Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  Kilian smiled. José was something else! He had never met such a meticulous person. Over the last number of months, Kilian had gotten to know him better than any other employee on the plantation. Truthfully, he felt comfortable in his company. José was a quiet man—his rare outbursts lasted no more than a few seconds—blessed with an innate wisdom.

  “Don’t tell me you have other plans with José,” said Jacobo, looking in the same direction as his brother.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Come on, Kilian, I wasn’t born yesterday. Do you think I don’t know that you escape with him to Bissappoo whenever you get the chance? I can’t understand it.”

  “I’ve only gone three or four afternoons.”

  “And what do you do there?”

  “Why don’t you come one day and see?”

  “Go up to Bissappoo? For what?”

  “To spend the afternoon. To talk to José’s family. You know, Jacobo, it reminds me of Pasolobino. Each one does what they have to do, and later they gather to tell stories, like we do at home beside the fire. There are loads of young children laughing and playing pranks, and their mothers get annoyed. Their culture is mysterious and interesting. And they ask about our valley—”

  Jacobo waved his hand in annoyance. “For God’s sake, Kilian! There’s no comparison!” he said with slight contempt. “How could you prefer that village to Santa Isabel?”

  “I didn’t say that I preferred it,” retorted his brother. “There’s time for everything.”

  “I can imagine the intelligent conversations you have there!”

  “Hey, Jacobo”—Kilian sighed—“you know José as well. Is he that different?”

  “Apart from being black, you mean …”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That’s already enough for me, Kilian. We’re different.”

  “To speak to them, they are different, but to sleep with them, they aren’t?”

  Jacobo squinted. “You know what?” He raised his voice. “I think the holidays will do you good!”

  He marched off angrily. Kilian did not flinch. Jacobo was a bit short-tempered. Tonight he would be back to his normal self.

  Kilian looked around again for José, who was on his way to one of the stores. He called out his name in Bubi, “Ösé! Hey, Ösé!”

  José looked up and joined the young man.

  “Have you any plans for the coming weekend?” Kilian asked.

  “Nothing special.” José shrugged, knowing that Kilian probably needed a good excuse to get out of something. “One of my daughters is getting married.”

  “Gosh! And that’s not special?” Kilian asked. “Congratulations! Which one?”

  By now, Kilian knew José’s history. His mother was Bubi and his father Fernandino, the name used to refer to the descendants of the first slaves freed by the British in the previous century. The majority came from Sierra Leone and Jamaica and mixed with other freed Africans and Cubans. From what José had told him, they had once been an influential bourgeoisie family, but when the Spaniards acquired the island, they lost their status. From his father, José had learned English and Bantú English and had been sent together with his brothers and sisters to the Catholic mission school. He was one of the few natives his age who could read and write. José married a Bubi woman and had several children. Continuing his father’s tradition, they also attended the Catholic school. Not all the Bubis approved of this. The more reactionary ones thought that white culture offended their spirits and traditions, though they had no option but to obey the colonists.

  “The last one,” responded José.

  “The last one!” exclaimed Kilian, pretending to be scandalized. “Good God, Ösé! But … isn’t she five?”

  Kilian knew that the young Bubis got married at twelve or thirteen, but he also suspected that the little girl who affectionately hugged him each time he went up to the village was the smallest of the numerous other children born of polygamy. The practice was frowned upon by the Spanish Catholics, so José never talked about his other wives, if he actually had any, and especially not in front of the missionaries and priests like Father Rafael, who were still trying to free the natives from their ancient customs.

  José let the comment fly over his head. He looked around him to make sure that everything was tidy before going to dinner. When they had gone some meters, he turned and asked, finally, what Kilian had been waiting to hear.

  “Perhaps you would like to come to a Bubi wedding, Massa Kilian?”

  Kilian’s eyes lit up. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to address me like that! I’ll accept your invitation if you promise me not to use the word massa again.”

  “Agreed, Ma—” José corrected himself with a wide smile, “Kilian. As you wish.”

  “And I don’t want you to be so formal with me either! I’m much younger than you. Agreed?”

  “I won’t call you massa, but I’ll still be formal. It is difficult for me not to …”

  “Oh, come on! You’ve had to adapt to much more!”

  José shook his head but did not answer.

  Waldo took them by truck to the southeastern border of the plantation, where the track became unsuitable for road vehicles. From there, José and Kilian continued on foot along a narrow path crossed by hundreds of branches, lianas, and leaves that screened, and occasionally completely blocked out, the sunlight. The sounds of their steps were softened by the springy carpet of fallen leaves dotted with palm pips from the fruit that had rotted on the ground or been eaten by monkeys. Kilian enjoyed listening to the trills and chirping of the blackbirds, nightingales, and filicotoys; the chatter of the parrots and the cooing of a wild pigeon that intermittingly broke the solemn calm; and the grave silence under the soft green and living canopy through which they walked with difficulty. The scenery and sounds of the island were very beautiful. It was no surprise that centuries ago, the island’s discoverer, the Portuguese Fernão do Po, had called it Formosa, meaning “beautiful.”

