by Luz Gabás
Julia thought of Kilian. Would he not have to leave as well? And leave Bisila’s child to such uncertainty? It was more than obvious how much Kilian adored the little one. He could not abandon him.
“Why don’t you believe the new president?” Julia hung on to his arm. “Hasn’t he been supported by Spain? Since the twelfth of October …”
“Don’t remind me of that date!” Emilio squeezed his daughter’s hand. “All those crazed young men turned the city into hell. That was the beginning of the end, yes, when they smashed all the windows of the businesses and houses, and they knocked down the statue of General Barrera, in front of Fraga Iribarne, no less … What a way to celebrate the transfer of power!”
“It was their first day of freedom, Dad. But since then, all of Macías’s speeches have been full of praise for Spain. He has promised to continue the Francoist policies of the last thirty years and encourages Spanish businessmen to continue investing in Guinea—”
“Yes, I’ll tell you what I’d give that little cock,” interrupted Generosa in a biting and tone. “Let’s see what happens when he stops getting money. Let’s see how he meets his election promises.”
Emilio puffed, let go of his daughter’s arm, and began to pace the room.
“I’m an old dog, Julia. We’re doing the right thing. If we sign today, we’ll stay for as long as it takes to gather our things together and ship them. Afterward”—he raised his eyes to heaven—“God knows.”
Julia bit her lip to control the rage brought on by her father’s resignation. She looked at the clock. She was in no hurry. Manuel had stayed with the children so she could try and persuade her parents to change their minds. But she did not feel capable of witnessing it. She felt a pang of remorse. If Emilio and Manuel were right, she would be putting her children in serious danger. Maybe she should stop being so stubborn and think of them. If anything happened, she would never forgive herself. She decided to reconsider her stance about leaving the city, but she did not want to be present when the contract was signed.
“Sorry, but I can’t wait any longer. I have to go for the children. In any case, I don’t think I can make you change your minds.”
She picked up her bag and her car keys. She went over to her mother to say good-bye and was surprised how calm she appeared, although deep down she was devastated.
“I’ll walk you to the street,” said Emilio. “Let’s see if he finally makes a damned appearance.”
Downstairs, the door of the store opened, and Dimas came out.
“If it isn’t Emilio! What’s this I’ve been told about you selling your business to a Portuguese?”
“In the end, you got what you wanted. We’re leaving.”
“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
“Ask your brother. Haven’t they promoted him again?”
Dimas smiled in pride. “Yes, sir. They have appointed him vice president of the supreme court.”
Julia gasped. She had heard that the new president, Macías, had included members of the different tribal groups and parties, even defeated candidates, both in the government and the administration. But Gustavo’s post was really important.
“I hope it lasts,” said Emilio bitterly.
“Dad … ,” Julia butted in.
“And why wouldn’t it last?”
Emilio shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, Dimas. I also had everything, and now I have to leave it behind. Let’s hope I’m wrong and you won’t have to go back to the village where you were born. What’s it called? Ah, yes, Ureca.” Someone called his name, and he turned. “Here is João, at last.” He kissed his daughter. “Fine, well, let’s finish this once and for all.”
“To weed, José.” Garuz rubbed his tired eyes. The seven foremen with whom Sampaka continued to work were relaxing after the meal. “Macías has said that he will send all the whites to pull up weeds.”
Kilian reread the last paragraph of the letter he had just received from his mother, worried by the news she received through some neighbors who worked on other plantations:
Why haven’t you come home? I don’t understand your stubbornness to stay there in those circumstances. I don’t know anymore what is true and what isn’t. Some say that the Spaniards sleep with guns under their pillows or are afraid to sleep in their own houses; others say it’s not that serious … If it’s because of the money, don’t worry about it. You can’t do any more. Your father would be proud of the work you’ve done so that the House of Rabaltué, your only home, could shine as it does now. Guinea has taken my beloved Antón, I wouldn’t like it to take one of my sons as well. It’s time we were together. We have already given and taken all that is possible from Fernando Po.
