“Massa, Massa! The tumba has sounded! Wake up or you will be late!”
Kilian lumbered out of bed and went to the door. A young man shot past him, carrying various packages in his arms and talking nonstop.
“I have brought you a cotton shirt and a durable pair of trousers. I’ll put them here on the bed, together with the pith helmet and machete. If you hurry, you can still get coffee. And don’t forget your top boots.”
“You speak Spanish.”
The young man tilted his head.
“Yes, of course, I’m Bubi,” he said, as if that were answer enough.
Kilian nodded vaguely. “What’s your name?”
“Simón, Massa. At your service.”
Kilian remembered that this was his boy. He tried to remember his features, which were altogether likable. Simón had almost completely round eyes and a slightly snubbed nose, like José’s. His hair, short and curly, was so dark it was impossible to see the dividing line with the skin on his forehead, which, furrowed by three horizontal lines, seemed strange on someone so young.
“And how old are you?”
“I’m not sure. Probably sixteen.”
“You’re not sure?” The lad shrugged. “Well, Simón. Now what am I supposed to do?”
“In ten minutes everyone has to be in formation in the yard. The whites in front.”
Kilian looked through the window.
“It’s still dark . . .”
“Yes, Massa. But when work begins, it will be daylight. Here the days are all the same. Twelve hours of night and twelve hours of day, year round. The shift is from six to three.” He took the shirt from the bed. “I’ll help dress you?”
“No, thanks.” Kilian gently refused the offer. “I can do it myself.”
“But . . .”
“I said no,” he repeated firmly. “Wait for me outside.”
In five minutes, he washed himself, got dressed, picked up the machete and the pith helmet, and left the room.
“Do I still have time for that coffee?”
The lad followed him at a quick pace along the corridor. On coming down the stairs, Kilian saw a mass of men sorting themselves into rows in the main yard. He quickly went into the dining room, drank four sips of the delicious coffee Simón handed to him, and went outside. A few meters away, he recognized the white figures taking the roll in front of hundreds of black men waiting for the beginning of the day. He took a deep breath and finished waking up on the short walk as many eyes watched him. He imagined that everyone wanted to see the new employee, and he gripped his helmet to hide his nerves.
“Just on time, Kilian,” said Jacobo when he got to his side. In his hand he was holding some papers and a flexible switch. “A minute later and you wouldn’t have been paid.”
“What?”
“Those who aren’t here on time can’t get into the line and don’t get paid for that day.” He gave him an elbow in the ribs. “Relax, that only applies to the coloreds. Did you sleep well?” Kilian nodded. “Look, the one that’s to the right of our father is Gregorio, or Massa Gregor, as they call him. He is preparing new brigades for Obsay. Good luck. We’ll see each other in the afternoon.”
Kilian looked closely at Gregorio, who had his back to him as he talked to Antón. He was a dark-haired man, thin and bony, almost as tall as he. Kilian greeted the two men. Gregorio turned. He had dark eyes with an icy gaze and a small mustache over thin lips. Kilian looked at his father before stretching out his hand.
“I’m Kilian, your new workmate.”
Gregorio held a small leather whip whose handle he stroked methodically, sliding his fingers a couple of centimeters up and down the shaft. He stopped to accept Kilian’s handshake. He observed him in detail.
“So you’re Antón’s other son. Soon your whole family will be here.”
Kilian found Gregorio’s hand cold, his smile forced, and the comment rude. He looked at his father and asked, “Where are you working today?”
“I am staying here, in the stores in the main yard. Fortunately, I no longer have to go out to the cocoa trees.”
The noise from four enormous trucks with rounded hoods and wooden trailers interrupted the conversation. Gregorio went over to the rows of men and pointed at those who had to get on. Antón passed him and muttered through his teeth, “You’d better be good to the boy.”
“He’ll learn all he needs to know about surviving here,” Gregorio replied with a smile.
Antón shot him a warning look and returned to his son.
“Go with him, Kilian.”
Kilian nodded and trotted over to the trucks.
“The brigades are made up of forty men each,” Gregorio told him. “One brigade per truck. You can begin counting now.”
He noticed a puzzled look on the young man’s face as he saw the large mass of workers.
“Look at their clothes to differentiate them. They always wear the same.”
The men hopped on the trucks slowly but nimbly, speaking in a language that Kilian did not understand. He assumed it was Pichi. And to top it all, the only Spaniard he could talk to for hours was the one who was now shouting out all his sentences in the same routine tone.
“Come on, you’re all asleep! Quick! Muf, muf!”
Only a few men were left to get onto the truck when a thin and wiry youth, a sad look about him, stopped in front of Gregorio with his head bowed and his hands crossed at his thighs.
“And what does this one want! Let’s see! What thing you want?”
“I de sick, Massa.”
“All time you de sick!” yelled Gregorio. “You’re always sick! Every day the same story!”
“I de sick for true, Massa Gregor.” He raised his hands to his chest as if to plead. “I want quinine.”
“How your name?”
“Umaru, Massa.”
“Right. Umaru. You want quinine?” The whip cracked against the ground. “What do you think of this quinine?”
Kilian opened his mouth to intervene, but the man got up onto the truck without complaint—although he shot a defiant look at the white man—followed by the last of the men, who were now quicker getting aboard. The driver of the first truck beeped the horn.
“You, stop standing about!” Gregorio shouted at Kilian, walking toward the front of the truck. “Get into the cabin!”
Kilian obeyed and sat in the right-hand seat while Gregorio climbed in behind the wheel. The convoy started out. For some minutes, neither of them said anything. Kilian looked out and saw how the barracks and the yard building gave way to cocoa trees covered by a canopy of banana trees and erythrinas, which provided shade for the delicate cocoa tree. In some places, the branches from either side met to form a tunnel over the dusty track.
“I thought whips weren’t used anymore,” said Kilian.
Gregorio raised his eyebrows. “Look, lad. I’ve been here many years. Sometimes you have to use forceful means to get them to obey. They lie and lie. If they miss a day due to illness, they still get paid. You’ll soon learn. They’re excusers and superstitious. What a combination!”