’ve nothing to say, ?sé?”
José cleared his throat, joined his hands on his lap, and said, “With the help of my spirits, I intend to stay as far away as possible from damned politics.” He moved his head in the direction of the television. “Difficult times are coming, and even more so for the Bubis. Macías is Fang.”
On the box was the image of a slim man, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, passionately speaking through a microphone. He had narrow and slightly separated eyes. The four of them stayed quiet to listen to what the vice president of the autonomous government had to say, a former colonial civil servant, son of a famous witch doctor from Río Muni, who had begun in politics as mayor of his village on the continent.
He promised a minimum wage, retirement pensions and grants, loans to fishermen and farmers, and benefits for civil servants; he repeated his motto was unity, peace, and prosperity. He finished his speech with the phrase “What Macías promises, Macías delivers.”
“He is strong and charismatic and has conviction,” Manuel commented, “but frankly, he seems unstable. Sometimes, he talks of Spain as if it were an intimate friend, and others, he opposes any Spanish initiative. On Bata radio a month ago, he himself asked for a no vote on the constitution, and now look at him, in full election mode.”
They stayed silent for a few minutes. Kilian looked around him. Apart from a group of eight to ten whites gulping down their gin and tonics, most of the people in the bar were natives. Kilian stared at the whites. They were sitting around a round table with metal and leather briefcases at their feet. They wore short-sleeved shirts and flared trousers. One of them, a young man in his twenties with a round face, short beard, and bright eyes, raised his glass in salute to Kilian, who reacted in kind. He must be a recent arrival, since his skin was not sunburned, and while he drank, he did not stop looking around him with the amazement, curiosity, and fear of someone who had just landed on Fernando Po. How has he ended up here at this time? Kilian asked himself. He sighed, took a sip of his drink, and turned to José and Simón.
“Do you know who you’ll be giving your vote to next week?”
“Oh yes,” Simón answered in a low voice, leaning forward. “And I can assure you I won’t be giving it to the cock!”
José laughed. “Macías’s motto is ‘Everyone for the cock,’” he explained, also lowering his voice. “And I won’t be voting for him either.”
Manuel folded the newspaper and put it down on the table. “But many others will,” he said. “The current president of the autonomous government, Bonifacio Ondó, is campaigning for Spain. Nobody knows Atanasio Ndongo. And Edmundo Bosió’s Bubi Union will get votes only on the island. It’s obvious, Macías is seen as the devoted and convinced defender of his Guinean brothers and their interests. He’s being very well advised by that lawyer, García-Trevijano. He’ll be president. And the autumn of 1968 will go down in history.”