“I don’t know if you would understand if I tried to explain.”
Kilian had heard that sentence many times in his life. “Try.”
Antón closed his eyes and sighed. “Kilian, I didn’t want your mother to see my lifeless body. It’s as simple as that.”
Kilian was struck cold.
“Your mother and I,” Antón continued, “have loved each other very much in spite of the distance. When we said good-bye, we both knew we wouldn’t see each other again. Words weren’t necessary. God has willed for me to go first. I’m thankful for it . . .”
His voice broke down. He blinked, and his gaze grew cloudy.
“I’d like to rest a little,” he said in a low voice.
Kilian wished he could go back to the green fields of the mountain so his mother could cook him a rabbit stew or mountain goat with chocolate sauce and make ring-shaped pastries on feast days, for his father to bring him presents from a distant land, for his sister to complain about his pranks with her hands on her hips and his brother to dare him to walk along the highest stone walls. He wanted to taste a hunk of bread with sugar and cream from the cow, and for the snow to cover the autumn gloom.
When his father was gone, he would bear the responsibility for looking after his family. He wanted to be like Jacobo, to be able to banish grief with a few jokes and some malamba, whiskey, and brandy saltos.
But he was not like that.
He rested his head in his hands as a shiver went down his spine.
His soul yearned for the snow.
He was getting older, and he was afraid. Very afraid.
The door opened, and Kilian looked up hopefully, but it was José. He gripped Antón’s hand with affection.
“Ah, José, my good José!” Antón opened his eyes. “You are also here now. And that face?” He tried to joke. “I am luckier than the natives, José. Do you know, Kilian, what the Bubis used to do when someone was very ill? They would take them to a hut in the village and leave them there. Every day they would leave a roasted banana or yam and a little drop of palm oil. That continued until death put an end to the man’s suffering.”
He paused from the strain of talking.
“A missionary who spent many years among the Bubis, I think his name was Father Antonio, told me that. Tell me, José, is it true?”
“The spirits are always with us, Antón, in a hut or in a hospital. We are never alone.”
Antón gave a small smile and closed his eyes. José released his hand gently and went over to Kilian. They heard raised voices outside the door.
“Father Rafael is arguing with the doctor,” José told him in a whisper. “Your brother has told them that you are thinking of letting one of our doctors treat Antón.”
Kilian frowned and went into Manuel’s office. The men fell silent. Manuel was sitting in front of his desk, faced by Jacobo and Father Rafael, who remained standing.
“Is there a problem?” Kilian asked.
“Yes, there is, Kilian,” responded Father Rafael, his cheeks flush with anger. “You must know that I’m not happy with one of those witch doctors coming near your father. He is in the hands of the one and true God.”
Kilian gave his brother a withering look, and argued, “My father . . . our father . . . has spent his life between Pasolobino and Fernando Po. I don’t see why he can’t say farewell to this world with the traditions of both.”
“Because it’s not right!” the priest exclaimed. “Your father has always been a good Catholic. What you want to do is absurd!”
“If Mom were here,” Jacobo butted in, “she’d make you see reason.”
“But she’s not here, Jacobo! She’s not here!” shouted Kilian. Suddenly weary, he sat down in a chair, lowered his voice, and asked, “Is there any place on the island, in the civil government, or commandments of the church where a law is written that explicitly forbids a black to pray for the salvation of a white’s soul?”
“No, there isn’t,” replied Father Rafael sharply, taking short steps with his hands clasped over his large stomach. “But you are blowing things out of proportion, Kilian. What you want isn’t for a black to pray, you want him to cure your father. You are doubting not only the work of the doctors, but God’s will. That’s a sin, son. You are challenging God.” He turned to the doctor. “Manuel, tell him that all this is . . . totally unreasonable!”
Manuel looked at Kilian and sighed. “There is no cure, Kilian, with our medicine or that of the Bubis. Everything you do will be a waste of time. And although it’s not forbidden, if Garuz hears of this, he’ll be furious. He won’t think it suitable for us to follow black traditions.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “It’s not the time for jokes, you know . . .”
“I trust José’s discretion,” replied Kilian obstinately. “And I hope I can also rely on yours. Anything else?”
Father Rafael pursed his lips together and shook his head. He airily went to the door, put his hand on the knob, and said, “Do what you want, but I will give him the last rites after that—” He stopped and rephrased his words before leaving. “I will be the only and last one to give him extreme unction.”
An awkward silence fell. Jacobo, who had remained silent, began pacing from one end of the room to the other, running his fingers through his hair, and sighing. He finally sat down beside his brother.
“He’s also my father, Kilian,” he said. “You can’t do this without my consent.”
“Is it not enough that I want to do it? What does it matter to you? Manuel, you yourself have told us about the plants that you are researching . . .”
Manuel shook his head.
Kilian put his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples, fighting back tears. “He’s only fifty-six years old, damn it! Do you know how many grandchildren José has? Dad will never get to know his! He’s done nothing else in life but break his back to make a better life for us, for his family, for the house . . . It’s not fair. No. It isn’t.”
“Fine, suit yourself.” Jacobo exhaled, finally defeated. “But I don’t want to know anything about it.” He shot a sideways look at the doctor. “Manuel?”
“Look, it’s nothing to do with me. I’m fond of you, Kilian . . .” He hesitated. “I’m fond of you both, Jacobo. It won’t be of any use, neither good nor bad.” He shrugged. “After so many years on Fernando Po, few things can surprise me at this stage.”
The following morning, when the tyiántyo, the witch doctor, arrived, Antón was barely able to babble a few incoherent words. He named people and occasionally smiled. All of a sudden, his face was filled with pain, and it became difficult for him to breathe.