  Kilian imagined other men like him journeying down this same path in centuries past. It was the same path, they said, but it always looked different because of the tenacious vegetation. How many machetes had moved the plants that kept sprouting back? On his previous trips to Bissappoo, and in answer to Kilian’s many questions, José had told him about the island’s history. Kilian knew the long-living ceiba trees held many stories in their wrinkled trunks, as well as multitudes of languages.

  The island had been Portuguese until Portugal swapped it with Spain for other territories. Spain wanted its own source of slaves to transport to America. At this point in the story, Kilian always shuddered at the thought of José, Simón, Yeremías, or Waldo being captured to be sold in the same way as caged animals. As the Spaniards did not really take control of the island, the English war and merchant ships made use of it to collect water, yams, and live animals for their scientific, commercial, and exploratory voyages on the Niger River, on the continental part of Africa, and to control and keep in check the slave market, as England had already abolished slavery. Kilian thought of Dick, dressed in old-fashioned sailor’s clothes as he freed his Bubi acquaintances. But Dick did not seem the hero type.

  For many years, English was spoken on Fernando Po. England wished to buy the island, but Spain resisted, so in the middle of the nineteenth century, the English navy opted to move to Sierra Leone and sold their buildings to a Baptist mission. After that, the Spaniards tried once more to set up effective settlements with more complete expeditions, incentivizing the colonists and sending missionaries to convert the village natives, easier to convert than the city Baptists like José’s paternal ancestors, until they dominated.

  Kilian saw himself as one more link in this chain of men who, for one reason or another, had made the tropics their temporary home, but he was pleased to live in a more peaceful, civilized age than those previous. Still, in the middle of the wild jungle, it seemed completely the opposite.

  Afte
r clearing the way with machetes and negotiating fallen trees, they decided to stop and rest in a clearing. Kilian’s eyes stung from the sweat, and his arms bled slightly from small cuts from the branches. He cooled off in a stream and lay down on a cedar, close to José. He closed his eyes and inhaled the acrid smell of the dead leaves, ripe fruit, and damp earth that a barely noticeable breeze guided through the trees.

  “Who is your future son-in-law?” he asked after a while.

  “Mosi,” José responded.

  “Mosi? The Egyptian?” Kilian shot up. That was the colossus from the deforestation job. When he tensed his muscles, the sleeves of his shirt stretched to breaking point, and his head was shaven. It was best not to get on the wrong side of him.

  “Yes, Mosi the Egyptian.”

  “And you are happy with this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” When Kilian did not answer, José said, “Does it surprise you?”

  “Well, yes … I mean … I think he’s a wonderful worker. But I don’t know why I thought that you would prefer your daughter to marry one of your own.”

  “My mother was Bubi and she married a Fernandino …”

  “I know that, but your father was also from Fernando Po. I was referring to the Nigerian laborers who come earn money and later return to Nigeria.”

  “Don’t take offense, Kilian, but though they earn less, in this respect they are the same as the whites, yes?”

  “Yes, but the whites aren’t marrying your daughter. They won’t take her far away.”

  “Mosi won’t take her away.” José seemed annoyed. “The Nigerian contracts force them to return to their country after a certain period. But if they marry in Guinea, they can set themselves up here, open a bar or a shop, or work a small plot of land. Above all, here they can get an education for their children and hospital services that they don’t have in their own country. Don’t you think those are good reasons? Many workers save up to pay the dowry and marry one of our women, which is what Mosi has done.”

  To Kilian, paying the dowry reminded him of the old stories from the valley. Only in his valley, it was the woman who had to supply the sum and not the other way round.

  “And how much is Mosi going to give for her?” he asked out of curiosity.

  José gritted his teeth. “White man no sabi anything about black fashion,” he murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that the whites haven’t got a clue about black customs!” He jumped up and stood before Kilian. “Look, Massa.” He used the word harshly. “Let me tell you something. No matter how many times I explain some things, you’ll never understand them. You seem to think I don’t love my daughters, or that I sell them as if they were sacks of cocoa.”

  “I didn’t say that!” protested Kilian.

  “But you believe it!” He saw the young man’s look of disappointment and adopted a fatherly tone. “I think it’s good for my daughter to marry Mosi because Mosi is a good laborer. They’ll be able to live on the plantation for many years. When they are girls, Bubi women enjoy themselves and have fun, but once they get married, they don’t do anything else but work for their husband and children. They are in charge of everything, the firewood, the fields, collecting water …” He counted the tasks on his fingers. “The women plant, cultivate, harvest, and store the malanga. They prepare the palm oil. They cook. They bring up the children …” He paused for a moment and raised a finger in the air. “While their husbands spend the day”—the finger danced in the air—“from here to there, drinking palm wine or chatting to other men in the village house.”

  Kilian remained silent, playing with a twig.

  “Marrying Mosi is good for her,” continued José, now more relaxed. “They’ll live in one of the family barracks in Obsay. My daughter is a good student. She could help in the hospital and study to become a nurse. I’ve already spoken to Massa Manuel.”

  “It’s a good idea, Ösé,” Kilian said hesitatingly. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  José nodded as Kilian got to his feet and said, “We’d better keep walking.”

