Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  Before she knew it, Iniko had already crossed the yard. Clarence had to run to catch up with him at the white Land Rover. He got in, started it, and turned around. Is he not going to give me a lift? She saw that Iniko stretched to open the window on the passenger’s side.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  When she got into the car, she saw that her trousers were completely spattered with red drops. She tried to shake them off with her hand, but only succeeded in creating a fine film of dust.

  The uncomfortable silence lasted several kilometers. Clarence looked out the window. It had stopped raining, but some low mists covered the brush and thickets along the road. The vehicle motored on at a fair speed to the main road. In a short while, she was able to make out the first buildings of the city in front of her. Beside her, Iniko looked at his watch.

  “Where are you staying?”

  She told him the name of the hotel, and he nodded.

  “I have to go to the airport. If you would like me to take you to your hotel, you’ll have to wait. If not, I can leave you around here.”

  Clarence frowned. She had no intention of walking the streets alone again. “Fine.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I’d prefer to go with you to the airport,” she responded, irritated. “I only hope that you don’t tell me later that you are going to catch a flight.”

  Iniko almost smiled at her. “Relax. I’m going to collect someone. I’m late.”

  He turned left to take the ring road that led to the airport, and in a few minutes, Clarence began to recognize the route. When they got to the small parking lot dotted with enormous trees with large white-collared crows resting on them, she made out a young man waving in the crowd. She noticed he was very well dressed, in a pair of light-colored branded jeans and a white shirt. He picked up his bag and walked toward them. Iniko got out of the car, and both men greeted each other affectionately with hugs and slaps on the back. They looked to the car. Clarence assumed they were talking about her. She wondered whether to get out, but decided to wait.

  The two of them soon got into the Land Rover.

  “Shall I sit in the back?” Clarence asked Iniko in a low voice.

  “No, please,” said the other man from behind her. “Iniko has told me you are Spanish and that you met each other in Sampaka.”

  His immediate familiarity put her at ease.

  “… And that your name is Clarence, like the city.”

  She nodded. She would never be just Clarence again. Here she was Clarence like the city.

  He held out his hand. “My name is Laha.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Laha.”

  “And what are you doing in Malabo? Let me guess! You are an NGO aid worker.”

  “No.”

  “No?” He was surprised. He rested his elbows on the back of the front seats, between Clarence and Iniko, and closed his eyes. “Let me see … Sent by the United Nations?”

  “No.” Clarence liked Laha more and more. He was nice, on top of being hugely attractive, and his Spanish was perfect, although he had a slight North American accent.

  “Businesswoman? Engineer? Iniko! Help me!”

  “Researcher,” said Iniko in a neutral voice. “I assume from the university.”

  Well, he has a good memory anyway, thought Clarence.

  “And what do you research?” Laha asked.

  “I’m a linguistics lecturer. I came here to gather information for a project on the Spanish spoken in Guinea.”

  “How interesting! And? How do we speak?”

  Clarence laughed. “I arrived yesterday! I haven’t had time for anything yet … And you, what do you do? Have you come for vacation?”

  “Yes and no. I’m an engineer, and the company has sent me to review the assembly of a liquefaction train that is going to be built in the plant.” He saw Clarence widen her eyes. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  She shook her head.

  “Look”—he pointed out the window to his left—“somewhere over there is a labyrinth of pipes that make up the petrochemical complex Punta Europa. Here we have a lot of oil and gas, but it is managed by foreign companies like mine, and it’s all exported. With the new facilities, we can liquefy the gas here. The next thing will be to build a refinery …”

  Iniko gave a snort, followed by some African words, and Laha frowned.

  “Ah well, there are a lot of projects up and running.”

  “And of course, you have to come regularly,” Clarence intervened. “Where do you live normally?”

  “In California. But I was born here.”

  “Wow!” Laha kept surprising her.

  “I studied at Berkeley, and I was hired by a multinational. In one of life’s coincidences, my company bought the rights of an oil company in Guinea and offered me the chance to get involved in the expansion of the facilities, precisely because I know this island. That way I get to see my family, don’t I, Iniko?” He gave him a slap on the back.

  “You’re family?” Clarence asked. These two men looked nothing alike.

  “Didn’t Iniko tell you that he was going to collect his brother from the airport?”

  “No, he didn’t. In fact, he told me absolutely nothing.”

  Laha yawned. “And what are your plans? Have you been given a tour of the city?”

  “Not yet. On Monday, I’ll go to the university.” She wanted Laha to propose some plan, but she did not want to sound either desperate or bored. On top of that, he had just arrived after a long trip. “Today, I’ll use my time to do some touring of my own.”

  “We have a family meeting,” Iniko said, making clear that she was not included.

  “I don’t think I’ll last long,” said Laha, stifling another yawn.

  What a pity, thought Clarence, a little frustrated. She looked out the window and recognized the street her hotel was on.

  Iniko stopped the car at the door but made no movement to get out. Laha did, however.

