by Luz Gabás
Daniela hesitated, still surprised that Clarence had not told her about her decision. Clarence looked at her cousin, those big brown eyes lighting up her face. She was the only one who had not inherited the green eyes shared by her father’s side of the family. She often complained about it, but their intensity surpassed the prettiest-colored eyes in existence. Daniela was not conscious of this, but people often felt bewildered when they met her gaze.
“How long are you going for?” she asked.
“About three weeks.”
“Three weeks!” Carmen exclaimed. “But that’s a long time! And if something happens to you?”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, Mom! From what they have told me, it’s a fairly safe place for foreigners, as long as you don’t do anything suspicious, of course …”
That comment alarmed her mother even more.
“Jacobo, Kilian … you know the place, would you please tell her to forget this idea?”
They began speaking as if Clarence were not there.
“As if you don’t know your own daughter!” exclaimed Jacobo. “In the end, she’ll do what she wants herself.”
“She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, don’t you think, Carmen?” said Kilian. “We were even younger when we went—”
“Yes,” Carmen interrupted him, “but it was safe then. Now, a young white girl traveling alone …”
“From what I’ve read, people still do business there, and they come and go without any problem,” added Kilian. “And aid organization volunteers …”
“And how do you know this?” Jacobo wanted to know.
“The Internet,” Kilian responded, shrugging. “I’m old, but I like to be informed. Daniela showed me. This computer thing is a lot simpler than I thought.” He gave his daughter a smile. “I had a good teacher.”
Daniela returned his smile.
“And is there no work colleague who could go with you?” insisted Carmen to her daughter.
“The truth is that none of them thought much of a trip to such an uncivilized country … But I have a personal interest”—she emphasized the word—“which they don’t share. I will get to see the places from your stories!”
“You won’t recognize anything!” Jacobo interjected. “You will only realize the pitiful state of the country. Misery and more misery.”
“The exact opposite of what you have told us, isn’t it?” intoned Clarence. “It tends to happen. Fact is always stranger than fiction.”
Kilian frowned. He sensed a rare impertinence in his niece’s voice. “Clarence,” he said in a kind but firm manner, “don’t talk about what you don’t know. If you are that interested in going, go and make up your own mind, but don’t judge us.”
Clarence did not know what to say. It was as if her uncle had read her mind! To ease the slight tension, she turned to her cousin.
“Well, wouldn’t you like to come with me?”
Daniela shook her head. “It’s a pity you didn’t tell me sooner!” she answered regretfully. “I can’t take three weeks off just like that. But,” she added, “if you end up falling in love with Fernando Po, I’ll go with you the next time. That’s a promise.”
Clarence imagined that Daniela thought a few weeks would be enough for the same kind of romance that had bewitched their fathers. But the men had spent years on the island. Clarence would be traveling under different circumstances and in a different age.
“Oh, I don’t know if a few weeks will be enough for me to fall in love … But who knows?”
The question hung in the ensuing silence. Still, it could barely hide the deafening voices repeating over and over again in the heads of the two brothers: You knew that this day could come. You knew. It was just a question of time. The spirits have decided it. There is nothing you could have done. You knew.
You have to know the mountains to understand that April is the cruelest month.
In the lowlands, Holy Week brings the resurrection of life in spring after winter’s desolation. Mother Earth wakes up and emerges from the depths of hell, coming to the land’s surface. In the mountains, she doesn’t. In the mountains, she remains asleep for at least another month until she allows the pastures to sprout.
So in April, nothing grows; the land is barren and the landscape still. Nothing moves. There is a soft and shapeless calm that takes over, a calm very different from the stillness before a tornado or snowstorm. In April, you have to look up, up toward the peaks and the sky, and not down on the barren land, to find signs of life.
In the sky, there is movement; the mists grip the mountains’ slopes, and it rains for days. The fog stretches down, covering the valley in a faint twilight that lasts until, one day, without any warning, a gap opens in the sky and the sun emerges to heat the earth and win the battle against winter. Victory is certain; the wait, devastating.
This month of April was especially wet, week after week of a steady and constant drizzle that did not help the already gray mood. Yet the night Clarence announced her trip, the leaves began to tremble, rocked by the emergent north wind that threatened to displace the rain. It began as a whisper that increased in volume until turning into strong currents of air that crashed against the shutters and sneaked under the doors and around the very feet of the householders.
That night, Kilian and Jacobo recalled scenes that, although not lost, had remained dormant through the murmurs of time. Yet only a few words had been necessary for the scenes of their youth to come alive again, burning with the same intensity as decades past.
Neither of them could imagine that due to innocent curiosity, Clarence would set off events in very unexpected ways. She would become the instrument of chance—that capricious rival of cause and effect—so that her every move made much fall into place.
That night, after Clarence announced her trip, when the leaves of the trees beat against their branches, the villagers closed their eyes, lying down in the solitude of their beds as, in a flash, the north wind became the harmattan.
2
Pantap Salt Water
On the Sea, 1953
“Come on, Kilian. We’ll miss the coach!”
