That same night, Kilian took a pickup and, without saying anything to his companions, drove to Santa Isabel.
He went into Anita Guau and went straight to the bar to order a whiskey and ask for Sade.
That night, Kilian clung tightly to the body of the woman with cold greed, enjoying her like the moss enjoys the ceiba tree: celebrating life without feeding off it.
6
Inside the Bush
1955
The last truck of cocoa sacks drove out along the royal palm drive heading for the port in Santa Isabel. Kilian saw it go with relief, pride, and satisfaction. He had successfully completed his first full campaign on the island. After twenty-four months, he considered himself an expert in the cocoa production process. Sampaka’s cocoa was famous all over the world because of the meticulous way it was made to achieve maximum quality. It sold for five pesetas more per kilo, and tons of it were produced. This meant an absolute fortune. And Kilian had helped after endless hours in the dryers: day and night checking the texture of the bean by hand, making sure that it swelled without flaking and that it was roasted just enough—not a second more nor a second less—so it did not turn white. The dry and well-fermented cocoa that filled the sacks, ready for shipping, was thick, chocolate in color, brittle, fairly bitter to taste, and had a pleasant aroma.
With tired faces, Jacobo and Mateo sat down on a low wall, and each lit a cigarette. Marcial stayed standing.
“I’m wrecked,” huffed Mateo. “I’ve even got cocoa dust in my mustache.”
Jacobo took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead.
“Garuz will be happy with this harvest,” he said. “The best in years. He’ll have to give us bonuses!”
Kilian was also exhausted. More than once he had been tempted to copy the odd laborer and use the din of the Christmas parties to escape from work. He sat down beside the others and accepted the cigarette his brother offered him. He inhaled deeply. A fine chocolate-colored dust had seeped into every last pore of his skin. When the dryers ceased all their activity, the smell of roasted cocoa persisted. The sun was going down, but the terrible heat had not abated. Still the echoes of the Christmas carols and boozy parties of his second Christmas away from home seemed strange in the sticky heat. He remembered the mass on the twenty-fifth of December—short sleeves, skin tanned by the sun, and the midnight dips in the pool on the plantation. This dry season was hotter than normal, and the occasional shower in Sampaka did not give any relief from the sweltering heat.
“In the mountains of Pasolobino, I’m sure it’s bitterly cold, right, lads?” said Marcial, opening the tiny buttons of his shirt with difficulty.
Kilian imagined his parents and Catalina in front of the fire while the livestock fed themselves in the sheds and the snow covered the fields in a thick blanket. He missed them, but with the passing of the months, the terrible homesickness of the first weeks on the island had faded. It was not pulling at his heartstrings as hard.
“The truth is I’m looking forward to a change of scenery,” commented Kilian.
“Well, it won’t be too long now. When Dad returns—because I’ll bet you anything that he will be back—you’ll be going to Spain on holidays. I’m jealous!”
Antón had said good-bye to his sons as if he were never returning to the plantation. Kilian was also convinced that, as last year, he would be back, rested and a little heavier.
“Hey, don’t complain,” Kilian reproached his brother. “You’ll be going soon.”
“It kills me to say it, but I have to admit that you’ve earned the right to go first, hasn’t he, Mateo?”
Mateo agreed.
“Who would have thought? Even your appearance has changed. When you arrived, you were all skin and bone. And look at you now! You have more muscles than Mosi!”
Kilian smiled at the over-the-top comparison, but the truth was he had given his all so that his father, his brother, his work colleagues, and the manager would be proud of him, and also to make up for the incident with Umaru and Gregorio. It had not been difficult, as he was used to hard work. He remembered his first days on the island. Despite everything, he had fit into the daily routine set out by the sounds of the tumba, the droma, and the Nigerian songs. Soon work would begin again outside in the cocoa trees at the edge of the jungle, hours and hours of the machete falling implacably on the bikoro, the Bordeaux mixture being sprayed on the young shoots . . .
“In the end, I have to say that you were all right, Dad and you and Julia . . . Yes, I’ve gotten used to the island. But a good long rest at home won’t do me any harm.”
He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Jacobo pursed his lips when Julia’s name was mentioned. The previous November, amid the festive dances, concerts, and canoe races of Santa Isabel’s festival, Julia and Manuel had made their engagement official. From then on, they were inseparable, traveling the island in search of plants for Manuel’s studies, having afternoon snacks in the Moka Parador, or enjoying a good film or a refreshing dip in the casino’s swimming pool. Emilio and Generosa were delighted. Manuel, as well as being an educated and well-mannered man, was a doctor. Their daughter was engaged to a doctor. Jacobo appeared to accept the news well, although, deep down, his pride had been wounded. He was fully aware that he had lost his chance to win the heart of an extraordinary woman. So he continued dividing his existence between Sampaka and Santa Isabel, only regretting a lack of friends for his parties. Bata was not close enough for Dick and Pao to come to the island regularly, and Mateo and Marcial alternated between their dissolute flings and their dates—each time more frequent—with Julia’s friends in the casino.
“The one that will miss you is that little belter . . .” Mateo maliciously half closed his eyes. “What’s her name? I always forget it!”
“Which one of them? He’s got all of them mad for him.” Marcial scrunched his lips in a kiss. “Careful, Jacobo. Your brother is gaining ground on you.”
“Well, he has plenty to do to catch up with me!” Jacobo laughed. “He looks more like a Claretian father than anything else. Do you know what the girls in the city tell me?” He looked at Kilian. “They’re saying that you are going to take on the rough appearance of the plantationers who disconnect themselves from the world.”
“Fine, fine. It’s not that bad. And you two,” Kilian jokingly counterattacked, pointing to Mateo and Marcial alternately, “you remember what you want to remember. I suppose that with Mercedes and Ascensión, you’ll forget about the friends in Anita’s.”
“Completely,” Mateo agreed with an impish look. “And the opposite as well.”
The four burst out laughing.