Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  Kilian was quickly by his side.

  “But … what happened?”

  “A blasted boa fell into the back of the truck, and they went crazy!”

  He started walking, shouting orders to one and all, but the majority lay on the ground, injured. Those who were able to walk stayed as far away from the truck as they could. Kilian followed him without knowing quite what to do.

  “Get the machete!” Gregorio shouted at him. “Now!”

  Kilian ran back, got the machete from the seat, and returned a few steps away from the back of the truck.

  He froze.

  There in front of him slithered the biggest snake he had ever seen. It was a three-meter-long boa.

  “Get up there and kill it,” Gregorio ordered.

  Kilian did not move. He had come upon other snakes in his life, especially while cutting the hay in the fields in the summer months, but they seemed like worms in comparison.

  “Did you not hear me?”

  Kilian still did not move. Gregorio sneered.

  “I see that as well as being a novice you are also a coward. Give me that!”

  He grabbed the machete from Kilian’s hands, put one foot on the mudguard, and without thinking twice, set about slashing at the animal. Blood spurted everywhere, but it did not seem to worry him. Each time Gregorio thrust at the boa, he let out a furious bellow. When he finished, he speared a piece of the meat with the tip of the weapon and raised it above him so everybody could see.

  “It’s only an animal! An animal! You’re afraid of this?” He pointed it at Kilian. “You’re afraid of this?”

  He began throwing the bits of dead snake to the ground. He jumped down, told the driver to turn around, and came over to Kilian, who was struck silent.

  “You! Get those who are badly injured into the truck! They are to be taken to the hospital so the new doctor can begin to work. And the others, divide them up into the other trucks.”

  Kilian looked from one side to the other, deciding to begin with those men closest to him. He noticed one lying down, holding his head in his hands. Kilian knelt beside him. He did not understand what the worker was saying, but he saw that he had a cut with blood streaming from it and large tears coming from his eyes. Kilian took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the cut to stem the flow while explaining in Spanish.

  “You no talk proper,” the man repeated, with Kilian unable to understand him. “I no hear you.”

  Another man knelt down beside him and began to speak softly to the injured man. His words seemed to calm the man down. He motioned him to remain seated for a while. Grateful, Kilian tried to communicate with the impromptu helper.

  “Your name?”

  “My name is Waldo, Massa. I’m …”

  “Bubi, yes. And you speak my language.” Kilian raised his eyes to heaven and sighed. He immediately noticed that, like Simón—whom this man resembled, except for the absence of lines on his forehead—Waldo was dressed differently from the rest of the workers. He was wearing a white shirt, short pants, kneesocks, and strong boots. He must be older than Kilian’s boy, given that he could drive. “I suppose you are one of the truck drivers.”

  “That’s right, Massa.”

  “Right, Waldo. You will be my interpreter. Could you ask him if he is able to walk to the truck?”

  The two men exchanged various sentences. The injured man shook his head.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He thinks he can walk, but he says that he won’t get onto this truck full of snake’s blood.”

  Kilian opened his mouth in surprise. He again heard shouts behind him; he turned and saw Gregorio trying to force men to get onto the blood-spattered truck.

  “This man no good. Send him na Paña,” the injured man said solemnly. Kilian looked at him and saw he was pointing at Gregorio. “I curse him.”

  “Waldo?”

  “He says …” The man hesitated, but under Kilian’s insistent stare decided to continue. “He says that this man is no good, that he should be sent back to Spain, and he curses him.”

  Before the white man had time to grasp his meaning, he hurried to explain.

  “Massa, the Nigerians are very frightened of snakes. They believe that if they touch one, the evil spirits that live in it will bring bad luck and illness to them and their families as well.”

  Kilian looked at him in disbelief, put his arms akimbo, took a deep breath, and went over to Gregorio, who was rudely insisting that the injured men get up onto the truck.

  “If we don’t clean the blood, they won’t get on,” he said as calmly as possible.