  “Clarence … would you like me to go with you to the university on Monday?” he offered. “I have friends in the mechanical engineering department. I normally go and see them.”

  She thought for a few seconds. “How about ten o’clock at the door of the cathedral? Or would you prefer if I met you here?”

  “At the cathedral would be fine. Thanks a lot.”

  “Until Monday then.”

  Laha put out his hand to say good-bye, and Clarence held out hers, grateful and happy to have met him. Then she realized she had not said good-bye to Iniko. At the end of the day, he had done her the favor of giving her a lift. She bent down to see inside the Land Rover, where he sat looking straight ahead. Clarence held back a courteous smile.

  She had never met anyone so unfriendly in her whole life.

  After eating and taking a siesta, Clarence felt brave enough to go to the cathedral, an impressive building in a neo-Gothic style whose facade was flanked by two forty-meter towers. She noticed that everyone was looking at her again. She felt uncomfortable, and for the first time, she was sorry for not having convinced Daniela or one of her friends to come with her.

  She found refuge for a good while inside the cathedral—the only place where she felt relaxed and safe—captivated by the pale-yellow columns, high and thin, perched on black marble bases that held up the main nave’s vaulted ceiling. She approached the altar and spent some time contemplating the sculpture of a black Virgin with her right hand resting on her left shoulder. Behind her she could make out the carved head of a small child. The evening light, seeping through the stained-glass windows, lit up the face, slightly inclined toward the floor. She felt that the black Virgin had a very sad expression. Why had she been carved like that, so mournful? Clarence wondered. She shook her head. Maybe it was just her imagination.

  She decided to return to the hotel, where she lay on her bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. What would she do until Monday?

  She turned on the telev
ision but did not get any signal. She called reception, but the girl told her, with broken pronunciation full of s’s, that the channel was off the air. According to her, they sometimes forgot to refill the fuel tank of the electricity generator that fed the radio and television transmitters located on top of Basilé Mountain.

  A whole new country, and Clarence had nothing to do?

  Truthfully, she was irritated. Not only was she afraid to go out on her own, but her visit to Sampaka had not been as fruitful as she would have liked. On the one hand, she had not been able to see anything due to the rain, and on the other, Julia’s clues now seemed more impossible than ever.

  She would have to wait until she met Laha to wheedle information out of him about his childhood. Thankfully, he was not like Iniko, who was about as easy to talk to as finding snow in Bioko. If Iniko had been born or lived on Sampaka, it was logical to think that Laha had as well. At least that’s something, she thought.

  She reflected a few more minutes about what to do and finally picked up the phone to call Tomás.

  She had noted down three places to visit on Bioko. She was already familiar with Sampaka. Why not use the following day to see the second?

  “I don’t like this place at all, miss,” said Tomás, creasing his brow while casting nervous looks at Malabo’s old cemetery, located in the Ela Nguema district. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  “Tomás, don’t be so formal with me. Okay? We’re the same age.”

  “As you wish, but I have no intention of going in.”

  “Fine, but don’t even think about leaving.”

  As soon as she got to the gate, Clarence was sorry she had decided to visit the cemetery. She did not like the idea of wandering alone through a place that felt so sinister. She asked Tomás with a look, her last attempt to get him to go with her, but he shook his head. She placed her hand on the rusty railings and stopped.

  “Can I help you with something?” asked a deep masculine voice.

  She got such a fright that she turned to leave, but then the voice continued, “You can come in. The gate is open.”

  Clarence stopped and saw a small, friendly old man with hair completely white and almost no teeth.

  “I am the caretaker of the cemetery,” he said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  She walked toward him with the small bunch of orchids that she had bought at a street stall and explained that her grandfather had been buried there in the 1950s. She wanted to visit the grave if it still existed.

  “From the date,” the man said, “it would have to be in the old section. If you like, I can take you there. Not a lot of people visit.”

  Not even in the abandoned villages of her home had Clarence seen a cemetery so badly kept. Some of the graves were hidden in the weeds, and others had sunk. It seemed it was true that the natives did not like to visit the graves of their dead. Her guide explained, with the ease of delivery that comes with age, that due to the country’s high mortality rate, it was common to dig one grave on top of another, which led to some very disagreeable situations. Neither the perfectly ordered gravestones nor the inscriptions that Clarence was used to could be seen anywhere. It looked like a jungle, even though, according to the man, it was now much better looked after than before. A couple of years ago, he said, you could not even come in without running the risk of being eaten by a boa.

  The old part of the cemetery, however, turned out to be more reassuring. Perhaps because the graves were easier to make out, surrounded by railings rusted by age. Or maybe because the graves were at the feet of some enormous and beautiful trees whose bark reminded her of elephant skin. From their size, they looked to be over a hundred years old, and although some seemed dried out, none had lost their majesty.

  “What beautiful ceibas!” exclaimed Clarence.

