Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  During the walk, they talked about day-to-day things, bringing each other up to date on their families. Clarence always thought she felt a shift in Julia’s tone when she asked about Kilian or Jacobo. It was very subtle, but preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.

  “It’s been a while since I last saw your uncle. How is he?”

  “He’s doing fine, thanks. Starting to get on a bit, but nothing serious.”

  “And what’s your father up to? Doesn’t he come up?”

  “He does, just not as often. He doesn’t like driving much anymore.”

  “From the man who used to love cars!”

  “I think he likes the cold less as he gets older. He usually waits for better weather.”

  “Well, it’s the same with everyone. You have to love this area a lot to be able to put up with its savage climate …”

  Clarence knew this was her opportunity to easily redirect the conversation.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “Especially if you’ve lived in the tropics, right?”

  “Look, Clarence.” Julia stopped in front of the chocolate bar. “If it weren’t for certain circumstances … anyway, the way we had to leave, I mean …”

  They entered the bar, Clarence guiding Julia inside, delighted she had taken the bait.

  “… I would have stayed there …”

  They went over to the free table closest to the window; took off their jackets, bags, and scarves; and sat down.

  “They were the best years of my life …”

  Julia sighed, made a gesture with her hands to the waiter for two cups, then realized that she had not asked Clarence. She looked at her, and Clarence nodded before speaking.

  “Do you know where I was recently?”

  Julia arched her eyebrows inquisitively.

  “At a conference in Murcia on Hispanic-African literature.” Clarence noticed the astonished look on Julia’s face. “Yes, it also surprised me at first. I knew something about African literature written in English, in French, even in Portuguese, but nothing in Spanish.”

  “I had no idea.” Julia shrugged. “Well, to be honest, I never thought about it.”

  “It seems there is a large unknown quantity of literary work both here and there. These writers have been neglected for years.”

  “And why did you go?” Julia allowed the waiter to serve them their chocolate. “Has it anything to do with your research in the university?”

  Clarence hesitated. “Yes and no. The truth is that after finishing the thesis, I didn’t have much of an idea what to do. A colleague told me about the conference, and it made me think. How is it that none of this occurred to me after spending all my life listening to Dad’s and Uncle Kilian’s tales?”

  She clasped the cup of cocoa in her hands. It was so hot that she had to blow on it a few times before taking a sip. Julia stayed quiet, seeing how Clarence closed her eyes to taste the mixture of bitter and sweet, just the way she had taught her.

  “And did you learn anything?” she asked at last. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Clarence opened her eyes and placed the cup back on the saucer.

  “I enjoyed it a lot,” she answered. “There were African writers living in Spain, others who live abroad in various countries, and those of us from here who were discovering a whole new world. They talked about many things, especially the need to promote their works and their culture.” She stopped for a second to check that Julia was not getting bored. “In fact, it was a real discovery to find out about the existence of Africans who share our language and grammar. Surprising, isn’t it? Let’s just say that their topics differed a lot from the stories I heard at home.”

  Julia frowned. “In what way?”

  “Obviously, the colonial and postcolonial eras were discussed a lot. The ideological inheritance that conditioned writers’ lives; the admiration, rejection, and even rancor toward those who had made them change the course of their history; their traumas with their identity; the attempts to make up for lost time; the experiences of exile and being uprooted; and the myriad ethnic groups and languages. Nothing at all compared to what I thought I knew … And I doubt if there were many colonists’ children at the conference! I, for one, didn’t open my mouth. I was a little ashamed … you know? Even an American lecturer recited poetry to us in his native language, Bubi …” She put her hand in her bag, produced a pen, and took a paper napkin. “Which is actually written like this: Böóbé.”

  “Bubi, yes,” Julia repeated. “A Bubi writer … I admit I’m surprised. I didn’t think—”

  “Sure, sure …” Clarence interrupted her. “Don’t tell me! My childhood dog was called Bubi.” She lowered her voice. “Dad named him …”

  “Yes, not really very appropriate. Typical of Jacobo. Of course”—she sighed—“they were different times …”

  “You don’t have to explain, Julia. I’m telling you so you can understand that, for me, it was like suddenly seeing things from the other side of the fence. I realized that sometimes it’s necessary to ask, that it’s not enough to take everything they say to us as gospel.”

  She put her hand into her beige suede bag and took out her wallet, reaching for the paper fragment that she had found in the wardrobe.

  “I was sorting out papers in the house, and I came across this among Dad’s letters.” She handed it over, explaining that it had been written sometime in the 1970s or 1980s. She stopped suddenly on seeing Julia’s face. “Are you all right?” she asked, alarmed.

  Julia was pale. Very pale. The paper shook in her hands like an autumn leaf, and a tear began to trickle down her cheek. Clarence took her friend’s hand.

  “What’s wrong? Have I said something to offend you?” she said. “If so, I’m very sorry!”

  Why had Julia reacted like this?

  There was silence for a few seconds. Finally, Julia shook her head and raised her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. Relax. I’m just being a silly old woman. It’s my husband’s handwriting. I got emotional when I saw it.”