A hug from your mother, who loves you.
He left the letter on the table. He remembered how anxious he had been reading her first letters exactly sixteen years ago, when he was a young man wanting to know the world but still missed home. He now read of Jacobo’s expectations for the changes that were beginning to take place in Pasolobino. Everything seemed so strange, so distant to him. As if the letter were addressed to someone else. His place was now beside his new family. He had to work to give them a future.
He cursed under his breath. If things were different, they could have dreamed about buying a house in Santa Isabel. Perhaps it was not what he had planned for his life years ago, but bit by bit, his destiny had been guiding him in that direction, and he did not want to change course.
“What has made Macías so annoyed?” José asked.
“Everything,” said Garuz, in a bad mood. “He gets upset about everything. He sees ghosts everywhere. Two weeks ago, he protested that there were still too many Spanish flags flying and ordered them lowered. The Spanish consul refused, and Macías insisted that the Spanish ambassador leave the country. Since then there has been nothing but violence, aggression, and looting of Spanish colonists and their properties. Soon they’ll find Sampaka.”
Simón finished serving another round of coffee, and everybody, except Waldo and Nelson, had one.
“The planes and ships are leaving full of people,” he said. “Maybe you should all leave as well.”
“The Spanish troops and the Civil Guard are still here. I’ve no intention of leaving.”
“Slow down, Kilian,” Gregorio commented. “Macías has accused the Civil Guard of murder and the National Guard of planning a coup d’état with the Spanish loggers.”
Kilian shrugged. “You can leave if you want. Those left here are enough to get the harvest in.”
Garuz smiled. Who would have thought that the lad had the guts?
“I’ve no intention of giving up my salary,” said Gregorio. “But when the time comes, I’ll leave. I’m not tied here like you.”
Garuz frowned.
Before Gregorio could add another unpleasant comment, Kilian, looking straight at Garuz, hastily butted in.
“I’m married by the Bubi rites to Bisila, one of José’s daughters, with whom I have a child called Fernando Laha. I don’t hide it. I thought you also knew about it.”
Everyone waited for the manager’s reaction in silence.
Garuz poured himself another coffee. Why had he not heard this? It was true that he had never paid much attention to gossip. It was always about the same thing—affairs, flings, unwanted children—but he found the news about Kilian surprising. So that was the real reason he did not want to leave? He felt a stab of disappointment. What he had taken for courage was nothing more than a whim that would end like all of them, in nothing. Even so, he had to admit that the proud way in which Kilian had brought him up to date on his situation left little doubt about the importance of the relationship.
“I’ve no intention of leaving them,” added Kilian, on seeing how Garuz had been struck dumb.
Garuz recovered his firm tone. “Sooner or later, Macías will realize that he needs us. Where else will he find such income? Anyway, it wouldn’t do us any harm to take precautions.” He pointed
to Simón, Waldo, José, and Nelson. “You four are not to leave the plantation.”
“But this has nothing to do with the Nigerians,” Nelson protested, thinking of Oba.
“Not yet it doesn’t.” Garuz pointed to Kilian and Gregorio. “And you …”
The sounds of a car horn beeping, accompanied by shouts, interrupted the conversation. Everyone rushed out of the dining room and saw Emilio, shouting furiously with half his body out the window of the car. Beside him, Father Rafael, whom he had collected in Zaragoza village, put his hands to his head.
“Calm down, Emilio!” said Garuz. “What’s the matter?”
“I have to warn my daughter! Lorenzo, Kilian, Gregorio. Come to Manuel’s house!”
The tires of the Vauxhall raised dust as Emilio pulled up to the doctor’s house.
Minutes later, in the sitting room, he told them what had happened.
