Bitter Chocolate Read online

  ‘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.’

  Pascal ran in to pour some water from the bucket. ‘What next?’ he asked his father as he passed him the cup.

  Mr Camara drank the water thirstily. ‘Next you can find a knife to cut the raffia.’

  Pascal ran indoors again.

  ‘Make sure you don’t blunt it,’ warned his mother.

  He took the knife to his father. ‘Will you show me how to weave the raffia?’ he asked.

  ‘You can watch and learn,’ Mr Camara replied.

  They walked over to the bamboo fence that screened their two huts from the path. Sections of it had broken away, leaving gaps and making the whole structure vulnerable.

  ‘It won’t protect us, will it?’ said Pascal.

  ‘Protect us from what?’ asked his father.

  ‘From rebels or refugees.’

  Mr Camara looked at him searchingly. ‘What do you know about things like that?’

  ‘Nothing much, except I can hear the gunfire and Olivier says we’re surrounded by rebels.’

  Pascal expected his father to deny there was anything wrong, just as his mother and sister had done. Instead, Mr Camara sat down with him on a rock and explained that insurgents from Sierra Leone and Liberia were causing problems along the border and that a few Guinean rebels had joined them. But government forces were trying to calm it all down, and law and order would be re-established soon.

  ‘Has anyone been killed?’ Pascal asked.

  ‘A number of rebels and soldiers,’ his father replied dismissively.

  Pascal thought about that. ‘They’re still people,’ he said.

  ‘Rebels get what they ask for,’ said his father. ‘And soldiers – it’s their job. Now, are we going to get this fence done?’

  The question Pascal really wanted to ask was whether his father thought the rebels would come to their village. In the end he didn’t need to ask. When they had finished repairing the fence, his father picked up the planks of wood he had brought home the day before and built two barricades to go across the doors of their huts.

  Chapter 7

  The heap of cocoa pods was waiting for them at the edge of a field. The pods shone golden and scarlet in the thin early morning sunlight. A small lizard scuttled backwards and forwards over them, perplexed perhaps by the sudden mountainous terrain. Pascal poked at it with a stick, then blocked its path with his machete in whichever direction it tried to go.

  ‘Look at it,’ said Kojo. ‘It’s going mental.’

  The lizard disappeared finally underneath one of the pods and didn’t reappear.

  ‘That lizard’s not stupid, eh?’ Tiene chuckled. ‘It knows you might chop its head off if it stays around too long.’

  Pascal sank his machete into the hard shell of a pod once and then a second time. The pod split open, revealing the stack of cream-coloured beans cocooned inside. He scooped them out in one go and dropped them on to a mat.

  ‘I hate this job the most,’ said Kojo. ‘I always get shouted at because I can’t open the pods neatly like you do.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve got skinny little arms with muscles the size of those beans,’ grinned Pascal.

  ‘That big?’ laughed Tiene. Though he was only nine months older than Kojo, he was taller, broader and much more skilful at breaking open the pods. ‘I’d rather do this than carry sacks all day long. My back’s still killing me from the last time.’ He broke into a pod and emptied the beans on to the pile.

  Kojo saw Mr Kouassi approaching. He quickly placed a pod on the ground in front of him and hit it with his machete. He caught the side and the pod rolled away, its surface barely scratched. He attacked it again, but in his anxiety he missed once more. The overseer was striding towards him as he took aim for a third time. Instead of removing a neat slice, he broke the pod in two, smashing some of the beans on the way. Le Cochon was now hovering over him.

  ‘How many pods can a good breaker open and empty in an hour?’ asked the overseer.

  ‘Five hundred, sir,’ said Kojo.

  ‘Are you a good breaker?’ Le Cochon continued.

  Kojo bit his lip and didn’t answer.

  ‘Are you a good breaker?’ the overseer insisted.

  ‘He’s doing his best,’ Pascal intervened.

  ‘Then his best ain’t good enough,’ Le Cochon snapped. ‘And who asked for you to join in?’

  Pascal glared at him. ‘He’s only young,’ he said. ‘You can’t expect him to do as well as a grown man.’

  ‘I can expect him to do more than he does. I can expect him to have learnt how to break open a pod without smashin’ the beans to pieces.’

  ‘I’m getting better, sir. When I’m stronger I’ll be quicker,’ Kojo pleaded.

  ‘Perhaps
we can’t wait that long,’ said Le Cochon. ‘Perhaps we should get rid of you now instead of wastin’ our money on you.’

