Few men went to work. The labor contract with Nigeria had been canceled, but that was not the problem, as there were more than enough workers; you only had to look at them wandering around the place, disoriented, not knowing very well what to do or where to go. In fact, it was as if the whole world had been infected by the despondency of their superiors.
Deep down, Kilian still hoped for a cheerful voice to announce that relations between both countries had never been better and that although the government of the new Guinea was now independent, daily life and work continued as usual. But the reality was very different. The few sources of communication, such as Radio Santa Isabel, Radio Madrid, and the ébano newspaper, reported widespread disenchantment and threats against the whites. The hoped-for aid never arrived. There was no money, and it was difficult to adjust to the newly established civil order; the population did not notice any change in their low standard of living. For those who refused to leave, it was difficult not to remember Macías’s words. “Slavery is finished,” he used to repeat. “Let no one help the whites, no black should be afraid of whites . . . We are not poor, Guinea is rich, we are over an oil pocket . . . Now I’ll put the whites in prison if they go against the government . . .”
They drove back to the plantation along dirty, rubbish-filled, and bloodstained streets. As the car drove along, they felt the mistrust of many passersby.
Garuz asked Simón to go faster. “I don’t know, Kilian,” he murmured, deep in thought. “I don’t know if we are taking a great risk. Even the television people have now left . . .”
Simón braked sharply. A small woman walked along the roadside, carrying a large bundle of clothes on her head. Simón turned to Kilian, pleaded with his eyes for him to intercede with Garuz to pick up the woman.
Kilian got out of the car. “Oba . . . What are you doing here all alone?”
“I’m going to live with Nelson. There is no work in the store, Massa. I hope the big massa won’t mind.”
“Come on, we’ll take you.”
Oba and Kilian got into the car. She was surprised to recognize Garuz sitting beside the driver. Garuz did not turn around. He did not open his mouth either. He could not care less what the girl did or did not do, although . . . He straightened himself up in his seat. If women were the reason why men like Kilian and Nelson had stayed with him, he found it as good a reason as any. Also, there was no lack of laborers’ houses on Sampaka.
From summer onward, the tension decreased and the mood calmed down. In October 1969, new bilateral agreements were signed, and Spain guaranteed a multimillion-dollar loan to Guinea. Taking advantage of the return of some colonists to their properties, and after several meetings with them, Garuz decided to attend a gala dinner in the casino.
After the manager insisted it would be a good idea to rub elbows with the upper echelons of the country’s administration, Kilian and Gregorio were left with no choice but to accompany him. Kilian had reluctantly agreed. He did not want to go at all, but he would do anything as long as it meant he would be able to stay longer. He reminded Waldo to have several dozen eggs and some bottles of brandy ready to avoid problems at the checkpoints and borrowed a dark suit and a bow tie from Garuz.
Entering the casino, Kilian noticed to his amazement that only two things had changed in the main room. First, most guests were natives, and second, military uniforms almost outnumbered dress suits. Otherwise, the band played on, and the many waiters ensured that everyone was looked after perfectly.
Garuz, escorted by Gregorio and Kilian, greeted many of those present with exaggerated friendliness, especially those introduced as the director general for security, a sturdy man with a severe look, and the secretary of defense, serious and pensive, wearing a major’s uniform. Kilian held out his hand and felt a shiver, not a smile to be seen.
The sound of laughter came from the door leading to the outside terrace, where the bandstand was. Garuz looked in that direction and smiled in relief to see a group of Europeans enjoying the party. Kilian had the feeling he had seen them before, but he could not remember where. Garuz greeted them, exchanged a few words with two men, and then went off with them to a small room.
“Hello,” said a voice by his side. “If you have come with Garuz, I suppose you must be one of his employees.” He put out his hand. “I’m Miguel. I work in television.” He gestured toward the others. “We all work in television. Some in broadcasting and others in the studios.”
Kilian looked at the bright-eyed young man with a short beard and remembered the night a drunk man had accused Miguel of blowing cigarette smoke in his face.
“I’m Kilian. Yes, I work in Sampaka. I thought all of you from the television were gone.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gregorio beginning to chat with two of the young men from the group. Kilian judged he was trying to show off with stories of his colonial experience.
“They had to hightail it out of here after the March coup, but afterward, they sent us back. And we’re still here . . . for the moment.”
“How are things in Spain? Have they got any idea about what is going on in Guinea?”
“Well, trust me when I say,” replied Miguel, “that apart from family and friends, nobody has any idea about anything. The press only praises Spain’s good work. But really, no one on the street talks about it.”
“Yeah . . .” Although Kilian could have guessed the answer, it still did not make it less disheartening. “How do you know Garuz?”
“Garuz and almost all the businessmen are chasing after us to get us to write checks so that they can give us Guinean pesetas in return. We spend them, and they are happy. They are afraid the new currency has no value. So you know, if you have money . . .”
Kilian felt a camaraderie with the man. It had been ages since Kilian had spoken to anyone outside Sampaka.
“Thanks,” he answered, “but my salary goes into a Spanish bank. I only keep a bit for day-to-day expenses.” He lit a cigarette. “And what do you do here exactly?”
“I’m in charge of maintaining the network, up there, on the mountain. On my days off, I come down to the casino to play tennis. Look at that man over there.” He pointed to a very tall, well-built man a short distance away. “He’s the consul from Cameroon. He’s always looking for me to play with him.” He laughed. “Probably because he always beats me. Well, and you? How long have you been here? Me, not very long, but you have the look of someone who must be a real expert on Fernando Po, am I right?”
Kilian smiled sadly. Yes, he had a special knowledge of the island and its peoples, but if Miguel knew what he had gone through, his words would not be tinged with envy.
For a long while, they talked amicably about their lives and the political situation. Miguel was blunt: in the street, he always felt unsafe, so he limited himself to going to work and enjoying the facilities in the casino, where he insisted Kilian should go to pass the time and ease the loneliness of the plantation.