Kilian took a sideways look at him. What in hell is happening to this blasted country?
“Why don’t we leave?” Kilian repeated.
“Go where?”
They had been through this before.
“To Spain. Together. You’re my wife. I’ll take you with me.”
“My place is here.”
“Your place is with me.” Kilian got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and hung his head. “Everyone is leaving,” he said.
Bisila sat beside him. “The children of a white and a black are Guinean, not Spanish. They wouldn’t let them leave.”
A silence.
“I don’t belong in Pasolobino. I would always be the black woman that Kilian of Rabaltué brought back from the colony.”
Kilian protested, “You would be my wife! They would get used to you!”
“But I don’t want anyone to have to get used to me.”
“We could also live in Madrid, or in Barcelona. I would get a job in any factory.”
“You’re a man of the land, of the mountain, of the plantation. In a city, you would be unhappy. As the years passed, you would blame me for your sadness, and our love would end.”
“Then I will stay. I still feel safe on the plantation.”
Bisila got up and went over to the table with a small mirror resting on it. On the mirror, Kilian had stuck the only photo of them both together. She smiled, remembering the day when Simón came to show them his new camera: “Let’s see, Bisila. You put yourself here . . . Like that . . . Fernando come to your mother. Here and still. And now smile . . . Kilian, now you, here, yes, that’s good. You can lean on the truck if you want.”
Life was full of ironies; as soon as they became free to love each other, the persecution of the whites had begun.
“Yes, on the plantation, you’re safe,” she repeated without taking her eyes off the photo. “But . . . for how long?”
“Where are they going?” Kilian, puzzled, followed Garuz to the middle of the main yard. A group of laborers carrying large bundles with their few belongings had gathered there. Their wives and children were with them. He saw Bisila holding on to Lialia’s arm, and Oba with one of Ekon’s children in her arms.
“Where are you going?” Garuz repeated.
“We’re also leaving, Massa,” Nelson answered in a deep voice. “News has come that we can go back home. There’s very little for us here.”
“But . . . the war?” Kilian asked.
“It’s over. They are going to pardon those who were defeated. Well, that’s what they say. And they have sent ships for us.”
“We don’t want the same to happen to us as happened to the Portuguese,” Ekon intervened. “The president here only wants Guineans.”
Kilian hung his head. They were also leaving. His last companions. And the harvest? Who would collect the fruit ripening on the trees?
Garuz swore and went to his office.
Bisila stood beside Kilian. Nelson put out his hand to say good-bye to his boss, but Kilian shook his head.
“I’ll take you in the truck. It’s a long walk for the children.”
“I don’t think it . . .”
“I couldn’t care less if it’s risky or not. I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll go as well,” said Bisila.
An hour later, the group of Nigerians began descending the slope of the fevers, hesitant. Hundreds of people were piled up on the small jetty as the Guinean authorities asked for their identification documents one by one, before allowing them on the narrow gangway.
Kilian and Bisila leaned on the balustrade of the upper balcony with other curious onlookers. Fortunately, he was not the only white there, thought Kilian. He saw Miguel and Baltasar in the distance. Every few seconds, Bisila raised her hand and waved to Lialia and her children. Kilian admired her ability to put on a cheerful smile when he knew how sad she was to lose her best friend. Ekon and Lialia’s children, whom Bisila had cured of little cuts and illnesses since they were small, also waved until it was their turn to board.
Nelson and Ekon showed their papers; Lialia did the same. When it was her turn, Oba showed them her passport, and the policeman frowned. He talked to his partner for a few seconds and finally said, “You’re Guinean. You cannot leave.”
Oba felt the earth swallow her up.
“But I’m going with my husband.”
Nelson moved back a few steps. The passengers behind Oba began to shout in protest. “What’s going on?”
The officer looked up at the colossus with the round face.
“What’s it to you?”
“This woman is my wife.”
“Let’s see papers.”
Nelson and Oba felt a sudden panic. They had planned to get married, but for one reason or another, they had kept putting it off.
“Where is the marriage certificate?”
“We’ve lost it,” Nelson answered rapidly, hoping with all his heart that the police would accept his lie and let Oba through.
“Well, then she’s not going.” He grabbed her by the arm and removed her from the line with such force that Oba fell to the ground. The impatient shouts increased, now mixed with indignation at the man’s rough treatment of Oba.
“Oba!” Nelson pushed the two police and hunkered down beside her. From the boat, the desperate voices of Ekon, Lialia, and Nelson’s family could be heard, confused that they were taking so long to get on board. The ship’s horn sounded, warning that it would soon be departing. Those left on land began to push forward, and they knocked down the police officers. From the ground, one of them took out his weapon and began to fire indiscriminately. The other followed suit, and several people fell to the ground. The cries of impatience became howls of pain and panic. Those who were able to get on board got to the gangway. Others, stunned, tried to help their wounded relatives.
From above, Kilian and Bisila watched the scene in shock. When the gunfire stopped, the ship began to slowly move away on the waters, unaware of the bewilderment of the people who leaned over the deck’s railings in a vain attempt to find out what had happened to their friends or relations. On the jetty, several bodies lay on the ground, men and women raising their hands to their heads in grief. Bisila tightly held Kilian’s hand and stifled a scream when she recognized Oba.
Sitting down, with Nelson’s bloody face in her lap, Oba moved backward and forward, rocking him. Not a sound came from her throat. She opened and closed her mouth as her small hands stroked her man’s hair, soaked in his blood.
“What a surprise, Kilian!” exclaimed a biting voice. “Still here?”
Kilian grimaced. He still had suspicions that Sade and her friends were behind Gregorio’s beating. As had been made clear in the casino, she enjoyed the friendship of high-ranking people. He took Bisila by the hand.
“We’d better leave,” he said.