Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  “That’s why you went to Sampaka!” he exclaimed. “Iniko told me that you were looking for old documents, from when your father worked there. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then! I imagine that you see things very differently from what you have been told.”

  “Well, yes, quite differently.” She nodded. “For the moment, I haven’t seen any pith helmets or machetes or sacks of cocoa.”

  Laha laughed and Clarence smiled.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware,” he said, “that Malabo was called Ripotò, or “place of foreigners,” in Bubi. Just as well your father chose one and not the other! If your father gave you the name of this place, it’s because he really felt something toward it.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Laha. Everyone I’ve met who lived on this island admits to still dreaming of her.” She paused before continuing. “And then their eyes fill with tears.”

  Laha nodded as if he understood from the bottom of his heart what she meant. “And they weren’t even born here …” He interrupted her with a sad look.

  Something that she had read about the whites came to mind, something that nobody talked about. Those who had been born on the island felt that it was a part of them, and yet they had been forced to leave what they considered the country of their childhood. But it was unlikely that Laha was referring to them.

  “Imagine how those who are living in exile feel!” Laha interrupted her again after a short sigh. “Well, here we are. I hope you find what you are looking for, but don’t get your hopes up. In countries with huge shortages, education is at the bottom of the list.”

  She nodded, pensively. They walked in silence toward the white-walled buildings with arches under red roofs finished off with narrow green eaves that made up the university area, full of bright grassed areas dotted with palm trees and bordered with red-earth paths. When they got to the door of the main building, Clarence said, “Tell me something, Laha. I can guess the answer, but to be sure. You and your brother, are you Bubi or Fang?”

  “We’re Bubis. Just as well you asked me and not Iniko!” Laha laughed. “He would have answered you in an offended tone, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’”

  Over the next few days, Laha was the perfect host. In the mornings, each worked on what he or she had to do. While he reviewed the oil installations, Clarence looked for old documents on the history of Guinea—not only in the university library but also in others in the city, especially the Spanish-Guinean Cultural Center and the Spanish College in the Ela Nguema district—with the faint hope of finding something useful on the period that interested her, be it censuses, photos, or testimonies. In the afternoons, Laha took her around to see different corners of the city, and they finished up by having a relaxed chat in one or another terrace on the seafront. At night, he wanted to take her to restaurants with local food and cooking, but after two days it was clear to Laha that Clarence tended to lean more toward the fish and seafood of Club Nautico and Italian food from Pizza Place than toward the enormous snails in many establishments.

  Yes, Clarence was really enjoying a true vacation, but she was also conscious that the days were quickly passing by and she had not advanced one bit in her research.

  She did not know where to go looking either.

  She remembered that Fernando Garuz had told her that he would soon be going on a trip and figured she had better go back to Sampaka. With a little bit of luck, she might bump into Iniko and ask him about his childhood, as he had not bothered to join any of her afternoons with Laha. She had not gotten much information out of Laha because he barely remembered the plantation. He was six years younger than his brother, and his first memories were of school in Santa Isabel and his house in the city. Clarence had come to the conclusion that the first years of life for both brothers had been very different, but she still had not dared go into it any further. Only once had she asked Laha about Iniko, casually, and he had told her that he worked as an agent for several cocoa companies, which meant he had to travel a lot around the island. That was how she happened to meet him in Sampaka: Iniko did the accounts there and was in charge of paying the Bubi farmers.

  On Thursday night, Clarence decided not to postpone it any longer. However, when she called Fernando from her hotel room, he was sorry to tell her that he had had to change his plans and was leaving for Spain the following day on urgent family business. He did not know if he would be back before she left Bioko. But regardless of that, he said, she had his permission to visit the plantation as often as she wished, and he had left orders that she be shown around all the facilities. She thanked him and wished him a pleasant trip.

  Clarence snapped closed the notebook where she had jotted down Fernando’s number, and the piece of paper that was the reason for her visit to Bioko flew into the air. She bent down to pick it up, and her eyes fixed on a sentence:

  … I will resort to Ureca friends again …

  She sighed. She had not even dared to book a trip to Ureca.

  Needless to say, she thought, she would never earn a living as a private detective.

  The following day, Laha called to tell her that his mother had invited them to dinner that very night at her house. Them and Iniko.

  Clarence quickly forgot her disappointments of the last few hours. She only hoped that Laha and Iniko’s mother, like all older people, liked to talk about her memories, especially those about the Sampaka plantation. According to her calculations of Iniko’s age, his and Laha’s mother’s life there would go back to the 1960s. Maybe she had even known her father. A little bug of urgent expectation went round in her stomach all day.

  She had not finished deciding what to wear. She wanted to be well dressed but informal. She knew nothing about Laha’s mother, and she did not want to look dressed too casually or too smartly. She opted for comfort with a pair of beige jeans and a white shirt with gemstones and a neckline she knew suited her. She hesitated on whether to leave her hair loose or gathered in a plait and chose the second option, more suitable for dinner with the mother of some friends. That is, if she could consider Iniko a friend.

  The home of Laha and Iniko’s mother was a modest low-rise building in a housing estate that appeared to be from the 1960s in the Los Angeles district. She noticed that it was modern, but needed updating. However, the house’s interior, with colonial-style furniture, was welcoming. Everything was very clean and tidy and decorated with African objects and pictures, simply and tastefully. When Clarence met Laha’s mother, she understood where that simplicity and taste came from.

  They were still greeting each other when a door closed and a man entered like a hurricane into the room. Iniko kissed his mother, slapped his brother on the back, and, to the young woman’s surprise, opened his mouth and said in a deep voice, “Hello, Clarence.”