Using an old board to shift the snow that had stuck shut the front door, Jacobo tried to raise his voice above the howls of the January winds. When he finished, he pulled up the lapels of his raincoat, tugged his hat onto his head, picked up his suitcase, and placed the wooden skis on his shoulder, stamping on the ground to mark the path that they would take down to the village—and to warm up from the intense cold that had his feet frozen.
He was about to shout out his brother’s name again when he heard voices in the Pasolobinese dialect coming from the stone steps that led to the patio. Just then, Kilian came out onto the street with their mother, Mariana, and their sister, Catalina. Both were wrapped up in heavy, coarse black woolen coats; their heads were covered with thick-knitted shawls, and they steadied themselves with wooden poles to stop from slipping in their old stiff leather boots, which were only a fragile barrier against the cold.
Jacobo smiled at seeing his mother carrying two parcels wrapped in newspaper. There was a hunk of bread with bacon in each of them for the journey.
“I’ll go ahead with you, Jacobo,” said Catalina, grabbing on to his arm.
“Fine,” her brother agreed before affectionately telling her off. “But you should have stayed in the house, Miss Stubborn. This cold is no good for your cough. You’re pale, and your lips are blue.”
“It’s because I don’t know when I’ll see you again!” she whined, trying to put a rebellious lock of black hair back under the shawl. “I want to make the most of the time I have with you.”
“As you wish.”
Jacobo turned his head to take a last look at his house before walking slowly with his sister along the frozen streets. The snowfall from the last few days came up to their knees, and when it was lifted by the wind, you could not see more than two meters ahead.
A few steps behind them, Kil
ian waited for their mother, a tall and robust woman, to adjust the collar of her old coat to cover her throat. He glanced at the front of the house to try and memorize everything about it: the cornerstones, the wooden windows parched by the sun and set in thick stone, the shutters anchored to rusted hinges, the lintel over the jambs that guarded the sturdy door marked with large walnut-size nails, the cross engraved on the main stone of the entrance arch …
His mother observed her son and felt a pang of fear. How would he fit in to a completely different world? Kilian was not like Jacobo; he was physically strong and full of energy, fine, but he did not have the overwhelming courage of his elder brother. Since he was young, Kilian had always shown a special sensitivity and thoughtfulness that, as time went by, became hidden under a cloak of curiosity and expectation that pushed him to try to copy his brother. Mariana knew how hard the tropics were. She did not want to cramp her son’s desire to learn, but she could not help feeling worried.
“You still have time to change your mind,” she said.
Kilian shook his head from side to side.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Mariana nodded, taking hold of his arm as they began to walk along the fading path marked out by Jacobo and Catalina. They had to bend their heads and shout, without looking at each other, because of the unusually fierce gale.
“This house is left with no men, Kilian,” she said. There was no contempt in her voice, but some bitterness. “I hope that one day your efforts will have been worth it …”
Kilian could hardly speak. Times would be difficult for his mother and young sister: two women managing a property in a harsh environment where there were fewer and fewer people. For the last two or three years, many young people had decided to leave for the provincial capitals in search of work and a better life, encouraged by the news in the few papers—El Noticiero, El Heraldo, La Nueva España, and ABC—that arrived by post to some of the richer neighbors. Reading the adverts, one might think that the future was anywhere except in that land forgotten by progress. Still, he already missed it, fearing their final good-bye. It was the first time he had left home and his mother, and all the excitement of the previous days had now transformed into a knot in his stomach.
He envied Jacobo, the speed and determination with which he had packed his luggage. “Our clothes won’t be of any use to you there,” he had told Kilian, “so only think about what you will wear on the journey there and back, the best you have. Besides, everything is cheaper there. You can buy anything you want.” Kilian had packed and unpacked the few clothes—shirts, jackets, trousers, underwear, and socks—many times to ensure that he had picked the right things. He had even made a list of all his belongings, which he then stuck to the inside of the case to remind him of what he was taking, including the packets of Palmera double-edged razor blades and his Varón Dandy aftershave. Of course, both his father and his brother had been to Africa many times and were used to traveling, but he was not, even though he had always wanted it with all his heart.
“If it weren’t so far …” Mariana sighed, clutching her son’s arm even tighter.
Six thousand kilometers and three weeks—it now seemed like an eternity—was what separated Kilian’s beloved mountains from a promising future. Those who went to Africa came back with white suits and money in their pockets. The families of those who emigrated did well and did so quickly. However, that was not the only reason Kilian was leaving. After all, the income of his father and brother was more than enough. In his heart of hearts, he had always been tempted to go out and see for himself what others from the valley had seen of the world, even if it meant a long and arduous journey.
“The money is always a help,” he countered again. “In these houses, something always comes up, the cost of the shepherd, the harvesters, the builders. Besides, you know that for a young man, Pasolobino is a bit limited.”
