Bitter Chocolate (6 page)

Pascal spotted Kamil and Olivier ahead of him, walking towards the pump. At first, he wanted to turn back and wait until they had gone. Then he thought about overtaking them, but decided he’d better not. Instead, he caught up with them and walked alongside.

‘You all right?’ Kamil asked.

‘Why?’

‘Your papa goes back today, doesn’t he?’

Pascal nodded.

‘Do you wanna play football with us this afternoon?’ said Olivier.

Pascal nodded again, though he wasn’t sure. He didn’t really feel like doing anything.

‘Mr Bon says he’ll have the television in his shop later, so we can watch the big match,’ said Olivier. ‘Vive Le Syli Nationale!’

Pascal had forgotten all about it. The Guinean team was due to play a friendly against Nigeria. All the village men and boys gathered at the bicycle repair shop whenever there was a match to be watched. If only his father didn’t have to go back. It had been a long time since they had watched a football game together.

‘Vive Le Syli Nationale,’ he echoed, trying to sound enthusiastic.

They reached the water pump. Kamil filled his two jugs, put one on the ground, then, without warning, swung the other towards Pascal. A stream of water flew from the jug and soaked the front of Pascal’s shorts. The water was so cold that Pascal froze with shock while Kamil hooted with laughter.

‘Too slow, too slow!’ he chanted. ‘He-he, you wet yourself, little bro.’

A barrage of gunfire stripped the smile from his face.

‘Shit! That was really close!’ Olivier shrieked.

A second barrage was followed by a devastating explosion.

‘Run!’ Pascal yelled.

They hurtled down the path towards the village. Another explosion stopped them for an instant while they worked out where the sound had come from. There was shouting now from all around – and more gunfire.

‘Keep going!’ Olivier yelled.

When their homesteads came into view, Pascal felt a surge of relief. Mr Camara was framed in the doorway.

‘Papa!’ he cried out. ‘What’s happen—’

A burst of gunfire obliterated the rest of his words. His father shouted something that he didn’t hear. There was a blinding flash of light. An enormous explosion almost blew Pascal off his feet. Then all he could see was flames. Flames licking at the bamboo fence. Flames lapping at the brittle grass. Another explosion. His father’s face. Screams. Gunfire. Thudding feet. Shiny metal. A hand pulling at his arm.

‘Come on, Pascal. They’re going to kill us,’ shouted Olivier.

‘Papa!’ Pascal screamed.

‘It’s too late. Let’s get out of here.’

Something bit hard into his shoulder. He touched the place with his fingers. It was wet. He pulled his fingers away and looked at them. They were red.

He ran, then, faster than he had ever run in his life. He ran until his lungs threatened to rupture and his legs to collapse, and still he ran. He ploughed along the dusty trail thrown up by Olivier and Kamil before him, until they crashed through the barricade of trees that stood sentry for the length of the forest. Once inside, they swerved this way and that to avoid roots and low plants that hindered their progress as if on purpose. Deeper and deeper they went. Soon, all Pascal could hear were the sounds of his gasps for air and the tripping of his feet. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. He lost sight momentarily of his cousins as the darkness of the inner forest enveloped them.

And then he had to stop. His body refused to obey any more exhortations to keep going and his legs crumpled underneath him. He lay on the ground, prepared just to lie there and accept whatever consequences came his way, before struggling to his feet again to search for Kamil and Olivier.

He found them close by, sprawled over a pile of logs. Kamil was retching and crying. Olivier, like Pascal, was trying to catch his breath. They could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance, but at that moment the forest cradled them in its arms.

None of them spoke. Kamil began to rock backwards and forwards, while his crying turned into a low moan. Olivier sat with his head buried in his hands. Pascal squatted on the forest floor, his back against a tree, unable to think beyond the notion that they were still in danger, unable to see beyond the bright white light that flashed over and over again in front of his eyes.

Another explosion made him jump to his feet.

‘I’m going back,’ he said. ‘Papa and Angeline need me.’

‘You can’t go back!’ Olivier cried. ‘They’ll kill you.’