“There has been an attempted coup. Macías has accused Spain, and the person behind it, Atanasio Ndongo, has been murdered. Bonifacio Ondó and other politicians not in Macías’s camp have been detained and jailed. Gustavo as well. Military vehicles have been on the streets all night. We are now in a state of emergency. We should have left a few days ago on the Ciudad de Pamplona, with the last ones! Julia, Manuel, take the most important things, money, jewels, and passports, and forget the rest.”
“But Spain—” began Julia.
Her father cut her short. “Julia, Spain won’t interfere in Guinea’s affairs now. I’m going to the city to arrange passage. We’ll stay together until we get a ship or a plane, whichever leaves first, today or tomorrow … And you”—he turned to the others—“should do the same.”
Manuel turned to Garuz in consternation. What would the people left on the plantation do without a doctor?
“Do what you have to do,” responded Garuz. “I’m staying.”
“Me as well,” said Kilian. He would not leave until they came after him.
“And me …” Gregorio hesitated. “I’ll also stay for the moment.”
Emilio shrugged. “And you, Father Rafael?”
“I’m staying, son. My place is here.”
“It’s up to you, but when the Civil Guard leaves, you’ll be here at your own risk.” He shook hands with those who had decided to stay, one by one, with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. “Kilian, if I were your father, I’d drag you out of here.”
Three hours later, Waldo and Kilian finished loading the dark Mercedes that Garuz had offered to take Manuel’s family to the city. The small boys, Ismael and Francisco, played in the dirt, oblivious to the sadness that engulfed their parents. Julia kept going in and out of the house with reddened eyes, and Manuel said his final good-byes to the hospital where he had worked for the past sixteen years.
Kilian lit a cigarette. A child came running over and joined in playing with Julia’s children, as he had on so many other occasions. Kilian smiled and looked around for the child’s mother. Bisila approached, accompanied by Simón.
“I will miss them,” she said.
“Yes, and so will I,” Kilian added.
Julia came out with her handbag. She gave a last glance inside her house, closed the door, and bowed her head for a few minutes, sobbing. Finally, she took out a tissue from her bag, straightened up, and turned to walk toward the car.
“Where is Manuel?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Inside the hospital,” Kilian replied.
“Could you go and fetch him? I want this over as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, of course.”
Kilian found Manuel in the small office where he studied and classified his plants.
“I’ve hardly been able to take anything,” he said out loud as Kilian entered.
“Maybe you can come back someday …”
“Yes, maybe.”
“I’ll miss you, Manuel.”
The doctor shook his head. “And I you.” He hesitated, preparing to tell Kilian what he had wanted to say for a long time. “Kilian … I know what Jacobo did to Bisila.” His friend leaned against the desk. “I even have doubts about who Fernando’s real father is, but it’s obvious you are acting as if … I have children too, Kilian. I wouldn’t leave them either. But be careful, right?”
Kilian nodded. “Does Julia know?”
“She has always put Jacobo on a pedestal. Why correct her?”
“You are a gentleman. You always have been.”
Manuel smiled weakly, gave a look around the room, and put his hand on the doorknob. “Do you remember when we met in Ambos Mundos?”
Kilian nodded.
“It seems centuries ago.”
They went outside, where Julia was silently watching the children beside Bisila. Manuel said good-bye to everyone, hugged Kilian hard, put the children into the car, and went to the front, his eyes filled with tears.
“Come on, Waldo. Be our driver one last time.”
Julia came over to Kilian and crumpled in his arms. “Oh, Kilian, that child looks more like you every day. Look after him, Kilian, don’t abandon him … What will happen to you all?” Kilian stroked her hair, his heart in his mouth. Julia stood up and brought the tissue to her nose. “Good-bye, Kilian. Send us news.”
Waldo started the car and drove through Sampaka’s main yard, heading toward the royal palm tree entrance. Julia closed her eyes and let herself be overcome by listlessness, blurring the journey to the city: a downcast Oba in front of her parents’ house; the Factoría Ribagorza, where a young Julia had waited for a good-looking Jacobo to open the door with youthful exuberance and brighten up her day; and the casino, where she had spoken to Manuel for the first time, not knowing that they would end up joined together for life.
