Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  It was most likely that the stories he had heard about blacks had little bearing on reality. When Antón and Jacobo talked to their family in Pasolobino, they referred to the coloreds doing this and the coloreds doing that. José was the exception; all the others seemed to be just an impersonal mass. Kilian remembered seeing an old postcard Antón had sent to Jacobo. It showed four naked-breasted black women. Antón had written in pen: “Look at how peculiar the black women are. This is how they dress on the streets!”

  Kilian had studied the photo closely, finding the women pretty. They wore fabrics rolled and tied at the waist like skirts, the clote, which covered them down to their ankles. From the waists up, they were completely naked except for a simple necklace and some fine cords on their wrists. Each one had different breasts: high and firm, small, separated and generous. Their figures were svelte and their facial features extremely pretty, with full lips and large eyes. Their hair was gathered into what seemed like thin plaits. It was a beautiful photo. Though it was strange to find it on a postcard. The postcards he had seen were of monuments or picturesque corners of a city, country, or landscape, even people dressed elegantly, but … four naked women? They could not have known how it would be used. The photo made him feel strange, as if they had been treated the same way as an interesting insect.

  He had the same feeling now while looking at one of the many photos from the magazine he was reading. It showed a group of blacks dressed like Europeans, with shirts and jackets, caps or hats. It was a normal photo, but for the caption: “The joy of Christmas brings about these scenes of outlandishly dressed men on farms and in villages.” He was surprised, knowing from his father that on special occasions, some natives dressed up as nañgüe, a type of carnival clown to make people laugh, whom the missionaries called mamarrachos. But he had imagined them with masks and straw suits, and not dressed as Europeans …

  Jacobo’s hoarse voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “I hope we’ll be able to travel there by plane soon. I can’t take any more of this!”

  Kilian smiled.

  “If you didn’t drink so much at night, perhaps you wouldn’t get so seasick.”

  “Then the days would seem longer and less bearable … And Manuel?”

  “He’s at the cinema.”

  Jacobo joined Kilian, took off his hat, and glanced at the magazine.

  “Have you anything interesting for me today?”

  Kilian began to give him the daily report. In less than two weeks, they each had developed their own routine. Manuel and Kilian read while Jacobo slept. When he woke up, they shared anything that had intrigued Kilian.

  “Just now I was going to read an article about Bubi—”

  “What a waste of time,” Jacobo interrupted him. “You won’t need Bubi there for anything. The majority of the natives speak Spanish, and you will spend your time surrounded by Nigerian farmhands on the estate. You should study the Pichinglis dictionary I gave you. You will need it all the time.”

  On the table, there was a small brown book with a worn cloth cover titled Dialecto Inglés-Africano o Broke English, written in 1919, as announced on page one, by a priest from the Missionaries, Sons of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Kilian had tried to memorize some words and phrases, but he found it very difficult, as he had never heard it spoken. In the book, a word or phrase appeared in Spanish with the translation into African English, Pidgin English, Pichinglis or Pichi, as the Spanish called it, and its pronunciation.

  “I don’t understand why the language is written in one form and pronounced in another. It makes it double the work.”

  “Forget about how it is written. You won’t have to write letters to the Nigerians! Concentrate on the pronunciation.” Jacobo took the book and his brother’s new black pen with its gold cap. “Look, the first thing you have to do is memorize the basic questions.” He underlined the page. “And then you learn the expressions that you will say or hear.”

  Jacobo closed the book and left it on the table.

  “They will tell you that they are sick, that they can’t work, that they don’t know how to do it, that it’s very hot, that it’s raining a lot …” He lay back in the deck chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and sighed. “The blacks always look for excuses not to work. The same as children! You’ll see!”

  Kilian laughed, thinking that Jacobo had just described himself.

  He picked up the small dictionary to see the phrases his brother had underlined and was shocked to see the translations: “I’ll teach you,” “Work,” “Come,” “Shut up,” “I’m sick,” “I don’t understand you,” “If you break this, I’ll hit you.” These were the words that he would be using in the following months! He refused to believe that over the last few years, Jacobo had not had a deeper conversation with the workers. Though it should hardly surprise him. The stories his brother told normally stuck to the parties in the clubs in Santa Isabel.

  Jacobo moved his hat again and prepared to continue with his never-ending siesta.

  “Jacobo …”

  “Hmmm … ?”

  “You’ve spent years there. What do you know of its history?”

  “The same as everyone else! It is a fruitful colony, and you can earn money …”

  “Yes, but … who owned it before us?”

  “The English, the Portuguese … How would I know?”

  “Yes, but … before, it was theirs, the natives, wasn’t it?”

  Jacobo let out a snort. “You mean the savages. They are lucky to have us. Otherwise they’d still be in the jungle! Ask our father, who gave them electricity.”

  Kilian remained thoughtful. “Well, it wasn’t too long ago that we got electricity in Pasolobino. And in many Spanish villages, the children got on thanks to powdered milk and tinned American cheese. It’s not like we are the greatest example of progress. If you look at the few photos of Dad as a child, it’s hard to believe they really lived as they did.”

