Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  The images came one after another, slowly calming his spirits. He had never felt so caught off guard.

  He was homesick.

  He would have given anything to close his eyes and appear in the House of Rabaltué. He had to overcome this … What would his father and brother think if they could read his mind?

  He needed to breathe fresh air, but there was none to be found.

  For a while, Antón watched his son. He had not noticed that the car had stopped in front of the employees’ house. After such a long journey, he thought that his sons would like to get fixed up in their rooms, wash, and rest a while before meeting the manager. They would have time enough to see the main stores and the plantation the next day. They got out of the car, and Antón said to Manuel, “Until Dámaso goes, you will stay here. Afterward, you will move into the doctor’s house.”

  He addressed the others. “Jacobo will go with you to your rooms and show you where the dining room is. I’m going to let Mr. Garuz know that you are here. We’ll see each other in half an hour. Ah! Jacobo … it would be nice if your brother had a harmless salto.”

  Jacobo fixed not one but two glasses of water mixed with brandy, taking them to Kilian’s twenty-square-meter room with a bed, a large wardrobe, a nightstand, two chairs, a table, and a washbasin with a mirror. The drink had an immediate relaxing effect on Kilian’s unsettled mood. Bit by bit, he began to breathe normally, the tightness in his chest began to abate, his knees stopped shaking, and he felt prepared for his first interview with the owner and manager of the plantation.

  Lorenzo Garuz received them in his office, where he had been speaking to Antón for a while. Garuz was a strong man in his forties with thick dark hair, a sharp nose, and a short mustache. He had a friendly but firm voice, and his tone was that of someone well used to giving orders. Sitting on the floor, a small boy with dark curly hair and slightly sunken eyes like the manager’s amused himself by taking bits of paper out of a metal wastebasket and then putting them back in.

  Garuz welcomed Kilian and Manuel—and Jacobo on his return from the holidays—and immediately checked if they had brought all the necessary papers. Kilian noticed that his father was frowning. Garuz finally put the papers away in a drawer and motioned for them to sit down in front of his desk. On the ceiling, a ventilator slowly moved some air around.

  “Right, Manuel,” he started to say, “you already have experience here on the island, so I don’t have to explain much to you. Dámaso will be here for another fifteen days. He will bring you up to speed on everything. This is the biggest plantation, but the men are young and strong. Things won’t be too complicated. Machete cuts, bumps, bruises, malaria attacks … nothing serious.” He interrupted himself. “Can I ask you a couple of things?”

  Manuel nodded.

  “How come a young man like you, with a promising future, prefers the colonies to Madrid? And why have you swapped Santa Isabel for our plantation? Other than the generous salary you’ll receive …”

  Manuel did not hesitate. “I’m a doctor, but also a scientist and biologist. One of my passions is botany. I have already published some studies on the flora in Guinea. I want to make the most of my time here to increase my knowledge of the plant species and their medical applications.”

  The manager raised an eyebrow. “That sounds interesting. Anything that will increase our knowledge of the colony is good. I hope you’ll find the time.”

  He turned to Kilian. “And you, young man? I hope you have come prepared to work. That’s what we need here. Energetic and determined people.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll spend the next fortnight learning. Watch how things are done and follow your fellow workers. I have already told your father that you will begin above, in the Obsay yard, with Gregorio.” Kilian noticed that Antón pursed his lips and Jacobo made a face. “He has been here many years, but he needs somebody strong to put things in order.”

  “I thought Kilian would be with me in the Yakató,” Jacobo intervened. “I could also teach him—”

  Garuz raised his hand to stop him. He was certain that if Kilian turned out to be a good worker like his father, keeping the brothers separate would help improve the overall performance of the plantation.

  Just then the child cried out with joy. He came over to his father and handed him the treasure—an eraser—that he had found under the desk.

  “Very good, Son. Here, put it in that cabinet.” He looked at Jacobo and then Kilian. “It’s already decided. Of the three yards, Obsay isn’t working as well as it should be. It will be good to have someone new to drive things along. That’s my decision.”

