Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be drowned in the moment. Everything distant seemed near. Time and space, history and countries, heavens and earth melded together in an instant of tranquility.

  “We are now in the böhabba!”

  With that, José broke the heavenly spell. A few paces away, the path opened out, and Kilian glimpsed the plain that Bissappoo villagers had allocated for growing yams. To the right, he saw the shed where they made the traditional red palm oil. On a previous trip, José had shown him how it was meticulously produced. Women pulled out the heart of the petals and made a pile that others covered with palm leaves to get it to ferment; others milled them with a big stone in a hole shaped like a mortar dug in the ground and with stones covering the bottom; and others picked out the fruit pips and put the macerated pulp to boil in a pot over a fire to extract the oil.

  “You’ll see what a great celebration it is!” said José, happy among his own. “For special celebrations, the women always prepare plenty of food and drink.”

  Kilian nodded. He was as nervous as if it were his own family’s wedding. He had spent more time with José over the last two years than he had with many from his own village. He worked, talked, and shared his worries with him. In turn, José had invited him to learn about his home outside the borders of Sampaka. He was in direct contrast with most of his neighbors in Bissappoo, a place that Father Rafael described as backward and reactionary. José was able to get along with whites and blacks equally, adapting to civilization without forgetting his traditions, and allowing a foreigner like Kilian to share in such family occasions as a daughter’s wedding.

  Kilian scratched his head. He was embarrassed to say how he felt, but he thought that José deserved it. He had never found the right opportunity to thank him.

  “Listen, Ösé,” he said, looking him straight in the eye. “I didn’t tell you before, but I know what you did for me that night with Umaru. Thank you very much, my friend.”

  José nodded.

  “Tell me one thing, Ösé. What I did wasn’t right. But you helped me. Did you do it for my father?”

  José shook his head. “I did it for you. That night I listened. You were a grown man and you cried like a child.” He shrugged and raised the palms of his hands. “You were sorry because your heart is good.” He gave the young man a couple of light thumps on the arm and in a whisper confided, “The spirits know that we all make mistakes sometimes.”

  Kilian sincerely thanked him for his words. “I also want you to know that although I’m white and you’re black, when I look at you, I don’t see a black man. Rather, I see José … I mean, Ösé.” Kilian lowered his eyes, a little embarrassed by his outburst of sincerity, and scratched his arm. “You know what I mean.”

  José became emotional, shaking his head as if he did not believe what he had just heard. “If I hadn’t walked all the way here with you,” he said, “I would think you had drunk too much topé. We’ll see if you still feel the same way the day after tomorrow, when you’ve suffered the consequences of a Bubi wedding celebration.” He raised a finger in friendly caution. “Ah! And I’m warning you! If you put a hand on any of my daughters or nieces, I’ll release the savage inside me!”

  Kilian laughed. “Wouldn’t you like me for a son-in-law?”

  José did not answer the question. He looked at the women making palm oil, let out a long whistle, and began walking toward them.

  When they passed the jars of water from the perennial springs, with which the Bubis from Bissappoo prayed for the growth of the village, and crossed through the wooden arch, on whose sides stood two Ikos, or sacred trees to keep away evil spirits, Kilian remembered the first afternoon he had come to the village with José. Warned by the whistles that a white man was approaching, men, women, and children came out to see with a certain mistrust. He had observed them in turn, and in some cases, he had to admit, with revulsion, especially the older men. Some of them sported huge hernias and ulcers, and others had pockmarked faces from smallpox or deep scarification. Under José’s instruction, these men greeted him with respect and formality and invited him to enter their world.