  “If you’re so interested in history, you’re sure to find some book or other in the plantation offices. But you will be so tired that you won’t even want to read, you’ll see.” Jacobo reclined in his deck chair and placed his hat over his face. “And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some sleep.”

  Kilian’s gaze passed over the calm sea, as flat as a pancake. That was how he described it in a letter to Mariana and Catalina. The sun projected its last rays over the horizon. Soon it would be swallowed up.

  In the mountains, the sun hid at dusk; at sea, the water seemed to engulf it.

  He never tired of seeing the marvelous sunsets on the high sea, but he was anxious to walk on dry land. They had docked for a night in the port of Monrovia, capital of Liberia, to load and unload goods, but they had not been able to get off the ship. The coast there was more or less uniform. He could see forests of acacias and mangroves and an endless span of sandy beach with various villages. After that, they traveled along the Kru coast, home of a race of strong men good for work, as explained to him by his Galician companions: “The Kru are like the Asturians and Galicians in Spain, the best workers.” His father had seen these men launch their canoes into the sea as European ships and boats were passing, rowing to offer their services for all kinds of jobs. He used to tell them the legend of how the men worked until they considered themselves independent and they had twenty or thirty women at their disposal. It was probably no more than that, a legend, one that brought a smile to the faces of white men as they imagined themselves satisfying so many females.

  Kilian lit a cigarette.

  As happened every night after dinner, groups of people chatted and walked along the deck. In the distance, he made out the nephew of the civil governor, traveling with his family from Madrid to return to Guinea after an extended stay in Spain. A few meters away, other future plantation employees played cards. As the days went by, they became more and more like the colonial experts. He smiled, remembering his clumsiness when faced with the unusual amount of cutlery that
accompanied the dishes in the dining room. But his initial trepidation had relaxed during the lazy, monotonous days and nights on the gently moving ship.

  Kilian closed his eyes and let the sea breeze caress his face. One more night. His mind turned to home, and he went over the names of the households, wondering what they were doing. He thought and dreamed in his mother tongue.

  He spoke in Spanish and listened to English, German, and French on the ship. He studied African English. He wondered whether Bubi was for the island’s natives the same as Pasolobinese was for him. He wondered if anyone would want to know the history and customs not only of the Metropolis—the name given to Spain as the colonizing country—but also of that cold and beautiful part of the Pyrenees that now seemed so small.

  He was eager to know more about this world, which certainly endured under the colonization. He would like to know the history of the island, of the women and men in the photographs.

  The native. The authentic.

  If anything remained of it.

  When Kilian spotted his father dressed in shorts, a bright shirt, and a pith helmet on the quay in the port of Bata, the capital of Río Muni, the continental part of Spanish Guinea, his soul had already been invaded by the heat and the green.

  Before his eyes lay the most beautiful part of the continent, the perennially green region, covered in tropical forest. Everything else was superimposed: neither the low buildings nor the enormous lumber ships docked in the port nor the hands waving in the air, greeting people, nor the men carting goods to and fro.

  It was surreal.

  But here he was. At last!

  “What do you think, Kilian?” his brother asked.

  Jacobo and Manuel were beside him, waiting for the gangway to be extended so the passengers could disembark. From all sides, a multitude of people bustled about, carrying out different tasks. Both on board and on land, the shouts of various languages could be heard. Kilian watched the scene in amazement.

  “He’s dumbstruck!” Manuel said, laughing and giving Jacobo a poke.

  “Do you see the number of blacks, Kilian? And all the same! You’ll see. It will be the same as with the sheep. For the first two or three months, you won’t be able to tell them apart.”

  Manuel frowned. Kilian was not listening, because he was spellbound by the sight unfolding before his eyes.

  “There’s Dad!” he exclaimed.

  He waved and began to descend with a light step, followed by Jacobo and Manuel, equally eager to step on solid ground again.

  The hug he gave Antón was brief but heartfelt. For some minutes, the greetings, introductions, stories, and impatient questions got mixed together. It had been two years since Kilian had seen Antón, and he did not look well. His sunburned face was lined by wrinkles, and his big but well-proportioned features had begun to turn flabby. He seemed tired, and his hand was constantly touching his belly.

  Antón wanted to know how everyone was in the village. His brother, also called Jacobo; the close relations; and the neighbors. He saved his questions about his wife and daughter until the end. When he asked about Mariana, Kilian could make out a look of sadness in his eyes. He did not have to explain anything. The campaigns were long for any man, but longer for a married man who adored his wife.

  After a moment’s silence, Antón looked over Kilian, stretched out his arm, and said, “Well, Son. Welcome again to your birthplace. I hope you will be happy here.”

  Kilian gave a knowing smile and turned to Manuel to explain.

  “Did you know Jacobo was born here? And I came two years later. After the birth, my mother got sick, so we went back home.”

  Manuel nodded. Many people could not take the intense heat and humidity.

  “In other words, I was born here, but I don’t have any memories of the place.”