  “Your husband’s … ?” Clarence asked, puzzled. “And do you know what it means?” Her curiosity got the better of her. “It mentions two people and their mother, and another dead person, four, there’re four …”

  “I can read, Clarence,” interrupted Julia, raising a handkerchief to her eyes.

  “Yes, sorry, it’s just very strange. Your husband writing this letter to Dad.”

  “Well, they knew each other,” Julia said in a careful tone.

  “Yes, but as far as I knew, they didn’t send letters to each other,” Clarence replied, picking up the slip of paper. “They saw each other when you came up here for the holidays. I would have found other letters, I think. But no, just this one.”

  Julia turned her head to escape Clarence’s piercing stare, gazing at the passersby on the street as her mind was transported to another time and place. For a brief moment, the stone, wood, and slate buildings turned white, and the nearby ash trees became palms and ceibas. Not a day had gone by without her thinking of her beloved piece of Africa, where she had passed the most intense years of her life. Yes, she was grateful for her wonderful children and grandchildren and their comfortable life in Madrid. But at the bottom of her heart, it was the memories of those years that came to mind when she woke up every morning. Only someone who had been in the same situation could understand, like Jacobo or Kilian.

  In spite of their long lives, Julia was convinced that they had not had a single day of peace.

  What should she tell Clarence? Had Jacobo or Kilian told her something? Maybe now, at their age, they could not avoid that hidden part of their consciences. What would she have done? How could she have lived all her life with such a burden?

  She let out a deep sigh and turned back toward Clarence. The young woman’s eyes, a deep green identical to those of Jacobo and Kilian, graced a well-rounded face encased by beautiful wavy chestnut-colored hair. Julia had known Clarence since she was little and knew how persistent sh
e could be.

  “And why don’t you ask your father?”

  Clarence was surprised to hear such a direct question. Julia’s reaction was making her even more certain that something suspect was going on. She blinked a few times without knowing how to answer; she looked down and starting tearing the paper napkin into bits.

  “The truth is, Julia, I’d be embarrassed. If I show him the note, he’ll know I’ve been rooting through his stuff. And if he has a secret, I don’t think he’ll tell me just like that, not after all these years.” She straightened herself up in the chair and sighed. “Anyway, I don’t want to put you under pressure.” She sighed again. “But it would be a shame if something so important were to disappear into oblivion …”

  Clarence hoped that Julia would firmly answer that she was wasting her time, that there was no secret to reveal, and that she was dreaming up a story. Instead, Julia remained silent, only one question running through her mind: Why now?

  Beyond the window, the rays of weak April afternoon sunlight struggled in their annual battle to dissolve the tiny crystallized drops of intermittent rain.

  “Why now?”

  Julia remembered her husband complaining about how—according to him—the witch doctors had a bad influence on the natives. “I have never seen anything as foolish,” he used to say. “Is it that difficult to understand cause and effect? In life and in science, a series of circumstances cause things to happen one way and not another. But no, for them there is neither cause nor effect. Only the wishes of the gods.”

  Maybe the time had come, yes, but she would not be the one to betray Kilian and Jacobo. If God or the Bubi gods wished it so, Clarence would discover the truth sooner or later. And better sooner than later, as they did not have much time left.

  “Listen, Clarence,” Julia said at last. “My husband wrote this letter in 1987. I remember it perfectly because it was on that trip that he learned an old acquaintance had died.” She paused. “If you are really interested in knowing what it means, go there and find someone named Fernando. He’s a little older than you. Only one of the sons is of interest. It’s likely that they still keep records in Sampaka, because the plantation is still in operation—not doing very well, but it’s still there. I don’t think they destroyed everything, but I’m not completely sure. Look for Fernando. The island is no bigger than this valley …”

  “Who is this Fernando?” asked Clarence with sparkling eyes as she pointed to one of the lines on the piece of paper. “And why do I have to look for him in Sampaka?”

  “He was born there. That’s all I’m going to tell you, dear Clarence,” Julia answered firmly. She looked down and petted Clarence’s hand in hers. “If you want to know more, it’s your father you have to talk to. If Jacobo hears what I have told you, I’ll deny it. Is that clear?”

  Clarence reluctantly agreed, but that reluctance was quickly replaced by a growing excitement. In her head, she repeated the words over and over: Go to Sampaka, Clarence. To Sampaka!

  “I have something very important to tell you.”

  Clarence waited till those still eating looked up. Her cheerful and talkative family was seated as they always were around the wooden rectangular table. At the head was Uncle Kilian, who had presided over all lunches and dinners for as long as she could remember. Although Jacobo was older, Kilian had assumed the role of head of the family, and it seemed Jacobo had been happy to accept an arrangement that allowed him to stay linked to the house of his birth without any further obligations. All who were there felt the house as theirs, but Kilian was in charge of its upkeep, renting the fields for grazing since they no longer had cows or sheep, weighing the merits of selling more parcels of land to the growing ski resort, and retaining the traditions, customs, and celebrations of a house that, like all others in the village, saw its history changing with the tourism that had saved it from ruin.

