“Stay still,” said Gustavo. “It’s better that you lie on your chest and stomach.”
His back and legs were full of open wounds, and skin and bits of flesh were missing. It was obvious that the sergeant major of the prison had let his dog loose. It would take three or four days before the man could change position. When he was able, they would take him to whip the sore-covered body again. And like that until he died, or they got tired, or they decided to send him to clear weeds, like Gustavo and Waldo. For the wardens, the prisoners had no soul. If they were to read the inscriptions on the wall, thought Gustavo, where the prisoners had written their last anguished thoughts in their own blood, the wardens would know what they had done with their souls.
For a good while, Gustavo and Waldo talked to the new arrival without getting any reply. They knew from experience that words of comfort did a lot of good. They explained to him where they were, the meal routine, and the cleaning out with the tin where he would have to do his deeds. They told him his body would become used to the blows and that there was a possibility of surviving—like them, who had been imprisoned a long time and were still alive—or getting out, by whatever stroke of luck.
When he noticed the man’s breathing relaxed, Waldo asked, “What’s your name?”
“Maximiano . . . Why are you here?”
“The same reason as everyone else.”
Gustavo preferred not to give any more explanations. Since Macías had created a one-party regime, a never-ending and cruel hunt had begun, and an indiscriminate purge of both the opposition and all those who could try and become president of the republic through their ability or influence. From one day to the next, anyone could become a subversive or an enemy of the people. In the case of Gustavo, who had been a member of a political movement, the reasons for his arrest were obvious; not so with Waldo, whose outspoken comments in the presence of a former colonial guard, dressed in plainclothes and converted into a Macías spy, had been enough to imprison him. In many other cases, a system of informing took over, even among members of the same family, in order to get a promotion or settle an old score. Thanks to the comings and goings of prisoners, Waldo and Gustavo had been receiving news from the outside about the paranoia of the president of the republic.
“And you? What are you in for?”
“Someone accused me of complaining about my salary.”
“Oh, very serious,” Gustavo joked bitterly.
The civil servants never knew when they were going to get paid or exactly how much. When it suited Macías, he took out some of the nation’s money, which he kept in a bathroom in his house, and made government employees attend a mass meeting to give them whatever amount he fancied as fruit of the benevolence of the “untiring worker at the service of the people.”
“We know one who was imprisoned for criticizing the quality of Chinese rice . . . Isn’t that right, Waldo?”
“And what happened to him?” Maximiano asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“They took him from our cell,” Gustavo lied.
Waldo leaned against the wall. It had been weeks since he had shed tears of pain and rage like Maximiano. Only one idea allowed him to put up with the beatings and whippings.
He did not know how yet, but one day he would find the chance to escape.
“Let’s see, Laha. Who expelled the imperialist and colonizing Spaniards from Equatorial Guinea?
“His Excellency, Macías Nguema Biyogo ?egue Ndong!”
“Very good. And who defeated the Spanish imperialist plot of March 5, 1969?”
“His Excellency, the Grand Master of Popular Teaching Art and Traditional Culture, the Untiring Worker at the Service of the People!”
“And who has built Malabo’s magnificent new buildings?”
Laha remembered reading a board with the name of a construction company.
“The Transmetal Company,” he replied without hesitation.
The teacher gave him a smack with his cane. Laha yelped and rubbed his shoulder.
“No. His Excellency built them. Be careful, Laha. In a few days, he will visit us in person and will ask you these same questions.”
The following week, Laha and his classmates, perfectly dressed for the occasion, stood waiting for the door of the classroom to open and the object of their reverent praise to visit them. Outside, the line of elegant cars that made up the presidential cavalcade could be seen. The minutes passed, and nobody came to the classroom. Suddenly, they heard shouts and voices. The teacher was the first to go over and look out the window. Several bodyguards were forcefully taking away the school principal and three of his colleagues. One of the bodyguards waved a photo of the president, like the ones that hung in every classroom, so that all those who were looking out the windows could see. Someone had drawn a noose around Macías’s neck.
The teacher sat down at his desk and continued the class in a trembling voice. Laha and his classmates felt disappointed at not being able to meet the country’s “one miracle.”
A few minutes later, Laha looked out the window and saw someone he recognized. He jumped to his feet and called the teacher. They went back to pushing their noses against the glass. Another teacher who taught older children was giving instructions to four or five boys, one of whom was Iniko. Laha’s teacher left the room. A short while later, he joined the group in the yard. Laha did not understand what was happening, but the adults were making nervous gestures as they talked to the boys, who, after nodding several times, disappeared. Laha placed his hand against the windowpane. Where could his brother be going?
The teacher came back to the classroom and went directly to Laha. He leaned down and whispered, “Tell your mother that Iniko has gone to Bissappoo. It’s best that he stays there for a while.”
“Hey, you! What are you doing there?”
Waldo, overwhelmed by Madrid’s high buildings and the hundreds of cars that drove along the widest avenues he had ever seen, came out of his hiding place and stood in front of the police officer with his eyes fixed on the ground.
“I only wanted to sleep a little.”
“Oh! Your Spanish is very good. Where are you from?”
“Equatorial Guinea,” he repeated for the umpteenth time since arriving in Spain.
“Show me your papers.”
Waldo took out a small laminated card he had found near the dock in Bata and handed it to him, confident that the man would not notice the difference between his face and that of the photograph.
“This is no longer valid. We have been told by the General Headquarters of Security to take away the identity cards from those Guineans who have one.”