  Jacobo leaned across to continue the explanation in a low voice. “Our mother never came back again. My father came and went, and between one cocoa campaign and another, siblings were born. Sometimes, he would see the baby when it was almost two. Then he would leave a new seed and return to the tropics. Of six children, three have survived.”

  Kilian gestured nervously to warn him that Antón might hear, but their father was absorbed in his own thoughts. He saw how Kilian had changed, tall as ever, thinner than Jacobo, but now a fully grown man. It seemed impossible that time had passed so quickly since he was born. Twenty-four years later, Kilian had returned to his first home. At first, Antón had not been in favor of his son’s decision to follow in his brother’s footsteps and come to Africa. The idea that he would leave Mariana and Catalina alone to look after the house and the land pained him. But Kilian could be very stubborn and convincing, and he was right when arguing that another injection of money would be good for the family. So Antón had decided to ask the owner of the plantation for work for Kilian, and the owner had accelerated the paperwork so the journey could be made in January, just in time to prepare for the harvest. Kilian would have enough time to adapt to the country and be ready for the most important months, especially the toasting of the cocoa, which would begin in August.

  The bustle of people and suitcases around them told Antón that they should go to a different part of the quay. There was still a couple of hours’ journey from Bata to the island.

  “I think that the ship to Santa Isabel is ready to weigh anchor,” Jacobo told them before turning to Antón. “It was very good of you to receive us in Bata and travel with us to the island. Maybe you didn’t trust me to bring Kilian safe and sound?”

  Antón smiled, not a common occurrence, but Jacobo knew how to coax it out of him.

  “I hope you made use of the long journey to bring your brother up to speed. Although from the look of you, I’m inclined to think you spent more time in the piano room!”

  Kilian intervened in a serious voice, even if his smile gave away the joke, “I couldn’t have had better teachers than Jacobo and Manuel. You should have seen my brother teaching me Pichi! I’m almost fluent now!”

  The four burst out laughing. Antón was happy to have them there with him. Their youth and energy would help make up for the fact that he had begun to lose steam. He looked at them proudly. In appearance, his sons were very similar to him. Both had inherited his green eyes, typical of the House of Rabaltué. From a distance, they looked green, but up close they were gray. The boys had wide foreheads, long noses thick at the base, high cheekbones, and pronounced jaws and chins, though Jacobo’s was much squarer than his brother’s. They also shared the same thick, dark hair, though Kilian sported copper highlights. They stood out because of their height, wide shoulders, and strong arms—Jacobo’s arms were thicker, more accustomed to physical work. Antón knew the effect that Jacobo had on women, but that was because they had not met Kilian yet. The harmony of his features neared perfection. It reminded him of his wife, Mariana, when she was young.

  However, their characters could not have been more different. While Jacobo liked to party with the airs of a young gentleman who had no option but to work for a living, Kilian had a high sense of responsibility, sometimes too high. It was something Antón would never admit; he preferred his son to be hardworking and upright instead of fickle like Jacobo.

  In any case, it seemed the brothers understood and complemented each other well; that was important in a strange land.

  On the short trip between Bata and the island, Antón was especially talkative. After they regaled him with stories about the journey and Jacobo’s constant seasickness, he told them about one of the first journeys he took without Mariana, from Tenerife to Monrovia, when the ship suffered through a terrible storm.

  “There was water everywhere, the suitcases floated in the cabins. One minute you were flying, and the next you were drowning. We were lost for three days with no food. Everything was destroyed. In the port of Santa Isabel, they were waiting for us as if waiting for a ghost. They thought we were dead.” He stared toward the horizon, then turned to Jacobo, who was a
stonished. “It was the only time in my life I was ever afraid. Fear—no, terror! Fully grown men crying like children …”

  Kilian shook his head. “I don’t remember you telling us this story before. Why didn’t you mention it in your letters?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” his father replied, shrugging. “Do you think your mother would have let you come if she had heard this story? Anyway, I could not have done it justice. As my good friend José says, it is difficult to describe fear—once it has gotten into you, it takes a lot to get rid of it.”

  Jacobo put his hand to his chest.

  “I promise never to complain about the journeys again and to enjoy the sight of the whales and dolphins escorting the ships.”

  Kilian looked at his father. There was something different about him. Normally he was a serious man, difficult and authoritarian. But from the way he had told the story of the shipwreck, Kilian had sensed a slight sadness in his father’s voice. Or was it fear? And there was that movement of his hand to his side …

  “Dad … are you all right?”

  Antón composed himself.

  “Very well, Son. The last campaign was just harder than expected.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “The harvest was not as good as we had hoped due to the fog. We had more work than normal.”

  Before Kilian could press further, Antón turned to Jacobo.

  “Have you brought your birth certificate?”

  “Yes.”

  Kilian knew that the interrogation would now begin. Jacobo had warned him.

  “And the good-conduct cert and the police cert?”

  “Yes.”

  “The military service record?”

  “As well. And the antituberculosis medical certificate with the official stamp, and the certificate from the teacher saying I can read and write … For God’s sake, Dad! You reminded me five times!”