  “It’s a sacred tree,” the old man began to explain. “Neither hurricanes nor lightning can conquer them. Nobody touches the ceibas. To cut them down is a sin. And ceibas do not forgive. If your grandfather is buried here, his grave will be as intact as they are.”

  A shiver went down Clarence’s spine. One part of her still wanted to run, but something held her back. There was a special peacefulness calming her fears.

  She began reading the names on the crosses and gravestones. She went over to one in particular that seemed hidden between the folds of two intertwined ceibas. It was also guarded by a smaller tree that she could not identify.

  She looked up and read out loud, “Antón of Rabaltué. Pasolobino 1898 to Sampaka 1955.”

  Clarence’s heart skipped a beat, and tears fell.

  How strange to see the name of her village in a place like this! As if there were not thousands of kilometers separating the beginning and the end of her grandfather’s life!

  She wiped away the tears and bent down to remove an almost completely withered bunch of flowers that someone had placed against the stone cross, and added her own.

  But how …

  Someone continued to bring flowers for Antón!

  She frowned.

  “Do you know who visited this grave?” The cemetery caretaker shook his head.

  “No, miss. The few who come don’t need me. Only the foreigners like you ask for my help … And none have visited this grave. I would remember that, yes, that I would remember.”

  “And those few who do come, natives from what you’re saying, are they men or women?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to say. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Thank you anyway.”

  He guided her back again to the entrance, where she gave him a small tip and he shook her hand repeatedly in thanks.

  Tomás noticed her reddened eyes and said, “This island doesn’t suit you, Clarence. Wherever you go, you cry.”

  “I’m overly sentimental, Tomás. I can’t help it.”

  “Do you want to go and have a beer on a terrace overlooking the sea? It works for me when I’m sad.”

  “Good idea, Tomás. I’m very lucky to have met you. You’re very kind.”

  “It’s because I’m Bubi,” he said with pure conviction.

  On Monday morning, Clarence went to her appointment with Laha a little early. As on the previous day, the weather was still fresh and sunny. As the hours went by, the unbearable heat would probably prevent her from doing anything except sleeping or drinking on a terrace.

  She had already been warned that she could not take photos or film in the country—and that it was advisable to be discreet in her comments and her attitude in public—but at this time of day, everything was very quiet, so she took out a small digital camera and began taking shots of the cathedral. She started with the main facade in front of a round white marble fountain, with a number of figures that held a small ceiba on their shoulders. Then, she walked down a side alleyway. At that moment, her enthusiasm made her careless, and suddenly, she found herself being approached by two police officers who gruffly asked for her papers.

  She grew nervous when she saw that neither her passport nor all the other papers she showed them seemed to satisfy them. The pitch of her voice rose. Did she look like a spy? They took her fear for arrogance. When one grabbed hold of her arm, Laha came out of nowhere, intervened, and very politely offered to clear up the situation.

  Laha spoke quickly, but firmly. He explained who she was and what she was doing there. He reached in his pocket and, as subtly as possible, took out some money, slipping it into a handshake with one officer. “You don’t want the rector of the university to find out how we treat his guests, do you?”

  Before Clarence could open her mouth to express her shock and thanks, Laha gently but firmly pushed her in the direction of a car.

  The police looked to be satisfied, even giving a friendly wave to her savior, who at that moment seemed to the most attractive and marvelous man in the world. That morning he had put on a light-colored suit. He probably dressed like that to go to work.

  “Thank you very much, Laha,” she said
. “I was under a little stress.”

  “I’m sorry, Clarence. It’s what I detest about my country. Well, that and more, but anyway, you’ll have time to find out yourself …”

  “Don’t you have to be at work?” she asked.

  “That’s where I’m coming from. The good thing about American engineers is that nobody tells us what to do.” He laughed. “At least not me. The majority prefer to stay in their bungalows in Pleasantville. That’s what we call the fairy-tale district with its air-conditioning, supermarkets, and creature comforts. They live away from everything. Although I know more than one who has been deported from here for criticizing the regime. So it’s better not to take risks. You know what they say, what the eye doesn’t see …”

  Laha accompanied his words with infectious laughter. She studied his profile. There was something in his proportioned features that seemed familiar. She had the vague sensation of having seen it before. Probably his natural friendliness made her feel as if she had known him all her life.

  “By the way,” he continued, “the day before yesterday, I wanted to ask you something, and in the end, I didn’t. Did you know that Malabo was once called Clarence? Isn’t it a strange name for a Spaniard?”

  “Yes, I know,” she answered, shaking her head in resignation. “For years I thought it was the name of some heroine from an English novel. Later I discovered that the island had been given that name when it was declared an English colony, in honor of King George, Duke of Clarence.”

  She briefly explained to him that several men from her family had lived here during the colonial period. After meeting Iniko, she gathered that not everyone had fond memories of the colonization. And she was very aware that she knew only stories from the white side, which made her cautious when talking about Spain. Yet Laha did not seem to mind that a descendant of those colonists showed interest in the past.