  Kilian also remembered that the variety of the amulets hanging from the arch—sheep’s tails, animal skulls and bones, hen and pheasant feathers, antelope horns, and snail shells—had surprised him. In Pasolobino, they used to hang goats’ legs over the houses and place stones in curious designs on the roofs, on top of the chimney stacks, to ward away witches. The fear of the unknown was the same in all parts of the world: in Africa, they had their evil spirits, and in the Pyrenees, the witches. Once inside the village, however, the differences between Pasolobino and Bissappoo could not have been more striking. The Spanish village consisted of clothed white bodies and solid buildings to shield inhabitants from the cold, the African village of seminaked black bodies and flimsy houses open to a public square. The first time that Kilian went to José’s village, he could never have imagined that such different worlds would converge in his heart.

  Some children pounced upon his pockets, hoping to find some sweet or other. Kilian, laughing, handed out small candies and confections that he had bought in Julia’s shop. Two or three women lugging baskets of clean clothes and food waved. Several men stopped their slow walk and left on the ground the arch they used to clamber up the palms, shaking his hand by holding it affectionately in their own and placing it on their hearts.

  “Ösé … where are all the women?” Kilian asked. “It seems I won’t be able to put your threat to the test!”

  José laughed. “They are preparing the food and getting themselves ready for the wedding. There’s only a few hours to go. All women take a long time to get made up with ntola.”

  “And what shall we do in the meantime?”

  “We’ll sit down in the riösa with the men and wait.”

  They went toward an open square where the children played and the village meetings were held. In the center, under the shade of the sacred trees, there were some bushes with a number of stones that were used as seats by a group of men waving to them in greeting. A few paces farther on, two small cabins had been built for praying to the spirits.

  “Don’t you have to change your clothes?” Kilian left his rucksack on the ground beside the other men.

  “Am I not all right as I am?” José wore long trousers and a white shirt. “I’m wearing the same as you …”

  “Yes, of course you’re all right. It’s just that I thought, as you are the father of the bride, you would be wearing something more … more … of your own …”

  “Such as feathers and shells? Look, Kilian, at my age, I don’t have to prove anything. Everyone knows me well. I’m the same here as down there, on the plantation. With a shirt or without one.”

  Kilian nodded, opened his bag, and took out tobacco and alcohol. The men gestured happily. The younger ones spoke in Spanish, and the older ones, who were around the same age as José and Antón, communicated through signs with the öpottò, or foreigner. When they saw that it was impossible, they turned to the translators. Kilian always showed respect, and if he had any doubt, José was there to help him. He sat down on the ground, lit a cigarette, and waited for the men to finish sifting through his presents.

  He noticed that a snakeskin, whose name—boukaroko—he found difficult to pronounce, hung with the head facing upward from the lowest branch of one of the trees, instead of being in the high branches, as he remembered. The Bubis believed that the snake was like their guardian angel, umpire of good and evil, who could shower them with riches or inflict them with illnesses. For that reason, respect was paid once a year by bringing the babies born during the previous year to touch the tail of the skin with their hands.

  No movement was seen outside the houses built around the square. They were all identical huts, all the same size and protected by a stake barrier. They were rectangular in shape, with the side wall barely two meters high and the front and back walls slightly higher for the roof.
The walls were made from stakes tied together with lianas, the roofs from palm leaves tied with rattan to the rest of the structure. Kilian had entered José’s hut only once, as life was mostly lived outdoors. He had to stoop down a lot—the door was too low for him—and he was surprised that there were only two rooms separated by a door made from a tree trunk, one room with a fire and the other for sleeping.

  “What are you looking at so seriously?” asked José.

  “I was thinking that my house in Pasolobino is as big as forty of these houses.”

  One of José’s sons, who went by Sóbeúpo in the village and Donato in school, was about ten years old. He translated his words to Bubi, and the old men gasped in admiration.

  “And why do you need such a big house?” the child asked, eyes wide.

  “For everything. In one room you cook, in another you talk, in others you sleep, and in the rest you store the firewood or the food for the winter, the wine, the apples, the potatoes, the beans, the salted pork, and the beef … each thing in its own place. Downstairs”—he motioned to Sóbeúpo to bring him a twig to make a drawing on the ground—“and in other buildings, the hay is stored so the livestock can eat when there is snow.”

