“For us,” she said in a soft voice, “illness is a curse from the spirits of the ancestors who have been insulted or offended by the patient or his family.”
She went over to José, and Kilian noticed then that she was wearing a short-sleeved open white coat over a light-green dress with large buttons.
“That is why we show such fervor when asking for their intercession, to please them with sacrifices, drinks, and funeral rites.”
José looked pleased by her explanation. Kilian remained silent.
“Well then, tell me,” said Jacobo, his eyes flashing, “what are you doing in this hospital? Why don’t you go and invoke your spirits?”
Kilian winced at his brother’s harsh tone, but she replied in the same quiet and delicate voice.
“What can’t be avoided can’t be avoided. But we can ease a patient’s suffering.” She walked over to Antón and very carefully placed a damp cloth on his forehead. “Most pains can be calmed with simple remedies of hot or cold baths, with ointments and rubbing palm or almond oil, ntola cream or poultices of herbs and leaves, and with potions of palm wine mixed with spices or with seawater.”
Kilian observed her delicate hands on the white cloth. She lightly pressed it against his father’s forehead. Then she picked it up and put it back in the bowl, where she soaked it again, squeezed it of excess liquid, and lovingly returned it to his forehead and cheeks. He remained absorbed in this process for a good while. In the background, he heard the others’ conversation, but in his mind, he could only see those hands.
He did not want to face this.
“Sometimes,” José began, referring proudly to his daughter, “Massa Manuel allows her to use some of our ancestral knowledge—”
Jacobo, irritated, got to his feet. “Well, since you know so much, what cure is there for my father?”
Kilian snapped to attention. “Calm down, Jacobo!” he scolded. “This hurts José just as much as it hurts us.”
Jacobo let out a snort and sat back down.
“Tell me, ?sé,” Kilian said, his eyes again fixed on the young nurse. “What would you do if it were your father?”
“Kilian, I don’t doubt the foreigner’s medicine, and I don’t mean to offend, but in his state, I . . .” He hesitated, then finally said with conviction, “I would ask a witch doctor to pray for him.”
A sarcastic laugh rang out. Kilian waved at Jacobo to hush and asked José to continue.
“If it were my father,” he resumed, “I would take him to the chapel of the most powerful guardian spirits of my village to free him of the affliction that is tormenting him.”
“But we can’t move him, ?sé,” Kilian objected.
“Maybe I can get . . . ,” José proposed cautiously, “our doctor to come here.”
Jacobo rose in a fury. “Of course! In exchange for tobacco and alcohol.”
Kilian said nothing as José’s daughter looked up and stared directly at him, waiting for an answer. Her light-colored eyes seemed to tell him that it was worth trying. Would he dare ask for help from the natives? She silently challenged him.
“Fine,” he agreed.
She smiled and turned to her father.
“Send Simón to Bissappoo,” she said plainly.
Jacobo headed toward the door, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous!” he roared. “All this contact with the blacks has made you crazy, Kilian!”
He slammed the door. Kilian ran after him and stopped him at the entrance.
“Where did that come from, Jacobo?”
His brother could not look him in the eye. “It’s obvious! For some time, you have preferred José’s advice over mine.”
“That’s not true,” Kilian protested. “Dad and José are friends, Jacobo. He only wants to help.”
“You’ve heard Manuel. Dad is going to die. It’s inevitable. Maybe you want to cling to false hopes, but I don’t. He is being well looked after. That’s what matters.” His voice trembled. “I only want it to be over as soon as possible. At this stage, it’s for the best.”
He looked at Kilian, whose lips were pressed closed. Jacobo tried to remember the moment when Kilian began to distance himself from him. It had been so long since his young brother had asked him incessant questions and listened to his answers in awe. Things had changed too quickly. Kilian no longer needed him, his father was dying, and Jacobo felt more and more alone. The island was to blame for everything. It trapped its inhabitants in its invisible net, and it would finish them all off as it had done to others before.
“You’ve become pigheaded, Kilian. Leave Dad in peace, do you hear me?”
“I have given my consent. I’ve no intention of going back on it,” Kilian replied firmly to his brother.
“We’ll see about that.”
Antón had brief moments of lucidity in which he was able to talk to José and his sons, especially Kilian, who barely moved from his side in the hours that followed. It was perhaps the first time in their lives that they spoke without shame about very private matters. The distance from home, the stormy June weather, and the certainty of a farewell allowed for endless confidences to be shared among the mountain men.
“Kilian, you needn’t stay here the whole time,” Antón told him again. “You can’t leave your work. Go with Jacobo, go on now.”
For Jacobo, the walls in the hospital were collapsing around him. He preferred to cover for Kilian at work to get away from the painful scene.
“I’m not leaving you, Dad. They can do without me. We are only waiting for the fruit to ripen for the next harvest. I don’t know if it’s just me imagining it, but each year the cocoa pods are bigger . . .”
“I’m fine here,” Antón affirmed with as much conviction as possible. “The nurses look after me very well, above all, José’s daughter. Have you noticed her eyes, Son? They are almost transparent . . .”
Kilian nodded. He knew very well. Whenever she appeared in the door, his mood lightened just a bit. Otherwise, he was very frightened. He had seen animals die, and it was horrible. He had seen relatives and neighbors in the funeral parlors of the valley. The certainty that he would be present when his father took his last breath made him sick. But he had no choice. His mother would have handled this better. At least with more affection. He thought about Mariana and Catalina. He had just sent a telegram to break the news. He had cried so much writing it that now in front of his father he had no tears left.
“Kilian?”
“What is it, Dad?”
“You will have to take charge of the house and the family. You are more responsible than Jacobo. Promise me.”
Kilian agreed without realizing the weight of that promise. He would be in charge of the House of Rabaltué, like his parents and their parents before them.
“Why did you come back, Dad, if you weren’t feeling well? There are good doctors in Spain. You would have been comfortable at home.”
Antón paused before answering. “Well, like the elephants, I chose my place to die. I’ve spent so many years here that it seems right. This land has given us a lot, Son. More than we have given it.”
Kilian was not convinced.
“But Dad . . . think of Mom . . .”