Bitter Chocolate (3 page)

‘I have a few things to do and then I must go back – unless you’re planning to provide for us instead of me.’

Nevertheless, Pascal went to bed that night happy in the knowledge that both of his parents were there to protect him if anything bad happened. And he made up his mind that he would ask his father what he thought about the rebels and the fighting, whether or not his mother wanted it discussed. He lay listening to the sounds of the night – cicadas, tree frogs, monkeys, cattle, the low voices of his parents talking – and wondered if he would hear gunfire that night. Would it wake his father and, if so, what would his father do?

Chapter 5

The plantation bell. Not ringing, but clanging, harsh and discordant. Six o’clock in the morning. Still dark. Muffled groans, mumbled complaints. The bell, continuous, demanding. Ghostly shapes clawing their way out through the deep cushions of sleep and struggling to their feet.

Pascal rolled on to his back. How much sleep had he had? It felt as if he had only just closed his eyes, only just listened to Kojo’s mutterings.

A cigarette would be good right now
, he thought.

He made an ‘o’ with his mouth and practised exhaling. It had been over a year since he had last smoked, but he hadn’t quite lost the addiction he had developed as a soldier. The first time a cigarette had been thrust at him, already lit, he had nearly choked on it. He had tried to refuse the second one, only to be warned that if he didn’t obey orders he would be thrashed. He didn’t know at what point his body had made the transition from loathing every minute of every drag to craving the next one. It wasn’t a craving now, not any more, just a nagging mechanical memory of the habit.

The scuffling increased around him. The voices crescendoed, distorted at first through crusty mouths, then shrill and incessant. They managed to sound full of excitement at the unfolding of a new day, even though there was nothing to be excited about, except perhaps the knowledge that they were going to be fed in a few minutes’ time.

‘You gonna stay there all day?’ Kojo was standing above him in the gloom.

‘What’s it to you if I do?’ asked Pascal.

‘Nothing.’ Kojo shrugged. ‘You’ll get into trouble if you don’t hurry up, that’s all.’

‘
You’ll get into trouble if you don’t hurry up
,’ Pascal mimicked. ‘I’m so scared I think I might wet my pants.’

‘Sometimes you’re not much of a friend,’ said Kojo.

‘You’re not going to take me with you if you escape,’ Pascal jibed. ‘That’s not very friendly.’

He could see Kojo hovering, unsure of what to do next. They usually headed off for breakfast together, but Kojo didn’t know whether to go now with the others and leave Pascal behind, or to wait for Pascal and risk being late himself.

‘You two coming, then?’ Tiene, one of the other boys, asked.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ Pascal sighed.

He was so bored with the endless routine of it all. He was so desperate for some space just to be. What could they do to him, anyway? He’d had plenty of beatings before. It would be worth a beating to spend just five minutes alone, five minutes lying there in the darkness and quiet, freed from the constant maelstrom of activity that living with so many other boys inflicted upon him. Free to pursue his own thoughts wherever they took him, as long as it wasn’t to the carefully delineated no-go areas of his mind.

How long would it be before his absence was noticed and somebody was dispatched to find him? It wouldn’t be many minutes, Pascal knew that much, and he didn’t want to waste his time worrying about it. There were things that he needed to pull back into focus, things that he couldn’t seem to grasp during the monotonous yet exhausting passage of each day. The one certainty was that he had to get back to his own country and find out if his mother and his sisters were still alive. If he discovered that they were, it would make everything he had gone through easier to reconcile.

Pascal lurched to his feet and stood at the window. It was nearly light outside now that the sun was breaking through. It was going to be hot again, insufferably hot, but they would all be expected to carry on with their work regardless. On days like these, some of the younger boys came close to passing out, yet the overseers showed them no mercy, shouting: ‘This ain’t no holiday camp. You ain’t paid good money to slack. Put some effort in or there ain’t gonna be no food for you tonight.’