  “Don’t be stupid. If one gets up, they’ll all follow. Even if I have to beat them!”

  “No. No, they won’t.” Kilian remained firm. “So we have two options. We can send Waldo in this truck to go and get a clean one from the yard or we can clean it ourselves.”

  Gregorio looked at him with clenched fists. He considered the options to sort out the situation before it got out of hand. Hundreds of eyes were waiting to see what would happen. There were too many blacks for two whites. If he forced them to get on, they could riot. And if he sent for another truck, they would brand him as soft for giving in to these stupid superstitions.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Since you have so many ideas … how will we clean the truck?”

  Kilian looked around him, went over to the trees that shaded the cocoa trees, and pulled off some leaves as big as his arm.

  “We’ll cover the floor with these leaves. That way they won’t touch the blood.”

  In a few minutes, Kilian had piled up enough leaves to carpet a good area. With signs, he asked for help from some of the men and got them to bring the leaves in their arms. As he got onto the truck, he again heard the murmurs of disapproval when the soles of his boots came in contact with the viscous liquid, but he continued with the job. From what he could see, no one else was going to help him. Not even Gregorio. The massa just smoked a cigarette with an arrogant air.

  When he finished covering the back of the truck, Waldo had already brought the injured men over so they could see how comfortable the bed was. Kilian fervently hoped that they would not complain; if they did, he would look like a complete idiot. He jumped down, took the machete, and cleaned it with a smaller leaf that he then threw to the side of the road.

  “Tell them to get on, Waldo,” he said, trying to make sure that his voice sounded confident even if his heart was beating hard. “Explain to them that they won’t be touching any blood now.”

  Waldo talked to the laborers, but none of them moved. Gregorio spat out the cigarette butt, moved his head, clicking his tongue, and began walking to his truck.

  “I will bring the whip,” he said, “but this time, you’ll use it.”

  Kilian heard Waldo say some phrases in Pichi. He imagined that he had translated Gregorio’s words for them, because the man with the head wound stretched out his arm to grip the truck, put his foot on the ledge that sometimes served as a footrest, and got onto the back. Once up, he extended his hand toward the white man to return the bloodied handkerchief to him, but Kilian refused to take it.

  “Tenki,” said the man, and Kilian answered with a nod.

  One after another, the more than twenty injured laborers got on the truck. Waldo returned to his post as driver and started it up. As he passed Kilian, he waved. Gregorio maneuvered his truck so that the other could pass on the narrow track, then signaled to Kilian to get into the cabin so they could continue the journey to Obsay.

  They did not speak a word to each other all day. For about three hours, Kilian followed in the steps of his partner between the rows of trees, clearing brush with the machete and pruning one cocoa tree after another. Nobody explained anything to him, so he just copied the laborers, who knew exactly what they had to do. Slowly but surely, they advanced to the beat of the rhythmic and slightly variable pattern of their work songs. Kilian found that the singing was a good way of keeping h
is mind occupied to reduce the monotony of the work. On occasion he found himself in a strange relaxed state, as if someone else were holding his machete.

  They had started on the trees closest to Obsay when Gregorio gave the order to stop for lunch. They retraced their steps toward the yard, laid out in the same way as Sampaka, although much smaller.

  Kilian was sweating buckets in the hot sun. The workers sat down near a wooden building built on thick white columns where various cooks prepared the meal in huge pots. Gregorio had disappeared, and Kilian did not know where to go.

  “Massa!”

  Kilian spotted Simón, carrying a basket on his head. He was very happy to see someone he recognized.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I have brought you your food.”

  “Don’t we all eat together?”

  Simón shook his head. “The laborers are allocated their food every week, and they give it to their cooks to prepare for each day. If they are in the woods, it is brought to them, and if they are in the yard, they eat here, like today. Each white man gets his food from his boy, except when they are in the main yard. Then they eat in the dining room.”

  Kilian grew more and more thankful for Simón’s explanations.

