Kilian said nothing, admiring the delicious symbiosis of nature and harmonious, light buildings, so lively and different from the solid stone houses of Pasolobino. His gaze moved from one building to another and from one person to another, from the indistinct garb of the whites to the colorful fabrics of the natives.
“There is José,” said Antón, taking Kilian by the elbow. “Oh boy! He brought the new car, very strange. Come on, let’s go. We have to get to the plantation before dinner so that you can meet the manager.”
The smiling man waited for them beside a shiny black Mercedes 220 sedan. Kilian’s father introduced him to José, of whom he had heard so much during the holidays in the House of Rabaltué.
“José, this is my son Kilian. At last you get to meet him in person. And I don’t know if you know Manuel. He is going to be our doctor from now on.”
José greeted them with a wide smile that revealed his perfect white teeth surrounded by a short gray beard. He spoke in perfect Spanish—though with a peculiar accent when sometimes pronouncing the r as the French would do, or when stressing the intonation at the end of each word. It gave his way of speaking a clipped rhythm.
“Welcome to Fernando Po, Massa,” he said three times, bowing his head slightly as he addressed Kilian, then Manuel, and finally Jacobo. “I hope you have had a pleasant trip. The luggage is loaded, Massa Antón. We can leave when you are ready.”
“Why didn’t you come in the Land Rover?” Antón asked.
“A piece fell off at the last minute and Massa Garuz gave me permission to take this one.”
“Well, you are starting off on the right foot.”
Jacobo, imitating a dutiful chauffeur, opened the rear door to allow Kilian and Manuel to get in.
“This jewel is only for important people,” he said. The men gave a happy smile and made themselves comfortable in the beige leather seats. “Dad, you too, please. José will go in front. I’ll drive today.”
José and Antón exchanged looks.
“I don’t know if Garuz would like that,” Antón said.
“Oh, come on,” replied Jacobo. “He doesn’t have to find out. When am I going to get another chance to drive a car like this?”
José shrugged and went to the front of the car.
Sitting between his father and Manuel, Kilian observed José in detail. He noticed that there was a strong bond between him and Antón, even friendly, the result of having known each other for so long. He had to be a few years younger than his father. José was a Bubi, like the majority of the island’s population, and he worked as foreman in the cocoa-bean dryers, something rare, as it was normally a role filled by whites. The hardest work was carried out by Nigerian laborers, the majority Calabars, coming from the Nigerian city of Calabar.
Antón told him that when he first came to the island, José was assigned as his boy, the name given to the young servants that whites housed to look after their clothes and residences. Each white had his own boy—Kilian would get one as well—and families could have more than one if needed to look after the children. As the years went by, thanks to his capacity for work and ability to get on with the plantation laborers, Antón had finally convinced the manager that José was perfectly capable of supervising the work of the dryers, the most delicate part of the cocoa production process. Over time, Lorenzo Garuz had to admit that there were exceptions to the commonly held Western belief that all Bubis or island natives were lazy.
They drove through the straight streets of Santa Isabel, laid out symmetrically to incorporate functional white buildings; left behind the colorfully dressed pedestrians who helped create the impression of a lively, bright, summery, and pretty city; and continued onto a dusty dirt road through the first few rows of a leafy, dense cocoa plantation.
“You will see, Massa,” said José, looking at Kilian through the side mirror. “On the flat land, everything is cocoa and palm trees. Land over five hundred meters, on the hillsides, coffee trees. And at the top, banana trees and Manila hemp.”
Kilian nodded to thank him. José was delighted to again describe the route in the way he had probably done long before, first with Kilian’s father and later with Jacobo. At that moment, Antón and Manuel stared out in silence, the car windows open so that some air could get in.
They had traveled around five or six kilometers when Manuel urged Kilian to look through the front windshield.
Kilian gasped in surprise. For a few seconds, he thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him. In front of them, a large signpost told them they were coming into . . . Zaragoza! It did not take him long to figure out that it was the name of the village closest to the plantation.
“This village was founded by the first owner of Sampaka,” announced Antón while they were passing close to a tree around twenty meters tall located in front of a building. “Mariano Mora was his name.”
Kilian, who knew the story, nodded, thrilled to see with his own eyes what he had only heard in tales.
“Yes, Kilian, the one who was born near Pasolobino. And he also built the church.”
Manuel did the math in his head. That was over fifty years ago.
“Did you get to meet him?” Manuel asked.
“No. When I came here for the first time, he had just died from a tropical disease. Many remember him as a hardworking, sensible, and prudent man.”
“Like all those from the mountains,” Jacobo bragged.
Manuel raised his eyebrows before asking, “And who took over the plantation? His children?”
“No. He didn’t have any children. His nephew continued the business. It still remains in the hands of the family. Those who got your and Kilian’s documents in order in Zaragoza, the real Zaragoza, are also descended from him. The only one who wanted to come here and look after the plantation was Lorenzo Garuz, who is both manager and a major shareholder.”
The village, made up of little huts, was so small that they reached the territorial guard post in just a few seconds. Jacobo stopped the car beside two rifle-carrying guards who were calling good-bye to a third guard, Maximiano. He turned toward the car and frowned while the others politely greeted the new whites and thanked José for the latest delivery. Kilian did not like the look of this Maximiano, who was tall and strong with a face totally pockmarked from smallpox. The man said nothing; he just bent down to pick up a box and left.
“And who was that?” Jacobo asked, putting the car in gear again.
“I don’t know,” his father replied. “I suppose he’s from another post. Sometimes they swap.”
“First lesson, Kilian, before we enter the plantation,” Jacobo explained. “You have to make sure that the guards get presents regularly, tobacco, drink, even eggs. The more you give, the faster they’ll come when you need them.”
Antón nodded.