  “Yes, sir,” repeated Kilian.

  “And remember that the workers should be treated with authority, determination, and justice. If you do something wrong, they will criticize you. If you don’t sort out the problems properly, you will lose their respect. Never show weakness. And don’t allow excessive familiarity. It can be misinterpreted. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kilian could have used another salto.

  “One more thing. I believe you do not know how to drive, do you?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  “Well, it’s the first thing you’ll have to do. Tomorrow you’ll be equipped with the proper clothes, a pith helmet, and a machete. Antón, who is his boy?”

  “Simón. The new one.”

  “Ah, yes! He seems like a good lad. Although you can never be sure. As soon as they learn your weaknesses, they come and go when they like without telling anyone. Ah, well … Life is tough on Fernando Po.” He pointed to the other three men. “Nevertheless, if others have adapted, I don’t see why you won’t.”

  He looked at his watch and stood up.

  “I assume that you are hungry for dinner. Everyone else will have finished, but I have told them that you will be over a bit later. I hope you will excuse me.” He motioned toward his son. “It’s getting late and I have to get back to the city. His mother is very strict about his schedule.”

  The other men got up and accompanied Garuz to the door, where each of them shook hands with the manager. They went out to the yard toward the building in front of them, where the dining room was located beside the living room and below the bedrooms.

  On the walk to the dining room, Kilian asked, “What’s wrong with this Gregorio?”

  “He’s a bad type,” muttered Jacobo. “You’ll see. Be careful.”

  Kilian gave his father a questioning look.

  “Don’t mind him, Son. You … just do your work and it’ll be fine.”

  Manuel noticed a waver in Antón’s voice; he looked at Kilian as he entered the dining room and sat down where his father pointed. He hoped that the young man would be able to get to experience the various pleasures of the island once he passed the initial tests of cutlass and poto-poto, the machetes and mud.

  For the moment, Kilian opened his eyes with a childlike amazement at the food the servants had put out on the table.

  “Spanish ham!” he exclaimed. “And stewed hen with potatoes!”

  Jacobo laughed. “What did you think? That you’d be eating snake? The food is the same as home, even better,” he added.

  “We Europeans normally eat European food,” said Antón. “But we are lucky enough to have a wonderful chef from Cameroon who combines the best of Spain and the best of Africa.”

  “And that over there, what is it?” Kilian pointed to a bowl.

  Manuel bit his bottom lip with pleasure.

  “Mmmm … That’s great! Plantín! They have prepared fried banana with rice and palm oil as a welcome treat!” He opened his napkin and began to serve himself. “Your first exotic dish, my friend. You won’t be able to live without it.”

  Kilian looked at it skeptically, but quickly had to admit the other men were right: the chef deserved applause. Thanks to the food and the good wine, Kilian was able to enjoy the meal, but he could not avoid fleeting images of Pasolobino, the sea voyage, and
the island. Neither could he stop thinking about his first day of work with this Gregorio. His eyelids grew heavy as the wine drew out his exhaustion.

  He was hardly paying attention when he heard his father get up.

  “I’m going to bed, it’s late.”

  Manuel and Jacobo decided to stay a while longer, but Kilian also got up, bleary-eyed.

  “I’m going as well, or nobody will be able to wake me in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll wake up,” said Jacobo. “From half past five onward, it’s impossible to sleep here.”

  They said good night, and Antón and Kilian left the dining room. In silence, they went up the wide staircase guarded by elegant columns and thick spindles, turning right to take the outside passageway that led to the bedrooms and was protected by a green wooden railing.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  Antón headed to his room, a few doors farther down, but changed his mind. He turned to Kilian and looked into his eyes. He wanted to tell him so many things, to give him the strength he would need in the coming months to adapt to life on the plantation, and offer to help him in anything he needed. But he did not want to be overbearing—when it came down to it, Kilian was a fully grown man—or finish an exhausting day with a sermon. So he sighed, gave him a slap on the back, and simply said, “Don’t forget to fit the mosquito net properly, Son.”