  “And how do you know where to find me?”

  “It’s my job, Massa. I always know where you are.”

  Kilian sat down on the ground, leaning his back against a wall that offered a few meters of shade. Simón sat down beside him and pulled bread, ham, hard-boiled eggs, and drinks out of the basket. Kilian drank with gusto, but he was not hungry. He dried the sweat from his brow and cheeks with his shirtsleeve and rested his eyes for a few minutes. In the background, he could hear the murmurs coming from the workers. He sensed some voices increasing in volume and approaching steps. He opened his eyes and saw two men arguing. They stopped in front of him and between shouts seemed to be trying to explain something to him. Simón got to his feet and interrupted them so they would speak one at a time and explain what was wrong. Then he turned to Kilian.

  “They are squabbling because they say the cook has changed their malanga.”

  Kilian furrowed his brow. When he did not respond immediately, the men resumed their argument. Kilian straightened up.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “The malanga, Massa. One of them had a fatter malanga, and that’s why he marked it. When he went to get it, the cook had given it to someone else. He wants his malanga before the other eats it.”

  “And why are you telling me?” Kilian still did not understand.

  “You are the judge, Massa. They will do whatever you say.”

  Kilian swallowed. He scratched his head and got up. Gregorio was still missing. He looked over to the workers’ simple kitchen. The murmuring stopped as everyone watched. He cursed to himself and determinedly walked over to the cooks, followed by Simón.

  The cook in question remained with his arms folded before two plates that contained cod, rice doused in a red sauce, and what appeared to be a boiled potato. Kilian looked at the two plates. In one, the potato was considerably larger than the other. This must be the malanga. The two men continued to gesture that they both were the owners of the bigger one. Just then, he remembered a young Jacobo and himself. They were beside the fire, waiting for their mother to take the ashes off the first baked potatoes of autumn and give one to each member of the family. When Kilian got his, he began to complain because it was much smaller than his brother’s. And what did his mother do?

  He signaled the cook to give him a knife. He divided both malangas into two equal parts and put one of each on either plate. He returned the knife to its owner, and without saying anything, he went back to where he was before and sat on the ground. Simón came over to him and insisted that he eat, as there were many hours still to go before dinner. Kilian nibbled, but without much appetite. The absurdness of the situation with the potato was still going around in his head.

  “It was the fairest way, don’t you think?” he said finally.

  Simón put on a thoughtful expression, and his forehead wrinkled.

  “Simón?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course, Massa,” he replied. “It was fair … but not for the real owner of the big malanga.”

  During the following days, Kilian spent his time amid the noisy trucks and dusty tracks, Nigerian work songs, shouts in Pichi, machete slashes, quarrels and arguments, and the leaves of banana, erythrina, and cocoa trees.

  When he arrived at the yard in Sampaka, he was so tired he could barely eat; he attended the driving lessons given by Jacobo and Waldo, wrote a few lines of forced happiness to Mariana and Catalina, and went to bed early, itchy with sweat.

  Antón and Jacobo were not oblivious to his struggles. At dinner, he barely spoke, and it was obvious that there was no friendship between him and Gregorio. They simply ignored each other, although Gregorio pestered Kilian by making comments in front of the manager, questioning his courage and strength, comments that made it difficult for Jacobo not to get involved in a fight with him.

  One night when Kilian stood to go without finishing dessert, Antón decided to follow him to his room.

  “Give it time, Son,” he said as they left the dining room. “It’s hard at first, but bit by bit, you will adapt. I know how you feel. I went through it as well.”

  Kilian raised his eyebrows. “Did you also have to work with someone like Gregorio?”

  “I wasn’t talking about that,” Antón quickly interjected. “What I mean is …” He scratched his head and lowered his gaze. “I don’t know how or when, and I hardly know anything about the rest of Africa, but the day will come when this small island will take control of you, and you’ll never want to leave. It might be man’s amazing ability to adapt. Or perhaps there is something mysterious about this place.” He stretched out his hand to point out the landscape that extended into the distance and looked Kilian in the eye again. “But I don’t know anyone who has left here without shedding tears of grief.”

