Kilian could not hide his surprise. For a few seconds, a new hope dawned in his heart. He would talk to Bisila and convince her to go with him. They could start a new life somewhere else. If others had done it, why not them?
Just at that moment, the waiters finished clearing the plates and offered the guests whiskey and soda. The band opened its session out on the stand with a James Brown number, and people began to leave their seats to go outside to the terrace. Gregorio got up and said something to Garuz. Kilian heard him answer, “I don’t know if it’s wise to go alone.”
“Where are you going?” asked one of the television men.
“Off to see what’s open out there.”
“Can we come with you?” another asked. “We’d like to get to know a bit more of the city by night . . .”
Gregorio shrugged and began heading off, followed by the other two.
“Those two don’t miss a trick,” said Miguel, smiling.
“They should be careful,” warned Baltasar, indicating the table where his uncle and the rest of the heads of national security were. “They don’t like our women to go off with whites as before.”
Gregorio left Anita’s alone. His companions had left earlier. He walked a little unsteadily to his car. There was not a soul in sight. He opened the door, but before he could get into the car, a hand with an iron grip held him by the shoulder. In seconds, other hands forcefully grabbed him, put a sack over his head, then shoved him into a car that left at top speed to some unknown destination.
The car stopped. They got him out roughly and made him walk a few steps. He heard the metallic and squeaky sound of an iron gate being opened. In total silence, they jerked the sack off his head. It took him a few seconds to determine where he was. The five or six men broke out laughing when they saw his expression.
He was in front of an open grave beside several tombs. He began to break out in a cold sweat. They had brought him to the cemetery! The urine began to flow down the insides of his thighs.
“See this hole, Massa Gregor?”
They knew his name. The darkness prevented him from seeing their faces. He saw only eyes filled with bloodlust. And what would it matter if he recognized any of them or not?
“Look, we have dug it for you. Yes, just for you.”
“Do you think it will be big enough?”
“Why don’t we check?”
Laughter.
The first blow was in the back. The second, level with his kidneys. Then, punches all over. Finally, a push that sent him into the grave, then some threatening voices. “This is just a warning, white man. You won’t know when, but we’ll be back for you.”
Again, the squeaking sound of the gate.
A good while passed before Gregorio could drag himself out of the grave, groaning from the pain of the blows, to cross the cemetery in silence with his spirits broken, and to get his bearings. When he reached his car, a few meters from the club, the cuts on his face had stopped bleeding, but he had already made a decision.
When he got to Sampaka, he woke up Garuz and asked for his wages.
As dawn broke, Waldo took him to the airport and Gregorio disappeared off Fernando Po without saying a single good-bye.
Miguel and Baltasar gathered up the material and stored it in the metal cases.
“Thanks for coming with us to film the cocoa production process, Kilian,” said Miguel. “It was very enlightening.”
“If you had only seen it a couple of years ago . . . Now it’s pitiful to look at. With the few of us who are left here, we can’t even keep the weeds under control. And the production isn’t even a tenth of what it used to be.” A few drops of rain began to fall from the sky, and the three quickly got into the vehicle.
The shortest and safest route to the block of flats where the television crew were staying passed through the residential district where the house of Julia’s parents had been. The couple of times that Kilian had passed in front of the Factoría Ribagorza, he had felt his heart twinge, hoping that the door would open and Emilio or his daughter would come out.
Without any warning, the street became filled with youths running in different directions. Kilian had a bad feeling. Without slowing down, he drove on, and a few meters from Emilio’s old store, he stopped.
“Oh my God! What are they doing?”
Dozens of youths were destroying the shop. Some broke the windows with thick wooden bars. Others went inside to come out with their arms full of goods. Suddenly, they saw them pushing out a white man, probably the new owner, Jo?o the Portuguese, who, with his hands together, pleaded with them not to do anything to him. Ignoring his pleas, they began to give him a brutal beating. His blood spattered the ground. Without a second thought, Kilian shot out of the car and ran toward them, shouting and waving his arms.
“Stop! Stop at once!”
He immediately realized his mistake. A tall boy with a shaved head turned and smiled at him. “Here comes another! Get him!”
With his heart beating wildly, Kilian remembered his lessons from the plantation.
“Leave that man alone at once!” he shouted firmly.
“And why should we, white man?” The young man with the shaved head approached him, swaggering in arrogance. “Because you say so?”
In a second, Kilian saw himself surrounded by several men, most of whom could not be older than twenty. He felt his confidence desert him.
“No white gives us orders,” said another.
The sticks rose in the air. Kilian crossed his arms over his face. He waited, but nothing happened. Then he heard a familiar voice say in a friendly tone, “If I were you, I wouldn’t do that.” Baltasar had placed himself between him and the circle of boys. “I am the nephew of the head of police, Maximiano, and this man is a friend of his.”
Without turning, he said to Kilian, “Go back to the car. I want to talk to these lads so they can explain to me why they are so angry.” He asked them a question in Fang, and the others blabbered out a litany of responses.
Kilian got into the car. His legs were still shaking. Miguel was hunched in the backseat.
Kilian said nothing. He looked through the window into the sitting room of the house and felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. A woman with a baby in her arms squeezed a child of about five or six against her waist. He thought he heard her cries. Would they see their father and husband alive again?
Baltasar returned to the car accompanied by the shaven-headed youth. Baltasar said good-bye to him and got in. The youth leaned down to catch Kilian’s eye. “Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
Kilian started the engine and began to drive off. “Thank you, Baltasar,” he said. “You’ve saved my life.”
He waved his hand in the air and said nothing.
“Would you mind telling me what was going on?” Miguel asked after a while.
“A group of Portuguese mercenaries tried to invade Guinea Conakry. Macías gave his youth sections free rein to protest against the Portuguese.”
Miguel grunted. “This afternoon I’m going up to the television station on the summit, and I don’t intend on coming down for a week.”
“It’s not a bad idea, given the current mood . . . ,” mused Baltasar.