“We’ll cover the floor with these leaves. That way they won’t touch the blood.”
In a few minutes, Kilian had piled up enough leaves to carpet a good area. With signs, he asked for help from some of the men and got them to bring the leaves in their arms. As he got onto the truck, he again heard the murmurs of disapproval when the soles of his boots came in contact with the viscous liquid, but he continued with the job. From what he could see, no one else was going to help him. Not even Gregorio. The massa just smoked a cigarette with an arrogant air.
When he finished covering the back of the truck, Waldo had already brought the injured men over so they could see how comfortable the bed was. Kilian fervently hoped that they would not complain; if they did, he would look like a complete idiot. He jumped down, took the machete, and cleaned it with a smaller leaf that he then threw to the side of the road.
“Tell them to get on, Waldo,” he said, trying to make sure that his voice sounded confident even if his heart was beating hard. “Explain to them that they won’t be touching any blood now.”
Waldo talked to the laborers, but none of them moved. Gregorio spat out the cigarette butt, moved his head, clicking his tongue, and began walking to his truck.
“I will bring the whip,” he said, “but this time, you’ll use it.”
Kilian heard Waldo say some phrases in Pichi. He imagined that he had translated Gregorio’s words for them, because the man with the head wound stretched out his arm to grip the truck, put his foot on the ledge that sometimes served as a footrest, and got onto the back. Once up, he extended his hand toward the white man to return the bloodied handkerchief to him, but Kilian refused to take it.
“Tenki,” said the man, and Kilian answered with a nod.
One after another, the more than twenty injured laborers got on the truck. Waldo returned to his post as driver and started it up. As he passed Kilian, he waved. Gregorio maneuvered his truck so that the other could pass on the narrow track, then signaled to Kilian to get into the cabin so they could continue the journey to Obsay.
They did not speak a word to each other all day. For about three hours, Kilian followed in the steps of his partner between the rows of trees, clearing brush with the machete and pruning one cocoa tree after another. Nobody explained anything to him, so he just copied the laborers, who knew exactly what they had to do. Slowly but surely, they advanced to the beat of the rhythmic and slightly variable pattern of their work songs. Kilian found that the singing was a good way of keeping his mind occupied to reduce the monotony of the work. On occasion he found himself in a strange relaxed state, as if someone else were holding his machete.
They had started on the trees closest to Obsay when Gregorio gave the order to stop for lunch. They retraced their steps toward the yard, laid out in the same way as Sampaka, although much smaller.
Kilian was sweating buckets in the hot sun. The workers sat down near a wooden building built on thick white columns where various cooks prepared the meal in huge pots. Gregorio had disappeared, and Kilian did not know where to go.
“Massa!”
Kilian spotted Simón, carrying a basket on his head. He was very happy to see someone he recognized.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have brought you your food.”
“Don’t we all eat together?”
Simón shook his head. “The laborers are allocated their food every week, and they give it to their cooks to prepare for each day. If they are in the woods, it is brought to them, and if they are in the yard, they eat here, like today. Each white man gets his food from his boy, except when they are in the main yard. Then they eat in the dining room.”
Kilian grew more and more thankful for Simón’s explanations.
“And how do you know where to find me?”
“It’s my job, Massa. I always know where you are.”
Kilian sat down on the ground, leaning his back against a wall that offered a few meters of shade. Simón sat down beside him and pulled bread, ham, hard-boiled eggs, and drinks out of the basket. Kilian drank with gusto, but he was not hungry. He dried the sweat from his brow and cheeks with his shirtsleeve and rested his eyes for a few minutes. In the background, he could hear the murmurs coming from the workers. He sensed some voices increasing in volume and approaching steps. He opened his eyes and saw two men arguing. They stopped in front of him and between shouts seemed to be trying to explain something to him. Simón got to his feet and interrupted them so they would speak one at a time and explain what was wrong. Then he turned to Kilian.
“They are squabbling because they say the cook has changed their malanga.”
Kilian furrowed his brow. When he did not respond immediately, the men resumed their argument. Kilian straightened up.
“And what does that mean?”
“The malanga, Massa. One of them had a fatter malanga, and that’s why he marked it. When he went to get it, the cook had given it to someone else. He wants his malanga before the other eats it.”
“And why are you telling me?” Kilian still did not understand.
“You are the judge, Massa. They will do whatever you say.”
Kilian swallowed. He scratched his head and got up. Gregorio was still missing. He looked over to the workers’ simple kitchen. The murmuring stopped as everyone watched. He cursed to himself and determinedly walked over to the cooks, followed by Simón.
The cook in question remained with his arms folded before two plates that contained cod, rice doused in a red sauce, and what appeared to be a boiled potato. Kilian looked at the two plates. In one, the potato was considerably larger than the other. This must be the malanga. The two men continued to gesture that they both were the owners of the bigger one. Just then, he remembered a young Jacobo and himself. They were beside the fire, waiting for their mother to take the ashes off the first baked potatoes of autumn and give one to each member of the family. When Kilian got his, he began to complain because it was much smaller than his brother’s. And what did his mother do?
He signaled the cook to give him a knife. He divided both malangas into two equal parts and put one of each on either plate. He returned the knife to its owner, and without saying anything, he went back to where he was before and sat on the ground. Simón came over to him and insisted that he eat, as there were many hours still to go before dinner. Kilian nibbled, but without much appetite. The absurdness of the situation with the potato was still going around in his head.
“It was the fairest way, don’t you think?” he said finally.
Simón put on a thoughtful expression, and his forehead wrinkled.
“Simón?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course, Massa,” he replied. “It was fair . . . but not for the real owner of the big malanga.”