Gregorio squinted and leaned forward. “Or maybe it’s because you think Antón is a saint? With the years he has spent on Fernando Po, he’s sure to have had a load of miningas!”
“Gregorio . . . ,” insisted Mateo on noticing the color drain from Jacobo’s face.
It was one thing to joke; it was another to lie maliciously. Everyone there knew Antón extremely well. And in any case, conversations among gentlemen had an implicit bond of discretion. Even jokes had limits. That’s how things worked on the island.
“It’s possible you have mulatto brothers and sisters running around out there,” continued Gregorio with a nasty smile. “What would your mother think, huh?”
“That’s enough,” Jacobo seethed. “Be very careful about what you say! Do you hear me? That’s a lie and you know it!”
“Fine, fine, relax!” Gregorio said arrogantly. “But as far as I know, he’s just as much a man as everyone else . . .”
Manuel turned on him next. “Much more of a man than you.”
“Don’t get us started,” added Mateo, stroking his mustache.
“I was only winding up the new guy!” Gregorio protested. “It was a joke. Although I wouldn’t put my hand in the fire, not even for Antón.”
Kilian moved the whiskey around his glass in slow circular motions, thinking clearly again. He raised his eyes and stared, hard and cold, at Gregorio. “The next time you insult me or my family,” he spit out, “you’ll regret it.”
Gregorio let out a snort and got to his feet. “You don’t have a sense of humor either?”
“That’s enough, Gregorio,” said Manuel sharply.
“Yes, enough.” Marcial stood, towering above him.
“You are well protected”—Gregorio pointed to the others—“but one day you won’t have anyone else around to defend you.”
Jacobo strode toward Gregorio and gripped his arm powerfully. “Are you threatening my brother?”
Gregorio tore himself away and stormed out. Marcial and Jacobo sat down and took another shot to calm their nerves.
“Don’t mind him, Kilian,” said Marcial finally. “He wasn’t like this before. He’s grown brutish. A barking dog . . .”
“Well,” answered Kilian quietly. “That’s the last time he gets away with it.”
On Friday night, Yeremías gave Simón a note from Julia’s boy, inviting the brothers and Antón to dinner at her family’s house.
Kilian waited until Saturday morning before telling Jacobo. At six, he went down to the yard, where the laborers waited for their week’s wages. They stayed in rows until they were called, one by one, to get their money and put their fingerprints on the list set out on the table. The job, like doling out food on Mondays, took two hours. As the laborers waited to hear their names, they rubbed their teeth with the ever-present chock sticks, small brushes made from roots, which made their teeth the envy of all.
Kilian found Jacobo and gave him Julia’s note to read.
“Very clever,” he scoffed. “She sent it to you to make sure we go. Look at all the days available! But no . . . she had to pick Saturday.”
“And what’s the difference between one day and another?”
“Saturday nights are sacred, Kilian. For everybody. Look at the men. Aren’t they happy? They get paid this morning and will spend some of it in Santa Isabel tonight.”
“Shall I let her know that we are going, or not?”
“Yes, yes, sure. Now go with Gregorio or you’ll never finish. Today he’s as easy as pie.”
When Kilian got to Gregorio’s table, his partner gave him the list of brigades. Without meeting his gaze, he got up from the table and said, “Here, you continue. I’ll go and prepare the material for Obsay. Nelson will help you.”
Kilian sat down and continued reading the names on the list. He noted that Simón looked bored. The lad was dressed the same as every other day, in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, both beige. His feet were covered with a pair of simple sandals made from leather straps instead of boots. Though he was mostly similar in appearance to other lads his age, Simón had enormous eyes that shone as if on continuous alert, moving from side to side to take in everything that was going on around him. Kilian waved at him to come over to the table and help Nelson in translating. As he called out another name, the man stepped up with another at his side, complaining nonstop. Kilian cursed his bad luck. The day had begun with another argument.
“What’s going on, Nelson?”
“This man says that Umaru owes him money.”
The name sounded familiar. Kilian looked up and recognized him from the day of the boa incident. He was the one who had begged for quinine.
“Why do you owe him money?” he asked.
Although Nelson was translating, Kilian could tell just from Umaru’s gestures that he had no intention of paying anything. The other man kept interrupting, growing more and more annoyed. A silence fell over the rest of the workers as they stopped to listen to the row.
“Ekon offered him his wife. Umaru accepted her services and now doesn’t want to pay.”
Kilian blinked and pursed his lips to stop from laughing. He looked at the handsome man, of medium height, with very short hair, high cheekbones, and dimples in his cheeks.
“You’re telling me that Ekon lent out his wife?”
“Yes, that’s right,” answered Nelson without batting an eye. “Umaru is single. Single men need women. The married ones take advantage if the woman is willing. Ekon wants his money.”
“Moni, moni, yes, Massa!” repeated Ekon insistently, nodding.
“Moni, no, Massa! Moni, no!” repeated Umaru, shaking his head.
Kilian sighed. He hated acting as judge. At this rate they would never be finished.
“Are there any witnesses?” he asked.
Nelson translated the question loudly. A colossus almost two meters tall with arms like legs stepped forward and spoke to the foreman.
“Mosi says he saw them in the forest. Twice.”
Kilian smiled. It seemed he was not the only one who stumbled onto illicit happenings in the forest. He asked the amount owed, took the quantity out of Umaru’s envelope, and put it in Ekon’s.
“There is nothing more to talk about.” He handed over the two envelopes to the satisfaction of one and the anger of the other. Afterward, he turned to Simón. “Do you agree?”
Simón nodded, and Kilian exhaled in relief.
“Palabra conclú, case closed, then,” Kilian said.
At seven o’clock, the day ended and darkness descended. Kilian and Jacobo got into the pickup to go to the city. At the entrance, Jacobo shouted to Yeremías, “Remember to get Waldo to do what I told him!”
“What does Waldo have to do?” Kilian asked.
“Nothing important.”
On the way out of Zaragoza, Kilian saw many of the laborers laughing and joking with their shoes in their hands. They had changed out of their old and dirty clothes into long trousers and clean white shirts.
“What are they doing?” he asked his brother.
“They’re waiting for the bus to go out and celebrate in Santa Isabel.”