  A few hours later, a deep and penetrating sound, like the tapping of sticks on wood, unsuccessfully tried to bore into Kilian’s head while he was still in a deep sleep. A quarter of an hour later, another hollow and fast drumroll announced the second call to get ready for work.

  Someone knocked on his door as an early morning breeze rolled in.

  “Massa, Massa! The tumba has sounded! Wake up or you will be late!”

  Kilian lumbered out of bed and went to the door. A young man shot past him, carrying various packages in his arms and talking nonstop.

  “I have brought you a cotton shirt and a durable pair of trousers. I’ll put them here on the bed, together with the pith helmet and machete. If you hurry, you can still get coffee. And don’t forget your top boots.”

  “You speak Spanish.”

  The young man tilted his head.

  “Yes, of course, I’m Bubi,” he said, as if that were answer enough.

  Kilian nodded vaguely. “What’s your name?”

  “Simón, Massa. At your service.”

  Kilian remembered that this was his boy. He tried to remember his features, which were altogether likable. Simón had almost completely round eyes and a slightly snubbed nose, like José’s. His hair, short and curly, was so dark it was impossible to see the dividing line with the skin on his forehead, which, furrowed by three horizontal lines, seemed strange on someone so young.

  “And how old are you?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably sixteen.”

  “You’re not sure?” The lad shrugged. “Well, Simón. Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “In ten minutes everyone has to be in formation in the yard. The whites in front.”

  Kilian looked through the window.

  “It’s still dark …”

  “Yes, Massa. But when work begins, it will be daylight. Here the days are all the same. Twelve hours of night and twelve hours of day, year round. The shift is from six to three.” He took the shirt from the bed. “I’ll help dress you?”

  “No, thanks.” Kilian gently refused the offer. “I can do it myself.”

  “But …”

  “I said no,” he repeated firmly. “Wait for me outside.”

  In five minutes, he washed himself, got dressed, picked up the machete and the pith helmet, and left the room.

  “Do I still have time for that coffee?”

  The lad followed him at a quick pace along the corridor. On coming down the stairs, Kilian saw a mass of men sorting themselves into rows in the main yard. He quickly went into the dining room, drank four sips of the delicious coffee Simón handed to him, and went outside. A few meters away, he recognized the white figures taking the roll in front of hundreds of black men waiting for the beginning of the day. He took a deep breath and finished waking up on the short walk as many eyes watched him. He imagined that everyone wanted to see the new employee, and he gripped his helmet to hide his nerves.

  “Just on time, Kilian,” said Jacobo when he got to his side. In his hand he was holding some papers and a flexible switch. “A minute later and you wouldn’t have been paid.”

  “What?”

  “Those who aren’t here on time can’t get into the line and don’t get paid for that day.” He gave him an elbow in the ribs. “Relax, that only applies to the coloreds. Did you sleep well?” Kilian nodded. “Look, the one that’s to the right of our father is Gregorio, or Massa Gregor, as they call him. He is preparing new brigades for Obsay. Good luck. We’ll see each other in the afternoon.”

  Kilian looked closely at Gregorio, who had his back to him as he talked to Antón. He was a dark-haired man, thin and bony, almost as tall as he. Kilian greeted the two men. Gregorio turned. He had dark eyes with an icy gaze and a small mustache over thin lips. Kilian looked at his father before stretching out his hand.

  “I’m Kilian, your new workmate.”

  Gregorio held a small leather whip whose handle he stroked methodically, sliding his fingers a couple of centimeters up and down the shaft. He stopped to accept Kilian’s handshake. He observed him in detail.

  “So you’re Antón’s other son. Soon your whole family will be here.”

  Kilian found Gregorio’s hand cold, his smile forced, and the comment rude. He looked at his father and asked, “Where are you working today?”