‘Papa needs me,’ Pascal insisted. ‘I’m going.’

Olivier leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of him. ‘Your papa doesn’t need you,’ he said firmly. ‘You know he doesn’t. But we do. If we stick together we’ll be safer.’

‘And Maman? She went into the village with Bijou.’

‘The only way we can help our families is to stay alive until . . . until the trouble passes.’

Olivier kept his hold on Pascal. Pascal tried to pull away, but gave in when the realisation finally dawned on him that there was nothing he could do.

‘Papa will be all right,’ he said. ‘Papa is strong.’

Olivier looked at him quizzically, then nodded. ‘We have to be strong,’ he said. He gripped Pascal by the shoulder. Pascal yelped and pulled away. ‘You’re bleeding,’ said Olivier, staring at the blood on his hand.

‘Something hit me,’ whimpered Pascal. Only now had he become aware of the pain.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked Olivier.

It hurt like mad, but nowhere near as much as the pain in his head. Pascal grimaced. He wanted to go home. He wanted to feel his mother’s arms around him, comforting him, telling him there was nothing to worry about.

‘The situation is very worrying,’ he muttered. ‘Very worrying.’

A loud bang startled them. They ducked down by a bush and listened. There was no other sound. Even the animals had been silenced, if they hadn’t already run away. They hissed at Kamil to hide. He was still rocking. His face was vacant.

‘He’s in a bad way,’ said Olivier. ‘We can’t leave him there.’

They crept over to him, keeping low in case there was somebody else in the forest. Olivier linked his arm through Kamil’s and signalled for Pascal to do the same. Together, they pulled him to his feet and dragged him with them back to the bush. He sat like a rag doll, head lolloping on his chest, until Olivier spoke to him.

‘Kamil,’ Olivier said. ‘You’re going to be all right, Kamil. We’re going to look after you.’

Kamil stared at him, eyes wide, then he saw Pascal. A look of sheer terror crossed his face and he screamed. ‘They killed them,’ he cried out. ‘They killed them, all of them. I saw your papa. They blew him to pieces.’

Chapter 12

It was even more stifling in the middle of the plantation. A canopy of taller trees protected the cacao trees with their precious crop of cocoa pods by providing them with shade, but it also prevented heat from escaping. As the afternoon wore on, the boys were so exhausted they could scarcely lift their machetes to cut down another pod. Those with a greater reach, like Pascal, used a long-handled cutting tool to tackle the pods that grew higher up. The pain they suffered in their shoulders was excruciating, even after months of doing the same work, day in, day out.

They had been allowed a few minutes’ break for a drink of water in between their morning and afternoon jobs, and had dropped to the ground like the pods they were cutting as soon as the whistle went for them to stop. Pascal lay on his back, looking up through the multicoloured patchwork of leaves and fruits, the sunlight dipping this way and that and sewing their edges with gold. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to appreciate the beauty of it, before he succumbed to the effort of keeping his eyes open and allowed them to close.

Kojo rolled over to him. ‘You’re not going to sleep, are you?’ he asked.

Pascal grunted.

‘I’ll warn you if someone comes,’ Kojo continued, before humming quietly.

Pascal grunted again.

‘That boy doesn’t care any more,’ said Tiene, who was lying close by and flicking ants with a stick. ‘He’s waiting to get his head bitten off.’

‘I’ll bite yours off if you don’t shut up,’ muttered Pascal.

‘Now why would you want to do that, when my head’s full of shit,’ chuckled Tiene. He flicked a large ant, which landed in Pascal’s hair.

Kojo glared at him for trying to annoy Pascal, but watched in fascination as the ant made its way out of the hair, down his friend’s forehead and on to his nose. Pascal didn’t make any effort to remove it, even when the ant began to investigate the edges of his nostrils. Then, in one swift movement, he leapt to his feet, brushing the ant from his face, and threw himself on top of Tiene, pinning him to the ground.

‘Did you do that?’ he growled.

‘Do what?’ Tiene puffed.

‘You know what.’

‘There are a lot of flying ants around at this time of the year.’ Tiene snickered.