  ‘Please, Mr Kouassi, please don’t do that. I need my wages for my family. I promise I’ll try harder.’ Kojo was desperate now. ‘I’ll do anything you say, anything, but please don’t send me away.’

  ‘Please don’t send me away,’ Le Cochon imitated. ‘And there was me thinkin’ you might prefer to be somewhere else.’

  ‘We’d all prefer to be somewhere else,’ Pascal growled.

  ‘But that’s the trouble, ain’t it?’ said Le Cochon. ‘There ain’t nowhere else for you to go in the whole wide world. We’re doin’ you a favour givin’ you a place ’ere, and it ain’t no kindergarten, so get on with your work now.’ He swung his stick in the air menacingly, laughed when Kojo cowered, then sauntered away whistling loudly.

  ‘Fat pig,’ Pascal hissed. ‘If I had my gun he’d be dead.’

  For the second time that morning, his frustration at having to put up with anything the overseer dealt them threatened to overwhelm him. He was in danger of losing control, and if he did, he would make life more difficult for all the other boys as well as himself. He had to wait until the time was right, however long that might be.

  ‘I should have told him I wanted to leave,’ said Kojo. ‘I should have told him to stick his job and that I didn’t care if he throws me out.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ asked Pascal.

  ‘You know why,’ Kojo snapped.

  Tiene started humming and broke into another cocoa pod. ‘These beans,’ he said, holding up a handful, ‘they mean money. These beans get turned into chocolate and people all over the world pay money for chocolate. Lots of money. And money means freedom. The trouble is, they don’t give us any of the money. No money, no freedom.’

  ‘One day I’ll have enough money,’ said Kojo, throwing a stone across the ground.

  ‘Then you’d better get those muscle beans working, or they’ll dock your pay again,’ scoffed Pascal.

  Chapter 8

  Mr Camara continued to stay at home. Pascal’s parents could no longer hide the fact that they were concerned about the news of rebel activity in nearby towns. His father regularly walked to the centre of the village to meet with the village elders. They gathered in Mr Bon’s bicycle repair shop to listen to the radio and, very occasionally, to watch news broadcasts on a borrowed television. Wired up to an old car battery, the radio crackled away about unrest on several borders, raids by disaffected mercenaries and clampdowns by government forces. Pascal was forbidden from going into the shop, but his cousins, who hid round the back and listened through a grille in the wall, reported what they heard – with great relish.

  None of them was allowed to go off into the forest any more. If they wanted to play shoot-’em-up games, they had to confine themselves to the immediate neighbourhood of the village. Pascal was relieved. He didn’t feel safe going too far from home and it didn’t seem right to play with pretend guns when people were being killed by real guns.

  He was overjoyed when his father finally sat down with him to teach him a card game, but Mr Camara became impatient with him when he kept forgetting the rules and he quickly found something else to do. Once again, Pascal felt that he had failed to live up to his father’s expectations.

  ‘I think Papa thinks I’m stupid,’ he said to his mother when his father was out.

  ‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Mrs Camara sounded shocked. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Pascal shrugged his shoulders. ‘He gets annoyed with me if I can’t do things.’

  ‘Your father’s got a lot on his mind, that’s all. He’s very proud of you.’

  ‘I’m not good at anything,’ Pascal replied.

  ‘You’re good at plenty of things and you’re good at being you. You’re unique and you’re blessed,’ smiled his mother. ‘What more can you ask for? As for your father, he’s just no good at showing how he feels.’

  Pascal wasn’t convinced and became more determined than ever that, one day, his father would want to tell the whole world how proud he was of his son.

  I just need to do something, or be something, he thought.

  He had no idea what, and was relieved when his cousins called round, inviting him to fish for tiddlers with them in the nearby stream.

  ‘What’s your papa like with you?’ he asked Bobo on the way over.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does he . . . approve of you?’

  ‘Approve?’ Bobo pulled a face. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. I guess he does, except when I don’t do what he tells me to do. Then he puts on his big, deep voice and roars at me like an angry lion. He’s always roaring at Kamil because Kamil never does as he’s told.’

  ‘My papa thinks Kamil will go far,’ mumbled Pascal.

  ‘Our papa thinks he’s a pain in the butt, and so do I most of the time.’

  ‘I think Papa thinks I’m a bit . . . soft, or something.’

  Bobo nodded his head, much to Pascal’s dismay, then said, ‘You’re not soft, but you’re sort of quiet and a bit thoughtful. Nothing wrong with that. We can’t all be the same.’