  When he said the word snow, laughter erupted. Kilian imagined that the rest of the afternoon would continue, as on previous occasions, with a bombardment of questions about snow and the freezing cold. Sure enough, a few minutes later, they asked him again about the skis that the inhabitants of Pasolobino used to go down to other villages or just to have fun through the fields. He rolled his eyes and stood up to give them another demonstration of how they worked. He put his feet together, flexed his knees, raised his hands in fists with his elbows tucked into his waist, and moved his hips from one side to the other. He was met by a chorus of laughs, gasps, and hand clapping.

  “Sorry, Kilian …” José wiped his eyes while trying to hold back another peal of laughter. “You have to understand that we’ve never seen snow. There isn’t even a word for it in Bubi!”

  Moving their arms from the sky to the ground, the younger ones continued to improvise translation for the others—white water, frozen drops, white flakes, suds crystals, cold dust—and they all moved their heads with confused looks and furrowed brows, the corners of their mouths pointing downward, rubbing their chins with one hand while trying to understand this marvel from the spirits of nature.

  This went on for a couple of hours. It was true, thought Kilian; the men had nothing better to do than talk.

  At last, as evening fell, some movement was seen in the flimsy houses, and in an instant, the square filled with people.

  “The ceremony is about to begin,” warned José, getting to his feet. “I have to sit with my wife now, Kilian. We’ll see each other later.”

  Several young women grouped together and went toward the bride’s hut, singing and dancing. When the bride appeared at the door, a murmur of approval arose. Kilian also let out a breath. He could not make out the young woman’s face, because she was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, dressed in peacock plumes fixed to her hair with a wooden pin, but her pure cocoa-colored body was full of harmony. Her torso was graced by small, firm breasts surrounded by red drawings of ntola and tyíbö, crystal beads, and shell collars that also adorned her slim hips and well-proportioned arms and legs. Everything about her seemed delicate, and yet her upright bearing and well-defined movements drew him to her with a magnetic force.

  While the people cheered, the girl walked around the square a few times, singing and dancing, with the crystal beads caressing her skin, until she sat down in the square’s preeminent position to await her parents and her future husband. Like Kilian, Mosi stood out as he towered over the others, but the straw hat decorated in hen feathers on his head made him look even taller. His enormous arms and legs were covered in pieces of shell and snake vertebrae, and greasy collars made from animal innards hung from his neck. He did not stop smiling. When the girl approached, he greeted her with a bow, and his smile grew broader.

  A man who appeared to preside over the assembly came toward the bride and spoke to her in a tone that varied between advisory and threatening. In the last row, a familiar voice explained to Kilian that the man was urging her to always be faithful to her husband. He turned, happy to see Simón.

  “I had to escape, Massa Kilian,” whispered the lad with a unassuming smile. “Massa Garuz is bringing guests after the harvest party, and he wanted everyone there. But I couldn’t miss the wedding, no, Massa, not this one. The bride and I have known each other since we were children. We are almost all family here.”

  “It’s fine, Simón.” Kilian put him at ease. “You’ve gotten here just in time.”

  “You won’t say anything to the big massa then?”

  Kilian shook his head, and the lad’s face lit up.

  “I followed the path you and José opened, but I didn’t have time to change.” He pointed to his clothes, the same as always: white shirt, short trousers, socks to the knees, and thick boots. Then he took off his shirt and freed his feet. “That’s better!” He pointed toward the couple and exclaimed, “Look! It’s the mother of my mother!”

  An old woman went over to the couple and got them to join hands, speaking softly. Simón explained that she was giving them advice. She told the man not to abandon this wife despite the many others he could have and told the woman that she must remember her duty to look after her husband’s lands, make his palm oil, and be faithful to him. When she finished speaking, some voices shouted.

  “Yéi’yébaa!”

  Then everyone, Simón included, opening his mouth wider than anyone, answered.