Mariana understood it better than anybody. Things had not changed much since she and her husband, Antón, had left for Africa in 1926. Life in the village meant livestock and more livestock, sheds full of manure, mud, snow, and cold. There was no scarcity, but you could not aspire to much more than surviving with a little dignity. The climate of the valley was very hard. Life depended on the weather. The crops, the fields, the farms, and the animals: if the harvest was bad one year, everybody felt it. Their sons could have stayed to work in the pyrite mine or been apprentices to the smith, the builder, the slater, or the carpenter and supplemented their income from cattle and sheep. Kilian was quite good with livestock, and he felt happy and free in the fields. But he was still young, and Mariana understood that he wanted new experiences. She had also gone through this: very few valley women had the chance to travel so far. She knew that what entered the senses when one was young left its mark.
A gust of wind hit Kilian’s suitcase, pushing him back. They trudged along in silence accompanied by the roar of the wind along the narrow street that led to the bottom of the village. Kilian was happy he had said good-bye to his neighbors the previous afternoon and that the snowstorm had prevented them from coming out onto the street. The doors and windows of the houses remained closed, adding to the spectral scene.
They made out the shapes of Jacobo and Catalina a few steps away, and the four of them formed an unsteady huddle at the edge of the fields.
Mariana observed her three children together, telling jokes to ease the tension of saying good-bye. Kilian and Jacobo were strong and attractive men who needed to stoop down to talk to their sister, a thin young woman who had never had much health. She knew Catalina would miss Jacobo’s jovial nature and Kilian’s patience. All of a sudden, Mariana missed her husband terribly. It had been two years since she had last seen Antón. And it seemed like centuries since the five of them had last been together. Now the two women would be all alone. She felt like crying but wanted to look strong, as she had been taught since childhood. Real mountain people never showed emotion in public, even if just with family.
Jacobo looked at his watch and said it was time to go. He gave his sister a hug and pinched her cheek. He went to his mother and gave her two theatrical kisses, telling her in a high voice that they would be back when she least expected it.
She whispered to him, “Look after your brother.”
Kilian hugged his sister and held her by the shoulders to look at her straight; her chin began to tremble, and she burst out crying. Kilian hugged her again, and Jacobo nervously cleared his throat and repeated that they would miss the coach.
Kilian approached his mother, making a great effort not to falter. Mariana hugged him so tightly that both felt the spasms as they tried to keep from sobbing.
“Mind yourself, Son, mind yourself,” she whispered in his ear. Her voice trembled. “And don’t be gone too long.”
Kilian nodded. He fit his skis’ cable ties to the heels of his boots and tightened them with the metal levers a palm’s length from the tips. He put the parcel of food in a bag, picked up his suitcase in one hand, and began to ski after Jacobo, who was already disappearing down the eight-kilometer slope that led down to Cerbeán, the biggest neighboring town, where they had to get the coach to the city. The road did not go as high as Pasolobino, built at the feet of a giant rocky mass that reigned over the valley. In winter, skis were the fastest and most comfortable way to travel over the snow.
He had barely gone a few meters when he stopped and turned to get a last look at the dark figures of his mother and sister against the gray background of tightly packed houses and smoking chimneys.
Despite the cold, the women remained there until they lost sight of the young men.
Only then did Mariana bow her head and allow the tears to roll down her cheeks. Catalina moved closer, silently took her arm, and led her slowly to the house, wrapped in gusts of wind and snow.
When the brothers got to Cerbeán, with reddened cheeks, hands stiff with cold, and bodies sweating from the exercise, the wind had died down a little. They swapped
their ski boots for laced shoes and left the boots beside the skis in a tavern close to the coach stop, where one of their cousins would come to collect them and return them to the House of Rabaltué.
Jacobo clambered up the rear ladder of the coach to tie the suitcases to the roof rack. Afterward, both brothers took their seats toward the rear of the bus. The driver started the engine and announced that they would be leaving in five minutes. The coach was practically empty. It was not the time of year when the people of Pasolobino normally traveled, but it would soon fill up on the journey so that the last passengers would arrive in the city standing or squashed together on the steps located to the driver’s right.
Jacobo closed his eyes to take a nap, relieved to be sheltered from the intense cold—it was not particularly warm inside, but it was tolerable—and to not have to make the first part of the journey on horseback like his father had done. Kilian entertained himself by looking through the window at the featureless countryside, which remained white for a good part of the journey until changing to gray rocks, through whose tunnels they left the mountains behind and approached the lowlands.
He knew the route. It was the only one that led to Barmón, a small provincial town seventy kilometers from Pasolobino. Barmón was the farthest Kilian, at the age of twenty-four, had traveled in his life. Some of his childhood friends had had the good fortune to get so sick that they needed specialist medical attention in the provincial or even regional capital; he had grown up as strong as an ox. Livestock marts in Barmón had been his most direct source of information of the outside world, with traveling salesmen from all parts there to sell their wares to the stockmen after they sold their animals. They bought cloth, candles, oil, salt, wine, household furniture, tools, and presents to take back to the mountain villages.
For him, this hustle and bustle of men and women proved that there was a universe beyond the narrow road hewn out of rock that led to his valley, a universe that was barely described by the words and drawings in his geography and history schoolbooks, the anecdotes of the older generation, and the news on National Radio of Spain, Radio Paris International, or the revolutionary—according to his father’s brother—Radio Pyrenees.