  Years would have to pass for Kilian to understand each and every one of those words with the intensity of a curse fulfilled.

  4

  Fine City

  The Fair City

  “All right,” Jacobo said, giving in, “but you’re driving on the way back.”

  Kilian quickly got into the open-back van that everyone called a picú, a simplification of the English pickup, before his brother changed his mind. After fifteen days of intensive classes with Waldo and Jacobo along the roads of the plantation, he had gotten his driving license for cars and trucks. Still, to venture into the city was another story.

  “As soon as I’ve done the route once with you, I’ll be able to do it on my own,” he promised.

  The manager had asked them to buy tools and materials from the stores in Santa Isabel. The day was swelteringly hot and hazy, typical of the dry season, which lasted from November until the end of March. In the dry, trees were felled for new farmland, firewood was prepared for the dryers, the cocoa trees were pruned, and the bikoro, the weed that grew around it, was cleared. Additionally, the seed nurseries were tended, and the roads and tracks on the plantation were built and mended. Kilian had learned that the most important task was ground clearing, keeping the machetes in use despite the terrible heat, up and down, from one side to the other, to get rid of the weeds that mysteriously sprung up from one day to the next.

  It was early in the morning, and Kilian was already sweating inside the picú. Soon the itching that had taken control of his body from day one would return. He would have given anything to have four hands to scratch himself. Unfortunately, the remedies passed on by Manuel had not solved the problem. He could only hope that his skin would become used to the surroundings and the stinging pains would fade.

  “You have no idea how much I miss the fresh mountain air!” He sighed, thinking of Pasolobino. “This heat will be the death of me.”

  “Stop being dramatic!” Jacobo drove
with his elbow leaning on the open car window. “At least our clothes aren’t sticking to our skin at the moment. Wait and see when the wet comes. From April to October, you’ll be terribly sticky all day.”

  He stretched his arm out the window so his hand could play with the breeze.

  “Thank God, today we’ll have the Saharan wind’s apprentice, the harmattan, to relieve us.”

  Kilian noticed that the sky above the narrow road was covered by a fine suspended dust and had taken on a reddish-gray hue.

  “I don’t understand how this annoying wind that clouds everything and hurts the eyes can be a relief.” He remembered the snow-clearing gales. “To me it’s stifling.”

  “Well, wait and see when it really blows! You won’t be able to see anything, not even the sun, for days. You will chew sand!”

  Kilian made a face of disgust. Jacobo looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His brother’s skin was sunburned, but weeks more would have to pass before it developed into a deep tan. The same would happen with his mood. He himself had gone through this process. As Kilian’s arms became more muscular and his skin tougher, he would become less like an aloof teenager and grow used to the rigors of the wild land. Jacobo could imagine what was going through his brother’s head. Between the suffocating heat, the exhausting work, the inane arguments of the laborers and foremen, his body being possessed by a continuous burning, and his marvelous relationship with the insufferable Massa Gregor, his brother surely felt incapable of encountering any of the wonders he had imagined before coming to the island. Perhaps, Jacobo thought, the time had come to introduce him to some of his native girlfriends to lift his spirits. One of the advantages of a bachelor’s life in Fernando Po was that there were no limits to desire!

  “So, how are things going in Obsay?” Jacobo asked nonchalantly.

  Kilian took a few seconds to answer. Jacobo was the only person he could confide in, but he did not want to seem whiny. Jacobo radiated power and energy from every pore of his skin. He never went unnoticed. Kilian had never seen him sad, not even during his school days. Jacobo was sure of what he wanted out of life: to enjoy every second to the fullest without asking any deep questions. He had to work because he had no choice, but if there was a bad harvest one year, it was not his problem; he would get paid all the same. He would not suffer. Jacobo never suffered for anything.