  “Híëë!”

  Kilian did not need the lad to understand that these shouts of joy were the equivalent of a Spaniard’s “Hip, hip, hurrah!” On the third time, infected by the jubilation, he even dared to repeat the response.

  Everyone began to file past the couple one by one to congratulate them and wish the bride their best while the others continued with the cheering. She answered with a smile and a slight bow of her head.

  Kilian was pushed forward and had no option but to stay in line and offer his respects to the newly married bride. He searched his head for the appropriate words to congratulate a Bubi bride in a native village on the island of Fernando Po, situated in that remote part of the world. But she was his friend’s daughter. He would wish her well the same way he would the daughter of any friend. He searched for José, who smiled to him from where he was and nodded his head, giving permission.

  Kilian felt butterflies in his stomach. So there he was! A white man in the middle of an African tribe in the middle of the party fanfare.

  When he told his grandchildren, they probably would not believe him! A few steps from the bride, he was able to study her profile in more detail, but the hat continued to cover her face. She seemed young to him, maybe fifteen.

  Too young to get married, he thought. And especially to Mosi.

  There were three or four people to go before it was his turn. Simón, who had not left his side, translated.

  “Buë pale biuté wélä ná ötá biäm.” Don’t penetrate unknown regions.

  “Ebuarí, buë púlö tyóbo, buë helépottò.” Woman, don’t leave the house, don’t wander the streets, don’t go with foreigners.

  “Bué patí tyíbö yó mmèri ò.” Don’t break the delicate shells of your mother.

  Kilian did not notice her raising her hands to remove the pin from her hat. Suddenly he was in front of her. “I … Congratulations! I hope you will be very happy.”

  She let the hat fall to one side, raised her head toward him, and looked into his eyes.

  In that moment, the world stopped and the singing fell silent. A pair of big, intelligent, unusually bright eyes pierced through him. He felt like a tiny insect caught in the threads of an enormous spiderweb, waiting with the serenity of knowing that death was imminent, to be devoured in the resounding silence of the jungle.

 
All the features of her rounded face were in perfect harmony: her forehead, large; her nose, small and wide; her jaw and chin, perfectly finished, a set of lips beautifully glossed in carmine and blue … And her eyes, large, round, clearer than the most transparent liquid amber, designed to transfix the world. For one fleeting moment, she belonged to him alone within the ethereal veil that covered them.

  The eyes were not those of a bride in love, missing the sparkle of a woman on the day of her wedding. Her timid smile pleased the guests, but her expression portrayed sadness, fear, and determination, resigning herself to a situation that in her heart of hearts, she did not accept.

  How was it that he had not noticed her before? She had a hypnotic beauty.

  “Why is it that your eyes are blurred on such a special day?” he asked in a barely audible whisper.

  The girl trembled slightly.

  “Would you understand it if I were to explain it to you, Massa?” she asked. Her voice was soft, a little high-pitched. “I don’t think so. You’re white and a man.”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Kilian, with the sleepy movement of someone who had woken from an enchantment. “I forgot you speak my language.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve asked me anything.” Kilian noticed that the girl was addressing him informally, and it felt strangely intimate.

  He tried to speak, but Simón touched him on the elbow and whispered that Mosi was beginning to get impatient. Kilian looked up at the groom. He seemed taller than ever.

  “Gud foyun,” he said finally in Pidgin English. “Good luck.”

  “Tenki, massa clak,” answered the colossus.

  When the good wishes were finished, the new couple began to walk around the village, followed by people striking wooden bells with clappers and singing solemnly.

  The nuptial procession ended, and the feast and libation of palm wine began, spilled all over the place in honor of the spirits. The milky drink washed down the wedding banquet of rice, yams, wild pigeon breasts, squirrel and antelope stews, sun-cured slices of snake, and a variety of fruit. From nine at night until dawn, the dancing did not stop, fueled by doses of alcohol to regain strength and keep spirits roused.