Years later, she would hazily remember the ship they finally embarked on in Bata. It was Generosa who told her about the Marines Special Forces Unit ship, which was repatriating the last members of the Civil Guard; a group of missionaries from Fernando Po; the last member of a scientific expedition who, years before, had found and sent to the Barcelona Zoo an albino gorilla they named Copito de Nieve; several plantation managers and owners; cockatoos, parrots, monkeys, and other species the crew brought aboard as souvenirs for their families; the last Spanish flag from those parts; and three generations of the same family. Ironically, the ship’s name was the Aragón, the same name as the region of Pasolobino, the place that had given them life.
“See? I told you so.” Simón pointed toward the sea from the balustrade. “The sacks are still there. They didn’t load one of them. The whole harvest will be ruined, if it isn’t already.”
Garuz could not believe what his own eyes were telling him. Hundreds of esparto sacks, with the Sampaka logo and filled to the brim, were piled up on the small cement jetty of Santa Isabel dock.
“They’re crazy,” said Kilian, devastated. “It’s worth a fortune!”
“Is that how they are going to take care of everything we have fought years for?” Garuz felt a bout of rage building in his insides. “The harvest of a whole year’s work rotting because of an incompetent government!” He saw two police officers leaving the guards’ hut and made to go down the slope of the fevers. “I’m going to sort this out right now. If necessary I’ll talk to the president himself!”
Kilian grabbed his arm. “Wait! I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Do you think I’m afraid of those two?” Garuz brusquely freed himself.
“If you go down there in a temper, you’ll give them a good excuse to arrest you. We should go back to the plantation. When things have calmed down, you can decide what to do.”
Just then, a car stopped, and several men got out and walked toward the slope. Garuz recognized one of them and went over.
“Maximiano. Fancy bumping into you! I’m happy to have caught you. I’ve just found out that the plantation’s harvest hasn’t been shipped. I’d like to know why not.”
“You’d like me to give you an explanation?”
“I cannot allow my business to go down the drain.”
Maximiano slowly licked his bottom lip. “Are you questioning our president?”
“What?” Something in the cold stare of the police chief made Garuz realize that it was best to change his tune. “Of course not. Nothing further from it. If you will excuse me …” He signaled to the other two. “Good afternoon. Kilian, Simón … let’s go.”
They began to walk toward the car. A voice stopped them.
“Simón! It seems you’ve recovered very quickly from your limp.”
Simón got into the car quickly. Garuz turned around, and his eyes caught those of Maximiano, who raised his index finger in the air in an accusing gesture.
When he got into the car, Garuz collapsed into his seat, cursing under his breath. Kilian understood that he had been left with no option but to swallow his pride and quickly leave his cocoa to rot. What will happen now?
Few men went to work. The labor contract with Nigeria had been canceled, but that was not the problem, as there were more than enough workers; you only had to look at them wandering around the place, disoriented, not knowing very well what to do or where to go. In fact, it was as if the whole world had been infected by the despondency of their superiors.
Deep down, Kilian still hoped for a cheerful voice to announce that relations between both countries had never been better and that although the government of the new Guinea was now independent, daily life and work continued as usual. But the reality was very different. The few sources of communication, such as Radio Santa Isabel, Radio Madrid, and the Ébano newspaper, reported widespread disenchantment and threats against the whites. The hoped-for aid never arrived. There was no money, and it was difficult to adjust to the newly established civil order; the population did not notice any change in their low standard of living. For those who refused to leave, it was difficult not to remember Macías’s words. “Slavery is finished,” he used to repeat. “Let no one help the whites, no black should be afraid of whites … We are not poor, Guinea is rich, we are over an oil pocket … Now I’ll put the whites in prison if they go against the government …”