  To the right of Kilian, the untiring worker, sat Jacobo. Despite being over seventy, both brothers remained big and strong—Jacobo sported a generous stomach—and both were very proud of retaining fine heads of dark hair even if streaked with gray. On Jacobo’s right always sat his wife, Carmen, a good-looking and happy woman of medium build, with smooth, rosy skin and short dyed-blond hair. To Kilian’s left, in front of Jacobo, sat the responsible and sensible Daniela, who had inherited her dark copper-streaked mane from her father, Kilian, and—according to the village elders—the fine and delicate traits of her mother, Pilar. Finally, at the far end of the table, opposite Kilian, sat Clarence, where she had learned to interpret the ritual gestures of her uncle at each meal. It was easy for her to know whether he was in a good mood from the way he folded his napkin, or how he stared at something on the table for a time.

  After a few minutes, Clarence realized that her announcement had gone totally unnoticed. It had been days since they had all been together, and the dinner had led to a typically boisterous conversation. At that moment, her parents and her cousin continued gossiping about the neighbors and the latest happenings in Pasolobino, while her uncle remained lost in thought. Clarence took a sip from her glass of wine. She got on better with her uncle than with her own father. For her, Kilian was open and vulnerable despite appearing to be a quiet, hard, and distant man. Jacobo had a better sense of humor, yes, but it was also changeable and could become bad tempered without warning, especially when he did not get his way. Fortunately for the rest of the family, Carmen had developed an incredible ability to weather his storms, easily directing her husband to give him the impression that his opinions were neither totally rejected nor totally accepted.

  How would Clarence’s father react when he found out what his daughter was going to do? After another sip of wine for courage, Clarence raised her voice.

  “I have some news! And it might shock you.”

  Everyone turned his or her head. Everyone except Kilian, who raised his gaze from his plate with the reluctance of someone who did not believe anything could shock him.

  Clarence bit her bottom lip. She suddenly felt nervous. After the intensity of the last few weeks, when she had done nothing but plan—pulling photos, maps, and articles from the Internet and learning where Ureca was—what was going to be the adventure of her life, at that moment, her heart beat unsteadily.

  Daniela looked at her expectantly, and when her cousin did not speak, she decided to help: “Have you met someone? Is that it, Clarence? When are we going to meet him?”

  Carmen clasped her hands in front of her and smiled. “No, that’s not it, Daniela. It’s … well … that—”

  “I can’t believe it!” boomed Jacobo. “My daughter is at a loss for words! Now I am intrigued!”

  Kilian looked straight at Clarence with an almost imperceptible movement of his eyebrows, trying to encourage her to tell everyone what was so important. Clarence closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out.

  “I’m going to Bioko on Thursday. I already have the tickets and all the paperwork.”

  Kilian did not even blink. Carmen and Daniela let out surprised shouts almost in unison. A metallic sound rang out as Jacobo dropped his fork to his plate.

  “What are you saying?” her father asked, more surprised than annoyed.

  “That I’m going to Bioko, that’s to say, to Fernando Po—”

  “I know perfectly well what and where Bioko is!” he interrupted her. “What I don’t know is what gave you the idea to go there!”

  Clarence had the answer well prepared, to outline a reasonable and safe trip and put her family and herself at ease.

  “You all know that I’m part of a linguistics research team. I’m now focusing on African Spanish, and I need to do some fieldwork to collect real samples. And what better place than Bioko to do it?”

  “I had no idea that you were interested in African Spanish,” her mother commented.

  “Well, I don’t tell you everything I do at work …”

  “Yes, but this, in particular, is something very close to our fam
ily,” Daniela said.

  “Actually, I’ve only recently steered my research in this direction. There’s very little published on it.” Clarence really wanted to ask them about this Fernando, but she held back. “And I’ve always been curious to learn about your beloved island. All my life listening to your stories and now I’ve got the chance to visit!”

  “But isn’t it dangerous there? Are you going on your own? I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Clarence,” her mother said, shaking her head with a worried look.

  “Yes, I know it’s not an easy tourist destination, but I have everything planned. A university colleague has contacts with a lecturer there, and both of them have helped me sort out the visa paperwork. Normally it takes weeks to get one! There is a direct flight from Madrid, around five hours, a cakewalk … Now that I think about it … ,” she added, full of double meaning, “would any of you like to come? Dad, Uncle Kilian … wouldn’t you like to see it again? You could reconnect with old acquaintances!”

  Kilian squinted his eyes and pursed his lips as Jacobo answered for the two of them.

  “Who could we meet? None of the whites are left, and the blacks we knew would be dead. Anyway, the whole place must be a mess. I wouldn’t go. What for?” His voice seemed to break. “To suffer?”

  He turned to his brother but did not look directly at him.

  “Kilian, you wouldn’t want to go back at this stage in life, would you?” he asked gently, trying to keep his tone neutral.

  Kilian cleared his throat and, making crumbs of a piece of bread, answered categorically, “When I left, I knew I’d never go back.”

  Silence reigned for a few seconds.

  “And you, Daniela, what about you? Would you like to come with me?”