‘Very funny,’ said Pascal. ‘Do you know what you are? You’re a major pain in the butt because you never shut up.’

‘And you never lighten up,’ Tiene retorted fiercely. ‘At least I try and have a bit of fun. At least I don’t spend all day long being grumpy. You don’t even know what fun is.’

Pascal felt an overwhelming sense of outrage and injustice welling up inside. Hadn’t he saved this boy from a beating earlier that day? Hadn’t he had to face things in his life that Tiene could never begin to understand? How dare he lie there and judge him. His hands tightened in anger and he began to shake uncontrollably. He’d had enough of people pushing him around, accusing him, persecuting him.

‘Stop, Pascal, stop! You’re hurting him.’ Kojo’s voice first, and then his fists, pummelling his back, trying to beat him off. ‘Leave him, Pascal.’

He pushed at Pascal’s shoulder with all his might, until Tiene managed to twist his torso round and partially free himself. Pascal toppled to the side and Tiene crawled out of his reach.

‘You were trying to kill me!’ Tiene hissed. He rubbed his neck, coughing harshly.

Pascal shuddered and curled up into a tight ball.

Kojo stood between them, looking anxiously from one to the other. ‘Pascal?’ he said quietly.

‘I should report him,’ said Tiene. ‘He’s a lunatic.’

‘He’s not a lunatic,’ said Kojo. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘I understand that he had his hands around my neck.’

‘He didn’t mean it,’ Kojo insisted. ‘I’m sure –’ He stopped when he saw that Pascal’s body was shaking. ‘Pascal,’ he said again, ‘are you all right?’

A low howl of anguish startled both Kojo and Tiene. They looked at each other in astonishment. Pascal was crying. Kojo wanted to bend down to him, to touch his arm just to let him know that he was there for him.

Tiene held him back. ‘Don’t,’ he hissed. ‘He might go for you. Nobody wants to be seen crying, especially Pascal. Leave him alone.’

‘He’s my friend. I can’t just leave him alone. What if Le Cochon comes? It must be nearly time to go back to work.’

‘It’s not my problem,’ Tiene said dismissively. ‘Why should I care when he just tried to kill me?’ He walked away, humming tunelessly and kicking at the leaves that covered the ground.

Kojo stood, wondering what to do. The whistle blew and he knew that Le Cochon or one of the other overseers would be heading in their direction. Pascal was now completely still and silent.

‘Pascal,’ Kojo called quietly. ‘We’ve got to get back to work.’

There was no response. He hesitated for a few moments longer, then began to move over to where he had dropped his machete. He heard a scuffling noise and turned to see that Pascal was on his feet. He smiled at him, but Pascal seemed not to notice. Kojo walked very slowly, hoping that his friend would catch up with him, but Pascal strode past him without a word, picked up his cutter and resumed his work.

Pascal remained silent for the rest of the day. When Tiene and Youssouf tried to goad him by calling him a nutcase and a lunatic, he ignored them. At one point, Mr Kouassi stood by him and watched him work.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘If you can cut down that many pods today, why can’t you cut down that many pods every day?’

Pascal didn’t answer.

‘Seems to me that if you can cut down that many pods one day, you must be slackin’ on them other days,’ the overseer continued. ‘Seems like all them other boys must be slackin’ too.’ He cracked the bicycle chain hard on the ground. ‘D’you hear me? Seems like you other boys are slackin’, and what happens to slackers?’

The boys tried to speed up as he moved to each of them in turn and stood behind them, breathing heavily while he jangled the bicycle chain and lashed the undergrowth with his stick.

‘What happens to slackers?’ he repeated.

‘They get beaten,’ the boys replied.

‘And why do they get beaten?’ asked Le Cochon.

‘Because slackers waste the boss’s money,’ said the boys.

‘Louder,’ ordered Le Cochon.

‘Slackers waste the boss’s money,’ the boys shouted.

Le Cochon was looking directly at Pascal when he barked his last order. Pascal stayed tight-lipped, staring down at his hands, which were holding the cutting tool.