Pascal had tried to intervene once when one of the eight-year-olds collapsed from sickness and hunger. He had lifted him up and carried him to his bed. For that, he’d received a lashing round his legs with a bicycle chain, a warning to mind his own business and a fine for absenting himself from work without permission.

He could hear the sound of tin plates clanking and the boys’ voices, loud and garrulous. He moved away from the window. He hadn’t chosen to be alone to spend the time listening to them. He looked round the dilapidated wooden shack that had served as his home for the last eleven months. He had just turned thirteen when he arrived, and was now one of the oldest boys working on the plantation. The thought of it depressed him. What would happen when the overseers decided that he had served his purpose? He might be desperate to leave, but he wanted it to be on his terms and when he was ready, not when they felt like throwing him out. He had had enough of other people determining the when and where of his life. He had had enough of being bullied and pushed around, shouted at and intimidated. At least when he had been drugged . . . but that was a no-go area.

Pascal heard footsteps approaching and knew that his time was up. He might just as well have gone to breakfast with the others for all he had achieved by staying behind. He kicked at one of the wooden pallets that the boys slept on, then walked out of the shack.

‘What d’you think you’re doin’ loiterin’ around ’ere when you’re supposed to be at breakfast?’ It was Le Cochon, the worst of the overseers and the one who had hit him with the bicycle chain. His real name was Mr Kouassi, but the boys had nicknamed him ‘Le Cochon’ because he was fat and because of the way he ate his food.

‘I wasn’t hungry,’ said Pascal.

‘Not ’ungry, eh? We must be feedin’ you too well. Is that right?’

Pascal stared at him defiantly. ‘Corn paste doesn’t do it for me any more,’ he muttered.

‘Gettin’ fussy, are we?’ Le Cochon sneered. ‘I reckon we should be grateful, don’t you?’

Pascal stared at the ground.

‘Don’t you?’ Le Cochon said threateningly.

Pascal nodded briefly. A heavy stick caught him on the elbow. He winced with pain.

‘Get to work before I find the other arm, and since we’ve been feedin’ you too well, there ain’t gonna be no food for you tonight.’ Mr Kouassi marched away.

Pascal rubbed his elbow. ‘If I had my way, I’d wipe your stupid corn paste all over your stupid fat face,’ he growled under his breath. He headed off towards the field, rueing the fact that he would only be eating a measly lunch that day.

Kojo came over to him as he collected a machete from the store. ‘I got you a banana,’ he whispered. ‘It’s in my pocket. You can have it when no one’s looking.’

‘You’re an idiot!’ Pascal hissed. ‘They’ll take the skin off your back if they find out you’ve been nicking food.’

‘They won’t find out, unless you tell them. I thought you’d be hungry.’

‘Look, I don’t want you taking risks for me, OK?’ Pascal looked at Kojo’s scowling face. ‘But thanks,’ he added. ‘Come on, let’s go and beat the hell out of those pods.’

Chapter 6

Pascal was woken the next morning by the sound of his parents talking loudly. They were outside, but their voices carried through the open door. He wondered if they were arguing, and tried to still his breathing so that he could hear what they were saying. It went quiet for a while, then Bijou began to cry and their mother hurried indoors to pick her up.

‘Where’s Papa?’ Pascal called.

‘He’s gone into the village,’ Mrs Camara replied.

‘He’s not going back to work today, is he?’ Pascal called, jumping to his feet and clambering into his shorts.

‘No, not today,’ Mrs Camara said.

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Why are you so keen for him to go?’

‘I’m not,’ Pascal protested. ‘I don’t want him to go at all. I want him to stay and teach me some card games and play football with me. He keeps saying he will.’

‘Your father has a lot of jobs to do while he’s here.’

‘What sort of jobs? Can I help him?’

‘Well, the fence needs repairing,’ Mrs Camara said carefully. ‘You might be able to help him with that.’

‘That’s not difficult. I can help with that,’ Pascal said eagerly.

‘We’ll see what he says when he comes back.’

