“I’m not alone,” explained Kilian. “I have a wife and children.”
The people close to him found his situation completely normal, but saying it aloud to someone new gave him a pleasant feeling.
“They are still here?” Miguel raised his eyebrows, surprised. “The majority of the colonists still here have sent their families home.”
“Well . . . she is, in fact, Guinean. Bubi.”
“And what will you do if things turn ugly for you?”
“I don’t know.” Kilian sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh . . .”
A waiter approached to tell them they would be serving dinner in a few minutes. Garuz joined the group again, and together they went toward the dining room.
“Do you know, Kilian,” said Miguel as soon as he had sat down beside him at one of the round tables, “the first time I came here, I didn’t know what to do with so much cutlery. In Spain I don’t get the chance to move in such sophisticated circles.”
“I understand you perfectly!” Kilian laughed heartily.
Suddenly, the smile froze on his lips, and he looked at Gregorio, who had sat down three or four seats away from him. The other was as surprised as he.
A spectacular woman dressed in a fine white crepe dress on the arm of a man with a pockmarked face entered the dining room toward one of the tables close to them. She crossed the space between the entrance and Kilian and Gregorio’s table, swinging her hips and cackling as if what her partner was saying were the funniest thing in the world.
“Will you look at Maximiano,” Garuz commented, recognizing the head of police.
Kilian lowered his gaze when Sade shot them an arrogant look filled with hate. Later, when she sat in her seat at the table with the heads of national security, including the major they had met when they arrived, she did not stop flirting and murmuring in Maximiano’s ear, who looked at them, frowning on a couple of occasions.
“So you know them?” he asked his partner.
“The one with the dark hair with copper highlights abandoned me for another after leaving me pregnant.” Sade paused. “And the other, the one with the mustache, wanted to take me by threating me with a pistol.”
Maximiano launched a murderous look at the whites’ table.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to my uncle,” said a young man sitting beside Kilian, “but I’m happy not to be in your shoes.”
“Your uncle?” Miguel asked, surprised, leaning across Kilian.
“Didn’t I tell you I had family in high places?”
“Excuse me, Kilian. This is Baltasar, a television cameraman. He studied in Madrid and lives and works there. And this is Kilian”—he winked and smiled faintly—“one of the few colonists who hasn’t left yet.”
Kilian did not like being called a colonist, but he understood that Miguel had not said it maliciously. Kilian shook Baltasar’s hand.
“So you are Fang . . . ,” he commented finally.
Baltasar raised his eyebrow. “Does it bother you?”
“No, not for the moment.”
Kilian was sorry he had said that. The truth was he had just met the young man, and he had made a good impression on him. Baltasar looked at him quizzically, opened his mouth, but changed his mind. Then Miguel said, “Kilian’s wife is Bubi . . .”
“And . . . ?” Baltasar raised the palms of his hands. “Ah, I see now. Yes, an understandable simplification. Bubis are good, Fangs are bad, is that it?”
Kilian said nothing.
Baltasar clicked his tongue and poured himself a glass of wine in front of the glaring disapproval of the waiter behind him. Baltasar lowered his voice. “Let me tell you something, Kilian. Spain has awoken the capricious, resentful, and vengeful monster, not me. At first Macías seemed fine to them, and when they realized their mistake, they tried to overthrow him in a coup d’état, just when he was at the height of his power. And now, if they could, they would kill him. Do you know what Mr. President fears most? Death. Do you know that he punished one of his government delegates for coughing? He accused him of trying to pass a virus to the head of state. And what have the civil servants learned? They take long vacations until they are completely cured.” He laughed. “This is surreal! Macías does whatever it takes to keep death away. He will bribe, applaud betrayal, support his loyal followers, and kill on the spot anyone he thinks, suspects, or feels is against him. So, my friend, as long as Spain refuses to accept part of the blame in his election as president, it won’t be free of sin in the degeneracy that will follow until one of his lackeys turns on him.”
“You shouldn’t be telling us these things, Baltasar,” whispered Miguel. “You’re putting yourself at risk.”
“I’ll be going soon, thankfully. I leave politics to my relations.” He picked up the menu that was on the tablecloth. “Let’s see what dishes they’ll surprise us with today.”
Kilian was pleased with the change in subject and joined in on the jokes about the elaborate menu, consisting of poultry soup, poached eggs gran duque, lobster with tartar sauce, cold sea bass Parisian, English-style roast chicken, and tropical fruit salad. Bit by bit, he relaxed, and even had to admit that he was enjoying the buzz brought upon by Miguel’s and Baltasar’s company and conversation. He was especially curious about Baltasar, who had studied in Spain and had then gotten a full-time position through public examination in the television industry and who had no intention of moving from where he now lived.
“Miguel has told me that in Spain, nobody talks about Guinea anymore.”
“I suppose,” said Baltasar, “it’s in the interest of the politicians over there that whatever happened here is forgotten as soon as possible.” His tone became sarcastic again. “An exercise in democracy. The dictator Franco promoted a referendum and elections in Guinea, something unthinkable in his own state.”
Kilian frowned. At no point had it occurred to him to see the last few months from that perspective. He felt a little ashamed. He had become so involved in life on the island that he had not paid attention to what was happening in his own country. He had never thought about the fact that Spain was a dictatorship. His life revolved around work and everything else. He would have been incapable of explaining to anybody how the dictatorship was seen or publicized in his small Spanish colony.
“What’s your life like in the capital?” Kilian asked.
“I’ve spent so many years away that Madrid has become my home.”
“And you haven’t had any problems?”
“Well, apart from the fact I stand out among so many whites”—he laughed—“none. But many Guineans arriving in Spain seeking freedom find that the motherland has become the wicked stepmother. Spanish passports are no longer being renewed for native Guineans, so they become stateless. It didn’t happen to me because I’m married to a Spaniard.” Baltasar shrugged.