  Pascal wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, but he didn’t. They walked on in silence until they reached the stream, where several of the village women were washing clothes, and where Kamil and Olivier were already splashing their way towards a small waterfall. In a moment of abandon, Pascal threw himself in and raced after them, legs pumping, arms rotating like a whirling dervish. When he caught them up, he pushed Kamil over and stood above him, laughing hysterically.

  Kamil hauled himself up. ‘What did you do that for, jerk?’ he growled. He jabbed Pascal in the chest.

  ‘It was only a bit of fun,’ Pascal said, still laughing. He looked for support from Bobo and Olivier. They avoided his gaze.

  ‘I don’t call that fun,’ Kamil hissed. ‘What’s got into you?’ He bent down and looked at his knee, which was livid with blood.

  Pascal stopped laughing and bit his lip. ‘Sorry, Kamil,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘Sorry, Kamil,’ Kamil imitated. ‘You didn’t hurt me all right, but you’re lucky I’m not going to punch you.’

  ‘Let’s forget it, eh?’ said Bobo. ‘Let’s go get those tiddlers.’

  Pascal wanted to go home, but he knew it would make things worse. He didn’t know where the impulse to lark around and push Kamil over had come from, but it made him look like a fool, and now he wished he could disappear. Along with the others, he waved his net in the water, but had no interest in how many fish fell into it, or what type they were, or whether they were big enough to eat. Kamil teased him regularly about his inability to catch or kill anything with scales or wings, making him feel smaller and more insignificant than ever.

  He was glad when, as the shadows lengthened and the village women gathered in their washing, it was time for them to return home to help with chores and sit down for their evening meal. They heard gunfire as they returned along the path. It was too far away to cause them undue concern, but Pascal found himself walking faster, only to slow down again when he realised that he was leaving the others behind.

  As soon as he was in sight of his homestead, he sprinted over to where Bijou was watching Angeline grind manioc. He picked her up and swung her backwards and forwards through his legs.

  ‘Mind you don’t make her sick,’ Angeline smiled. ‘She’s only just finished eating.’

  Pascal lifted Bijou on to his shoulders and galloped round the yard. ‘She’s all right, aren’t you, mon petit chou-fleur?’ he called up to her. Bijou giggled and squealed loudly. Pascal put her down again. ‘Time to collect eggs,’ he said.

  ‘Egg,’ Bijou repeated after him.

  He put her in the tin bath and pulled her across the grass from one of the chickens’ favourite laying places to another. Every time Pascal plucked an egg from its hiding place and gave it to Bijou, she shrieked, ‘egg, eg
g’, and cradled it gently in her lap. When they had collected four eggs, and Bijou was in danger of letting them roll into the bottom of the bath, Pascal fashioned a nest of straw for her to put them in, then began to pull her carefully back towards Angeline.

  ‘You’re good with her,’ Angeline said, nodding approvingly. ‘Plenty of boys can’t be bothered with babies.’

  ‘She’s funny,’ said Pascal. He picked Bijou up and rubbed noses with her. Bijou giggled loudly and grabbed his hair. ‘She’s funny, when she’s not pulling my hair,’ he yelped.

  Pascal blew raspberries on her tummy until she let go, then turned to see his father coming up the path. Mr Camara’s face was set and he scarcely acknowledged them as he crossed the yard and went indoors.

  ‘Something’s up,’ said Angeline. She put down the pestle she had been using to grind the manioc.

  ‘Do you think it’s bad news?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t look like good news,’ his sister replied, tipping the prepared manioc into a bowl. ‘We’d better go and find out. I’ll get the eggs.’

  Chapter 9

  The midday sun beat down on their backs. Heaps of empty pods lay scattered about – temporary shelters for the myriad insects that toiled through the grass. The cocoa beans sweated on their mats, every last trace of moisture destined to be sucked out of them over the following days.

  Kojo was humming and occasionally breaking into song.

  ‘D’you hear that, Tiene?’ Pascal called. ‘It’s the mating call of the greater spotted hairy baboon.’

  ‘That’s a Salif Keita song I’m singing,’ Kojo retorted. ‘He’s the best.’

  ‘He might be,’ said Pascal, ‘but you’re not. Didn’t your maman ever tell you that you can’t sing?’

  ‘She thought I had a nice voice. You’re just jealous.’ Kojo began to sing even more loudly.

  Pascal brought his machete down on to the head of a pod with a vicious smack. The pod shattered, spilling some of its beans on the ground. Pascal stamped on them until they were flattened.