  “I am staying here, in the stores in the main yard. Fortunately, I no longer have to go out to the cocoa trees.”

  The noise from four enormous trucks with rounded hoods and wooden trailers interrupted the conversation. Gregorio went over to the rows of men and pointed at those who had to get on. Antón passed him and muttered through his teeth, “You’d better be good to the boy.”

  “He’ll learn all he needs to know about surviving here,” Gregorio replied with a smile.

  Antón shot him a warning look and returned to his son.

  “Go with him, Kilian.”

  Kilian nodded and trotted over to the trucks.

  “The brigades are made up of forty men each,” Gregorio told him. “One brigade per truck. You can begin counting now.”

  He noticed a puzzled look on the young man’s face as he saw the large mass of workers.

  “Look at their clothes to differentiate them. They always wear the same.”

  The men hopped on the trucks slowly but nimbly, speaking in a language that Kilian did not understand. He assumed it was Pichi. And to top it all, the only Spaniard he could talk to for hours was the one who was now shouting out all his sentences in the same routine tone.

  “Come on, you’re all asleep! Quick! Muf, muf!”

  Only a few men were left to get onto the truck when a thin and wiry youth, a sad look about him, stopped in front of Gregorio with his head bowed and his hands crossed at his thighs.

  “And what does this one want! Let’s see! What thing you want?”

  “I de sick, Massa.”

  “All time you de sick!” yelled Gregorio. “You’re always sick! Every day the same story!”

  “I de sick for true, Massa Gregor.” He raised his hands to his chest as if to plead. “I want quinine.”

  “How your name?”

  “Umaru, Massa.”

  “Right. Umaru. You want quinine?” The whip cracked against the ground. “What do you think of this quinine?”

  Kilian opened his mouth to intervene, but the man got up onto the truck without complaint—although he shot a defiant look at the white man—followed by the last of the men, who were now quicker getting aboard. The driver of the first truck beeped the horn.

  “You, stop standing about!” Gregorio shouted at Kilian, walk
ing toward the front of the truck. “Get into the cabin!”

  Kilian obeyed and sat in the right-hand seat while Gregorio climbed in behind the wheel. The convoy started out. For some minutes, neither of them said anything. Kilian looked out and saw how the barracks and the yard building gave way to cocoa trees covered by a canopy of banana trees and erythrinas, which provided shade for the delicate cocoa tree. In some places, the branches from either side met to form a tunnel over the dusty track.

  “I thought whips weren’t used anymore,” said Kilian.

  Gregorio raised his eyebrows. “Look, lad. I’ve been here many years. Sometimes you have to use forceful means to get them to obey. They lie and lie. If they miss a day due to illness, they still get paid. You’ll soon learn. They’re excusers and superstitious. What a combination!”

  Kilian said nothing.

  “Regarding the whip, the day they take it from me, I’ll leave. Why do you think your brother carries a melongo switch? The owner wants profits, and this is how you get them.” He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, exhaling smoke. “If you want us to get on well, you don’t hear or see anything from now on. Clear?”

  Kilian gritted his teeth. Of all possible work partners, he had to come up against this cretin. He became annoyed with his father and his brother for not warning him that men like that existed. He was not so stupid as to think that everything was going to be a bed of roses, but he had never stopped to think what “forceful means” really meant. He was itching to snap back, but knew better than to create problems on the first day.

  The truck braked hard, and he hit his head against the windshield.

  “What the hell!” he blurted out.

  He grew silent when he saw what was happening in the truck in front. Some men had jumped from the back of the truck while it had been moving and lay twisting on the ground in pain. Others shouted and pushed their companions to try and get down. The driver had stopped the truck and came back to survey the scene, in shock. Another man ran toward them, waving his arms and shouting something that Kilian did not understand: “Snek, snek!”

  “Damn it! I can’t believe it!” Gregorio jumped to the ground, mad as hell.