Several young women grouped together and went toward the bride’s hut, singing and dancing. When the bride appeared at the door, a murmur of approval arose. Kilian also let out a breath. He could not make out the young woman’s face, because she was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, dressed in peacock plumes fixed to her hair with a wooden pin, but her pure cocoa-colored body was full of harmony. Her torso was graced by small, firm breasts surrounded by red drawings of ntola and tyíb?, crystal beads, and shell collars that also adorned her slim hips and well-proportioned arms and legs. Everything about her seemed delicate, and yet her upright bearing and well-defined movements drew him to her with a magnetic force.
While the people cheered, the girl walked around the square a few times, singing and dancing, with the crystal beads caressing her skin, until she sat down in the square’s preeminent position to await her parents and her future husband. Like Kilian, Mosi stood out as he towered over the others, but the straw hat decorated in hen feathers on his head made him look even taller. His enormous arms and legs were covered in pieces of shell and snake vertebrae, and greasy collars made from animal innards hung from his neck. He did not stop smiling. When the girl approached, he greeted her with a bow, and his smile grew broader.
A man who appeared to preside over the assembly came toward the bride and spoke to her in a tone that varied between advisory and threatening. In the last row, a familiar voice explained to Kilian that the man was urging her to always be faithful to her husband. He turned, happy to see Simón.
“I had to escape, Massa Kilian,” whispered the lad with a unassuming smile. “Massa Garuz is bringing guests after the harvest party, and he wanted everyone there. But I couldn’t miss the wedding, no, Massa, not this one. The bride and I have known each other since we were children. We are almost all family here.”
“It’s fine, Simón.” Kilian put him at ease. “You’ve gotten here just in time.”
“You won’t say anything to the big massa then?”
Kilian shook his head, and the lad’s face lit up.
“I followed the path you and José opened, but I didn’t have time to change.” He pointed to his clothes, the same as always: white shirt, short trousers, socks to the knees, and thick boots. Then he took off his shirt and freed his feet. “That’s better!” He pointed toward the couple and exclaimed, “Look! It’s the mother of my mother!”
An old woman went over to the couple and got them to join hands, speaking softly. Simón explained that she was giving them advice. She told the man not to abandon this wife despite the many others he could have and told the woman that she must remember her duty to look after her husband’s lands, make his palm oil, and be faithful to him. When she finished speaking, some voices shouted.
“Yéi’yébaa!”
Then everyone, Simón included, opening his mouth wider than anyone, answered.
“Hí??!”
Kilian did not need the lad to understand that these shouts of joy were the equivalent of a Spaniard’s “Hip, hip, hurrah!” On the third time, infected by the jubilation, he even dared to repeat the response.
Everyone began to file past the couple one by one to congratulate them and wish the bride their best while the others continued with the cheering. She answered with a smile and a slight bow of her head.
Kilian was pushed forward and had no option but to stay in line and offer his respects to the newly married bride. He searched his head for the appropriate words to congratulate a Bubi bride in a native village on the island of Fernando Po, situated in that remote part of the world. But she was his friend’s daughter. He would wish her well the same way he would the daughter of any friend. He searched for José, who smiled to him from where he was and nodded his head, giving permission.
Kilian felt butterflies in his stomach. So there he was! A white man in the middle of an African tribe in the middle of the party fanfare.
When he told his grandchildren, they probably would not believe him! A few steps from the bride, he was able to study her profile in more detail, but the hat continued to cover her face. She seemed young to him, maybe fifteen.
Too young to get married, he thought. And especially to Mosi.
There were three or four people to go before it was his turn. Simón, who had not left his side, translated.
“Bu? pale biuté wél? ná ?tá bi?m.” Don’t penetrate unknown regions.
“Ebuarí, bu? púl? tyóbo, bu? helépottò.” Woman, don’t leave the house, don’t wander the streets, don’t go with foreigners.
“Bué patí tyíb? yó mmèri ò.” Don’t break the delicate shells of your mother.
Kilian did not notice her raising her hands to remove the pin from her hat. Suddenly he was in front of her. “I . . . Congratulations! I hope you will be very happy.”
She let the hat fall to one side, raised her head toward him, and looked into his eyes.
In that moment, the world stopped and the singing fell silent. A pair of big, intelligent, unusually bright eyes pierced through him. He felt like a tiny insect caught in the threads of an enormous spiderweb, waiting with the serenity of knowing that death was imminent, to be devoured in the resounding silence of the jungle.
All the features of her rounded face were in perfect harmony: her forehead, large; her nose, small and wide; her jaw and chin, perfectly finished, a set of lips beautifully glossed in carmine and blue . . . And her eyes, large, round, clearer than the most transparent liquid amber, designed to transfix the world. For one fleeting moment, she belonged to him alone within the ethereal veil that covered them.
The eyes were not those of a bride in love, missing the sparkle of a woman on the day of her wedding. Her timid smile pleased the guests, but her expression portrayed sadness, fear, and determination, resigning herself to a situation that in her heart of hearts, she did not accept.
How was it that he had not noticed her before? She had a hypnotic beauty.
“Why is it that your eyes are blurred on such a special day?” he asked in a barely audible whisper.
The girl trembled slightly.
“Would you understand it if I were to explain it to you, Massa?” she asked. Her voice was soft, a little high-pitched. “I don’t think so. You’re white and a man.”
“I’m sorry,” apologized Kilian, with the sleepy movement of someone who had woken from an enchantment. “I forgot you speak my language.”
“It’s the first time you’ve asked me anything.” Kilian noticed that the girl was addressing him informally, and it felt strangely intimate.
He tried to speak, but Simón touched him on the elbow and whispered that Mosi was beginning to get impatient. Kilian looked up at the groom. He seemed taller than ever.
“Gud foyun,” he said finally in Pidgin English. “Good luck.”
“Tenki, massa clak,” answered the colossus.
When the good wishes were finished, the new couple began to walk around the village, followed by people striking wooden bells with clappers and singing solemnly.
The nuptial procession ended, and the feast and libation of palm wine began, spilled all over the place in honor of the spirits. The milky drink washed down the wedding banquet of rice, yams, wild pigeon breasts, squirrel and antelope stews, sun-cured slices of snake, and a variety of fruit. From nine at night until dawn, the dancing did not stop, fueled by doses of alcohol to regain strength and keep spirits roused.
José made sure that Kilian’s bowl was always full.
“?sé . . . your daughter, the bride . . . how old is she?” Kilian asked, a little tipsy.