“Yes, Dad. I was vaccinated on the ship, and I have the paper that proves it. Anything else?”
“Just one, and I hope you haven’t forgotten . . .” His voice tried to sound hard, but his eyes shone. “Have you brought the things I asked your mother for?”
Kilian sighed, relieved.
“Yes, Dad. Jacobo’s suitcase is full of clothes, ham, chorizo, hazelnuts, tins of peaches, and Mom’s marvelous pastries. We have also brought a long letter from her that she closed in front of me with seven wax seals so no one else would open it.”
“Good.”
Jacobo and Manuel remained silent as they neared their destination. They were looking forward to arriving, but they had lost the innocence, excitement, and nervousness that now fell over Kilian on his maiden voyage.
Jacobo knew well that the novelty would soon wear off. Everything would be reduced to working on the plantation, the parties in the city, waiting to get paid, and the yearning to return home and rest. Then it would begin again. The same cycle every twenty-four months. Even knowing all this, he still felt butterflies in his stomach as the boat turned toward the port of the island’s capital.
“Look, Kilian,” said Jacobo, “we are entering the bay of Santa Isabel. Don’t miss a second of this!” A gleam appeared in his eyes. “Whether you like your time here or not, whether you stay two or twenty years, whether you love or hate the island . . . listen well to what I’m going to say! You will never be able to erase this image from your mind. Never!”
3
Green Land
Indeed, his arrival in Fernando Po would be ingrained in Kilian’s mind for the rest of his life. As the ship came closer to the island, he made out a coastline of small beaches, inlets, and bays, where the lush vegetation met the sand and turquoise-colored water. Kilian could barely take in the vibrant shades, from the pale green of the first shoots and summer apples to the deep green of the forest, passing through the intense and brilliant green of rain-watered spring pastures. A strange sensation overcame him, of softness, freshness, and peacefulness, mixed with the power, exuberance, fullness, and fertility emanating from so much growth.
The ship veered to move abreast toward the wide bay of Santa Isabel, which looked like a huge horseshoe ribbed in green and dotted with white houses surrounded by palm trees. Two natural breakwaters—one to the east, called Punta Fernanda, and the other to the west, Punta Cristina—lay at the foot of an impressive mountain awash in mist. It reminded Kilian suddenly of the peak that rose over Pasolobino.
“They’ll moor the boat to that old pier,” his father explained, pointing to a small concrete jetty that served as the dock. “I’ve heard that they are going to build a new port below Punta Cristina, where you will be able to dock parallel to it. Good thing, this one is a bit inconvenient.”
Kilian realized that the ship had stopped perpendicular to the coastline and that various barges were preparing to load and unload passengers and cargo.
They went toward the stern to disembark. A subtle aroma of cocoa, coffee, gardenia, and jasmine began to mix with the smell of saltpeter. Although it was evening, a stifling heat surrounded them.
“It’s very hot,” muttered Kilian, patting the beaded sweat on his forehead. “And so green. It’s all green!”
“Yes,” Jacobo agreed. “If you stuck a post here, it would sprout roots!”
On the pier, some men carried sacks of coal, others moved drums, and others helped unload the barges. One could imagine how frantic it could be during the harvest months when hundreds of coffee-and cocoa-filled sacks left for different destinations around the globe.
“José will be waiting for us up there,” Antón told them.
He signaled with his head toward a sloping path that paralleled a wall over which they could spot the first buildings. He took Kilian’s suitcase and shouted at a pair of workers to come over. “Eh, you! Come here!”
The men gave each other annoyed looks.
“You hear what I said?” Antón raised his voice and began walking toward them. He gave the suitcase to one of them and pointed to Jacobo’s and Manuel’s luggage. “Take this! Quick! Up!”
The men obeyed; they took the bags and, trailed by the white men, walked toward a steep, narrow path that connected the pier to Avenida Alfonso XIII, beside the Plaza de Espa?a.
“Kilian, did you know that this path is known as the slope of the fevers?” asked Manuel.
“No, why’s that?”
“They say it’s because no one who manages to get up the path can escape the fever. You’ll see.”
“Now it’s not that serious, thanks to the medicines,” Jacobo interjected, “but a century ago, all those who came died. Everyone. Right, Manuel?” Manuel nodded. “That’s why they sent one expedition after another. There wasn’t a chance of resistance.”
Kilian felt a shiver. He was happy to have been born in a more modern age.
“I never saw it,” said Manuel, “but I’ve been told that years ago, a train ran up this narrow path. Is that true, Antón?”
“Oh yes. I saw it,” replied Antón, stopping to catch his breath. “It was useful for moving cargo to the dock. They began building it in 1913, hoping to link Santa Isabel with San Carlos, in the southeast. But the project was abandoned twenty-five years ago because of the frequent breakdowns and the high maintenance costs in virgin rain forest.”
Kilian smiled, imagining a small toy train going round such a small island. The path they were on was certainly quite steep, but the distance to their destination was fairly short, at least for someone used to high mountains. And they didn’t even have to carry any luggage. Still, he noticed that his father, who he remembered as a strong and fit man, was gasping.
They soon left behind the ivy-and egombegombe-covered wall—small, white, delicate flowers appearing among the large carmine, yellow, and green leaves—and reached the top. Before them, a grand esplanade opened out like a balcony onto the shoreline, separated by a balustrade adorned with streetlamps every few meters. In the middle of the esplanade, interspersed with carefully tended flower beds, rose colonial buildings with lateral balconies and gabled roofs. Kilian looked up at them in awe.
“That is the Catholic mission,” Jacobo explained. “And this other one is the La Catalana building. It has a bar at ground level that you’ll soon get to know. And this one that has left your jaw hanging is the magnificent cathedral—” He interrupted himself. “No. Better to leave the tourist information for another day, I know you . . . Don’t worry, you’ll be coming to Santa Isabel plenty of times.”