Pascal wished he had got up early enough to go with him into the village. He liked to be seen with his father, and it didn’t happen very often. He thought about running after him, but his mother thrust a bowl of mashed banana into his hands and told him to eat before he did anything else. He plonked himself down at the table, which rocked unsteadily on its fragile wooden legs.

‘We could mend this while we’re at it,’ he said, rocking the table deliberately to show his mother how precarious it was.

‘There are more important things at the moment, so leave it alone,’ said Mrs Camara. ‘And give it a good wipe when you’ve finished.’

She lobbed a damp cloth in his direction. Pascal caught it, saw Angeline come through the door, shouted ‘Catch!’ and threw it at her. He missed badly and knocked a large bowl of bulgar wheat on to the floor. The bowl broke and the wheat rolled everywhere.

‘Oh, Pascal!’ his mother cried. ‘Look what you’ve done. How can you be so clumsy?’ She dropped to her knees and began to scrape the wheat into her hands. Angeline shot him a fierce look, then joined her mother on the floor.

‘Sorry, Maman,’ Pascal muttered. ‘It was an accident. I was only having a bit of fun.’

Bijou started to cry. Pascal picked her up and carried her outside, blowing raspberries on her cheeks and allowing her to bend his fingers backwards.

‘It wasn’t my fault, was it?’ he said to her. ‘Maman threw the cloth first.’

He walked to the path and looked down the road, wishing once again that he could have gone with his father. It would have been the perfect time to ask him all the questions he wanted answered, and he would have avoided upsetting his mother. He hoped that his father would stay home long enough to cheer his mother up.

Olivier appeared round the corner, carrying a slingshot. ‘We’re all going hunting in the woods,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come?’

Pascal shook his head. ‘Papa’s come home. I’m helping him.’

Olivier looked at him quizzically. ‘Babysitting?’

Pascal put Bijou on the ground. ‘Course not. We’re going to mend the fence.’

Olivier pulled a face. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I know what I’d rather do.’

‘I don’t see Papa very much,’ Pascal replied.

Olivier pulled another face. ‘We might not be able to go hunting for much longer,’ he said, marching off.

Pascal took Bijou indoors to Angeline, who set about braiding her hair.

His mother pointed to the bowl of banana. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast,’ she said accusingly.

Pascal sat down in front of the browning mess and picked at it slowly. ‘Why did Olivier say we might not be able to go hunting for much longer?’ he asked.

‘Who knows why your cousins say the things they do,’ Mrs Camara replied. ‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t care for hunting.’

It was true. He didn’t. He felt sorry for the birds and small animals that they felled with their slingshots. He had once picked up a wounded firefinch, its leg broken, its rump bloody. The bird had nestled on its side in his hand, its head leaning against his fingers, heart beating fast, until its eyes gradually closed and its body lay still. Pascal had wanted to cry. He had killed other birds and animals before, but had never picked one up, never watched one die right before his very eyes. He had refused to go hunting for days after that, only resuming because he didn’t want his cousins to start calling him names.

‘Did you hear the gunfire in the night again?’ he asked.

His mother looked at him and sighed – in exasperation, he thought – then sat down beside him. ‘It’s not your job to worry,’ she said. ‘Leave that to your father and me.’

‘But nobody tells me anything,’ Pascal complained. ‘I’m not a baby any more.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Mrs Camara. ‘There’s unrest in some of the towns and a few rebels are causing problems further south, but it’s nothing that affects us.’

‘What if it gets worse?’ Pascal wanted to know.

‘I’m sure the government won’t let it, and what happens in towns is completely different from what happens in our villages. Nobody is interested in us.’

Once again Pascal had the feeling that he was being protected from the truth, but when his mother sent him to fetch water he knew the conversation was closed. He was delighted, therefore, to see his father returning with a cart full of bamboo.

‘Hey, Papa,’ he called. ‘Maman says I can help you mend the fence.’

‘Did she now?’ Mr Camara replied. ‘Then you can start by fetching me a big cup of water.’