He arrived at Obsay, sweating buckets but proud that he had not stalled the engine even once. He parked the pickup and started walking briskly to the cocoa trees along the main path. A little later, he heard the workers singing. A few meters farther on, he spotted a woman dressed in a colorful clote, carrying a large empty basket on her head. He assumed she was looking for wild fruit or wood. Suddenly, the woman stopped as if she had heard something from the undergrowth, and without hesitating, she went into the jungle. Kilian did not pay it any mind, knowing that the Calabar women were used to the forest. They often went there with food for their husbands when they were working.
He continued his journey until he heard the murmuring of the laborers, the chop, chop of pruning and slashing, and the whirring of the sprayers spitting out the Bordeaux mixture of copper sulfate and lime that stopped the young plants from getting the mildew that attacked during the rainy season.
Soon afterward, he came upon the first workers of a long row and saw Nelson, one of the foremen, at the end of it. He gave him a thumbs-up to ask if everything was going well. The man nodded. Kilian then looked at the laborer closest to him. He racked his brain for a simple question, wanting to give the workers the chance to see how his Pichi had improved.
“Whose side Massa Gregor?”
“I no know, Massa Kilian.” The man shrugged, raised his hand, and waved it toward various places. “All we done come together, but he done go.”
Kilian did not understand anything, but nodded. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he began walking through the laborers, paying attention to what they were doing and moving his head up and down as a sign of approval, until he got up to Nelson, just where the cocoa trees ended and the jungle began. Nelson, a well-built man as tall as Kilian, with a completely round, flat face and the beginnings of a double chin, was squabbling with a man while shaking the sprayer he held in his hands. When he saw Kilian, he straightened up.
“Everything’s fine, Massa,” he stuttered in Spanish with a strong accent. Spanish proficiency was a prerequisite for promotion to foreman. “The mixture should be properly stirred to prevent damage to the trees.”
Kilian agreed. He felt a little ridiculous pretending he was in control when there was so much he did not know. He would have preferred to help in the yards, fixing the barracks. When it came to building and construction, he could run rings around them, thanks to the many hours spent maintaining the house and the hay sheds in Pasolobino. As far as cocoa went, he was still clueless.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to Nelson, collecting some fresh leaves from the ground.
Going into the woods to relieve oneself was a good way of ending an awkward conversation. The first meters were fairly clear, but after a few steps, Kilian had to use the machete to clear the way to get to a suitable spot. He pulled down his trousers and relaxed, observing as a yellow-and-black spider put the final touches on a thick web that stretched from one plant to another. Just as well, he thought, that he was not afraid of spiders or tarantulas. These crawlers were ten times bigger and hairier than those in Pasolobino, but none were immune to a good stomping. Snakes were a different matter. He could not stand them. Kilian was always on guard, especially after the incident with the boa.
When he finished, he cleaned himself with the leaves and stood up by grabbing on to a branch that suddenly came to life. Kilian stumbled back and stood dead still. The greenish-brown branch was slowly twisting. He squinted his eyes and made out a head and a tongue slithering in the air.
Slowly, he did up his trousers and began walking backward. He turned and hurriedly walked away, his heart beating wildly. After a few minutes, he realized he was heading in the wrong direction. He cursed under his breath and retraced his steps. Just then he heard an exclamation, only a few meters from where he stood. He listened carefully and recognized Gregorio’s voice. He had probably gone into the woods for the same reason. He gave a sigh of relief. His partner knew every inch of the area. He charged through a small clearing in the undergrowth,
“Gregorio! You’re not going to believe it, but I . . .”
He stopped dead.
Gregorio was lying facedown, wrapped in the intense embrace of someone between whose legs he was convulsing and moaning. A woman’s hand pointed to Kilian. Gregorio turned his head and swore.
“Do you like watching or something?” he shouted as he got to his feet and tried to pull up his pants.
Kilian went red seeing the man’s penis, still erect between his bony legs. The woman stayed on the ground, smiling and completely naked on the orange clote. Beside her was an empty basket. He recognized the woman who had gone into the forest from the cocoa trees.
“I’m sorry . . . ,” he began to apologize. “I went into the forest and got lost. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Well, you have! You’ve left me half done!”
He motioned to the woman to get up. She rose and fixed the cloth around her waist. She picked up the basket, placed it on her head, intending to leave, and put out her hand to the massa.
“Give me what you please,” she said.
“No chance!” Gregorio replied. “This time I didn’t finish, so it doesn’t count.” He made gestures for her to disappear.
“You no give me some moni.” The woman gave him an annoyed look.
“Go away! I no give nothing now. Tomorrow, I go call you again.”
The woman gritted her teeth and went off in a huff. Gregorio picked up his helmet from the ground, shook it, and put it on his head.
“And you,” he said to Kilian sarcastically, “don’t leave the path if you don’t want to get lost.” He passed him without a second look. “You being so brave, you wouldn’t survive even a couple of hours in the jungle.”
Kilian clenched his fists and followed him in silence, still embarrassed. Without warning, another wave of itches invaded his skin, and he began scratching furiously.
His brother was right. He would have to wake up.
That night, as arranged, they all ate dinner together to say farewell to Dámaso, an even-tempered man with a completely white head of hair and soft features who was returning to Spain after almost three decades of service as a doctor in the colony.
They sat around the table, grouped by years of experience. On one end sat the longest-serving employees: Lorenzo, Antón, Dámaso, Father Rafael—who was in charge of saying mass in the village of Zaragoza—Gregorio, and Santiago. At the other end sat those under thirty: Manuel, Jacobo, Kilian, Mateo, and Marcial. Except for the harvest party or some official visit, rarely was the dining room so lively. While the boys, including Simón, served the meal, the older men reminisced about their first years on the island; the young ones listened with the arrogance of inexperience.
When the meal was over, the manager honored his good friend Dámaso with a speech. Kilian did not hear much, due to the generous glasses of Azpilicueta Rioja wine that Garuz had brought, not to mention the burning sensation all over his body. There were rounds of applause, emotions, and words of thanks.
As more wine was poured, the conversation grew louder.
“Have you said your good-byes to everyone?” Mateo asked mischievously. A likable man from Madrid, he was small and wiry, his lips always ready to break into a broad smile under his sharp nose and thin mustache.