  Bissappoo was located on one of the highest parts of the island, so there was still a good distance to go before getting to the most difficult part of the journey, which was when the path began to slope upward. Kilian grabbed his bag and his machete, put on his pith helmet, and began walking behind José. They trekked in silence for a good distance, going farther and farther into the jungle. The tree trunks were covered in parasitic plants, ferns, and orchids, on which rested a multitude of ants, butterflies, and small birds.

  Kilian felt a little awkward with the silence. They had worked together many times without exchanging a word, but this time it was different. He regretted that José had misinterpreted his comments, born out of curiosity rather than bad manners. As if he had read his mind, José stopped and, with his hands on his hips, in the same way as if he were talking about the weather, commented, “This land belonged to my great-grandfather.” He gave the ground a small kick. “Just here. He exchanged it for a bottle of alcohol and a rifle.”

  Kilian blinked in surprise, but grinned at what he thought was a joke. “Stop it! You’re pulling my leg!”

  “No, sir. I’m serious. This land is good for coffee, because of its height. One day there will be a plantation here. The gods will decide if we’ll get to see it.” He glanced at Kilian, who still had a frown of disbelief on his face, and cheekily asked, “How do you think the colonists got the land? Have you met a rich Bubi?”

  “No, but … Come on, I don’t believe it was all like that, Ösé. Your great-grandfather’s case was an exception.” He tried to defend the men who with tremendous effort had transformed the island into what it now was. “Besides, doesn’t every native get assigned four hectares for his own crops?”

  “Yes, a few hectares that were theirs to begin with,” responded José sarcastically. “Very generous of the whites! If they hadn’t repealed the law a few years ago, you yourself could have opted for a thirty-hectare plot in ten years, or less if you called in a favor.”

  Kilian felt like an idiot. He had never thought of the natives as the owners of the island. He was still just a white colonist who thought the history of Fernando Po started with the Portuguese, the English, and especially the Spanish. He was sorry for having had so little tact with the man he owed his life to.

  “Well, I … Actually … What I mean is that …” He let out a snort and started slashing all the plants in his path. “It’s clear that I just keep putting my foot in it today!”

  José followed, his face beaming. It was impossible to be annoyed with Kilian for very long. This young man, nervous and bursting with energy, wanted to learn something new every day. Although he had had a rough time at the start, seldom had a European adapted so quickly to the arduous work on the plantation. And Kilian was not one to just give orders. No. He was the first to go up a scaffolding, lift sacks, drive a truck, or take off his shirt to dig a hole or plant a palm. This attitude had shocked the laborers, used to the lash of the melongo. José thought that, in part, Kilian did all these things to please his father, even if he was not aware of it. He looked for Antón’s approval and, by extension, the rest of the family’s. He continually had to show how strong and brave he was. And even more so now with Antón showing obvious signs of being worn out.

  Yes, Kilian would have been a good Bubi warrior.

  “Look at the way you cut the undergrowth! With men like you, Kilian, the whole colonization would have taken two years, and not decades. Did you know that the members of the first expeditions died in a matter of weeks? Like flies! The ships were sent with two captains so that there would always be one in reserve.”

  “I don’t understand why,” Kilian scoffed. “It’s not that difficult to adapt.”

  “Ah! But that’s because things are different now. When there were no whites, the Bubis knew how to live in harmony on the island. The hard work, the work that is now done by the blacks,
you did, the whites. You dug under the burning heat of the tropical sun and in the places where it was easiest to catch malaria. And there was no quinine then! In less than a hundred years, this island full of so-called cannibals has become what you see now.”

  “I can’t imagine you eating anybody,” joked Kilian.

  “It would surprise you to know what I’m capable of!”

  Kilian finally smiled. “And what did you live on before us? As far as I know, even the plots you tend come from our seeds.”

  “This land is so rich that you can live with little. The gods have blessed it with fertility. The wild fruit trees produce oranges, lemons, guavas, mangoes, tamarinds, bananas, and pineapples. Cotton grows wild. And what about the bread tree, with fruit bigger than coconuts? With some livestock, and growing our yams, we had more than enough.”

  “It’s obvious, Ösé,” said Kilian, drying the sweat with his sleeve. “You don’t need us for anything!”

  “Ah! And the palm trees! Do you know any other tree where everything can be used? From the palms we get topé or wine; oil for stews, condiments, and for lighting the home; we use the leaves to roof our houses; from the canes we make houses and hats; and the young shoots we eat as a vegetable. Tell me, has Pasolobino any tree like the sacred palm?”

  He paused for breath.

  “Have you noticed how they rise up to the sky?” José looked up, his voice ceremonious once again. “They look like columns holding up the world, crowned with the plumes of a warrior. The palms, Kilian, were here before us, and they will be here when we are gone. They are our symbol of resilience. Come what may.”

  Kilian looked to the sky, suddenly moved by José’s words. The tops of the joined palms appeared to form a celestial vault where the fruit bunches twinkled like stars and constellations. In the tops, a soft breeze rocked the branches toward the sky, as if making a leafy gesture toward eternity.