Kilian laughed, thinking that Jacobo had just described himself.
He picked up the small dictionary to see the phrases his brother had underlined and was shocked to see the translations: “I’ll teach you,” “Work,” “Come,” “Shut up,” “I’m sick,” “I don’t understand you,” “If you break this, I’ll hit you.” These were the words that he would be using in the following months! He refused to believe that over the last few years, Jacobo had not had a deeper conversation with the workers. Though it should hardly surprise him. The stories his brother told normally stuck to the parties in the clubs in Santa Isabel.
Jacobo moved his hat again and prepared to continue with his never-ending siesta.
“Jacobo . . .”
“Hmmm . . . ?”
“You’ve spent years there. What do you know of its history?”
“The same as everyone else! It is a fruitful colony, and you can earn money . . .”
“Yes, but . . . who owned it before us?”
“The English, the Portuguese . . . How would I know?”
“Yes, but . . . before, it was theirs, the natives, wasn’t it?”
Jacobo let out a snort. “You mean the savages. They are lucky to have us. Otherwise they’d still be in the jungle! Ask our father, who gave them electricity.”
Kilian remained thoughtful. “Well, it wasn’t too long ago that we got electricity in Pasolobino. And in many Spanish villages, the children got on thanks to powdered milk and tinned American cheese. It’s not like we are the greatest example of progress. If you look at the few photos of Dad as a child, it’s hard to believe they really lived as they did.”
“If you’re so interested in history, you’re sure to find some book or other in the plantation offices. But you will be so tired that you won’t even want to read, you’ll see.” Jacobo reclined in his deck chair and placed his hat over his face. “And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some sleep.”
Kilian’s gaze passed over the calm sea, as flat as a pancake. That was how he described it in a letter to Mariana and Catalina. The sun projected its last rays over the horizon. Soon it would be swallowed up.
In the mountains, the sun hid at dusk; at sea, the water seemed to engulf it.
He never tired of seeing the marvelous sunsets on the high sea, but he was anxious to walk on dry land. They had docked for a night in the port of Monrovia, capital of Liberia, to load and unload goods, but they had not been able to get off the ship. The coast there was more or less uniform. He could see forests of acacias and mangroves and an endless span of sandy beach with various villages. After that, they traveled along the Kru coast, home of a race of strong men good for work, as explained to him by his Galician companions: “The Kru are like the Asturians and Galicians in Spain, the best workers.” His father had seen these men launch their canoes into the sea as European ships and boats were passing, rowing to offer their services for all kinds of jobs. He used to tell them the legend of how the men worked until they considered themselves independent and they had twenty or thirty women at their disposal. It was probably no more than that, a legend, one that brought a smile to the faces of white men as they imagined themselves satisfying so many females.
Kilian lit a cigarette.
As happened every night after dinner, groups of people chatted and walked along the deck. In the distance, he made out the nephew of the civil governor, traveling with his family from Madrid to return to Guinea after an extended stay in Spain. A few meters away, other future plantation employees played cards. As the days went by, they became more and more like the colonial experts. He smiled, remembering his clumsiness when faced with the unusual amount of cutlery that accompanied the dishes in the dining room. But his initial trepidation had relaxed during the lazy, monotonous days and nights on the gently moving ship.
Kilian closed his eyes and let the sea breeze caress his face. One more night. His mind turned to home, and he went over the names of the households, wondering what they were doing. He thought and dreamed in his mother tongue.
He spoke in Spanish and listened to English, German, and French on the ship. He studied African English. He wondered whether Bubi was for the island’s natives the same as Pasolobinese was for him. He wondered if anyone would want to know the history and customs not only of the Metropolis—the name given to Spain as the colonizing country—but also of that cold and beautiful part of the Pyrenees that now seemed so small.
He was eager to know more about this world, which certainly endured under the colonization. He would like to know the history of the island, of the women and men in the photographs.
The native. The authentic.
If anything remained of it.
When Kilian spotted his father dressed in shorts, a bright shirt, and a pith helmet on the quay in the port of Bata, the capital of Río Muni, the continental part of Spanish Guinea, his soul had already been invaded by the heat and the green.
Before his eyes lay the most beautiful part of the continent, the perennially green region, covered in tropical forest. Everything else was superimposed: neither the low buildings nor the enormous lumber ships docked in the port nor the hands waving in the air, greeting people, nor the men carting goods to and fro.
It was surreal.
But here he was. At last!
“What do you think, Kilian?” his brother asked.
Jacobo and Manuel were beside him, waiting for the gangway to be extended so the passengers could disembark. From all sides, a multitude of people bustled about, carrying out different tasks. Both on board and on land, the shouts of various languages could be heard. Kilian watched the scene in amazement.
“He’s dumbstruck!” Manuel said, laughing and giving Jacobo a poke.
“Do you see the number of blacks, Kilian? And all the same! You’ll see. It will be the same as with the sheep. For the first two or three months, you won’t be able to tell them apart.”
Manuel frowned. Kilian was not listening, because he was spellbound by the sight unfolding before his eyes.
“There’s Dad!” he exclaimed.
He waved and began to descend with a light step, followed by Jacobo and Manuel, equally eager to step on solid ground again.
The hug he gave Antón was brief but heartfelt. For some minutes, the greetings, introductions, stories, and impatient questions got mixed together. It had been two years since Kilian had seen Antón, and he did not look well. His sunburned face was lined by wrinkles, and his big but well-proportioned features had begun to turn flabby. He seemed tired, and his hand was constantly touching his belly.