  9

  Hard Times

  Clarence inspected the woman closely. She was truly beautiful and very slim, and she had the most expressive light-colored eyes. She was wearing a long tunic over a pair of trousers, both turquoise blue, with matching embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves and the bottoms of the trousers. A silk scarf of the same color covered her hair, which Clarence guessed was slightly tinged with gray. With her hair gathered, her eyes stood out with an unsettling intensity.

  Her name was Bisila, in honor of Mother Bisila, patroness of the island of Bioko, cultural and spiritual reference of the Bubi culture. Clarence realized then that the sculpture of the sad Virgin in the cathedral showed Bisila, who, for the Bubis, represented the native and creator mother of life whose honor they continued to celebrate, but now more discreetly, as—according to what she had been told—in recent years, the festival had been banned in Guinea by the ethnic majority, the Fang.

  The dinner that Bisila prepared was a traditional feast, made with palm oil, yam, malanga, vegetable bóka’ò—a slightly spicy mix of vegetables and fish—and antelope. It was delicious. Clarence felt like a very special guest thanks to Laha and his mother.

&n
bsp; Of course, Iniko was the only one put out by her presence.

  Clarence was sitting across from the brothers. At first glance, the most notable difference was their physical statures. Iniko was older than Laha, but his body retained the muscly build of a young man. She tried to find some feature common to both but soon gave up, defeated. Iniko had his head shaved, and Laha had long, thick streaks of curly hair. Iniko’s skin was much darker than his brother’s, who beside him looked like a mulatto. Iniko’s eyes were big like his mother’s, although black and slightly almond shaped; Laha’s were dark green and got hidden behind tiny wrinkles when he laughed, something that happened quite frequently.

  She concluded that the only tic they had in common was rubbing an eyebrow with their index finger when mulling over something. She looked at Bisila. How could a woman have two children so unlike each other? She would not have been at all surprised if one of the two were adopted.

  As far as their temperaments, Laha was elegant, friendly, and talkative. It was evident that his stay in the United States had infected him with the mannerisms typical of North Americans. Iniko, on the contrary, was abrupt and quiet, verging on sullen. He would not even bother to answer the questions she asked about the people from Bioko and their customs. Clarence tried on various occasions to get him to participate in the conversation, asking about his work and his life, but his answers were short and dry, even scornful.

  Bisila noticed her frustrated attempts, and using the excuse of getting up to go to the kitchen for coffee, she said something in Bubi to her son. From that moment on, Iniko pretended to show some interest.

  “Could I ask you something, Bisila?”

  The woman turned her head toward Clarence and smiled.

  “I understand that you and your children lived in Sampaka. Could you tell me exactly when?”

  Bisila blinked, and Clarence hastened to clarify.

  “I’d like to know if you coincided with my father. He worked on the plantation between the ’50s and ’60s, more or less.”

  “The truth is the blacks didn’t mix much with the whites. They must have told you that there were hundreds of people on the plantation. It was like a big village.”

  “But there weren’t that many whites.” Clarence frowned. “I assumed everyone knew them, or at least knew who they were.”

  “Actually,” said Bisila a little tensely, “I used to spend more time in my village than on the plantation.”

  Laha and Iniko exchanged a quick and knowing look. Both of them knew that their mother did not like to talk about her time in Sampaka. They were not surprised that she had deflected Clarence’s questions politely.

  “Do you know, Mom,” Laha interrupted, “that Clarence lives in the North of Spain?”

  “Well,” the young woman qualified, “the North of Spain is very large, and my valley is as small as this island.”

  “It snows and it’s very cold, isn’t it?” Laha added.

  “I couldn’t live in a cold place,” Iniko said, playing with a small shell hanging from a leather band knotted round his neck.

  “You couldn’t live anywhere else except Bioko,” Laha retorted, amused.

  “I understand.” Clarence shrugged. “Sometimes I complain about the climate, but I couldn’t stand being away from my home for too long. It’s a curious love-hate relationship.”

  Iniko raised his huge eyes to her, and she blushed.

  “And what’s the name of your village?” asked Bisila, who had gotten up to serve more coffee.

  “Oh, it’s very small,” Clarence answered, “although many people know it now because there is a ski resort there. It’s called Pasolobino.”

  Everyone startled as the coffee cup bounced off the table and smashed onto the floor. Bisila reacted quickly, apologizing, and went to the kitchen to get something to clean up. Everyone else tried to brush off the situation.

  “The truth is that the name is frightening,” Laha joked.

  “They say all names mean something.” Iniko looked at Clarence, and his eyes at last seemed to smile. “In this case it’s easy. Pasolobino, path of the wolves.”

  She arched her left eyebrow.

  “Well, you don’t look like you could frighten anyone.” It was the first time he had been informal with her.

  “That’s because you don’t know me,” she answered, boldly holding his gaze.

  “If there is a ski resort,” Laha interjected, “it must be a rich place, correct?”

  “Now it is,” Clarence answered. “A few years ago, the valley was close to being completely depopulated. There was no work, only cold and cows. Now everything has changed. Many people from outside have come to live there, others have returned, and services have improved.”

  Laha turned to his brother.

  “See, Iniko? Progress isn’t so bad.”

  Iniko spent a few moments stirring his coffee with the spoon. “That is something you would have to ask the natives,” he said.

  “And who am I then?” Clarence felt offended.

  “For Iniko, you are like me,” said Laha sarcastically. “You belong to the enemy-of-the-land group.”

  “That is a ridiculous oversimplification,” she protested, with flushed cheeks. “It’s very easy to jump to conclusions if you don’t ask. You don’t know anything about me!”

  “I know enough,” Iniko defended himself.

  “That’s what you think!” she retorted. “The fact that my father was a colonist doesn’t mean I have to walk around asking for forgiveness—” She stopped dead. For an instant, she wondered if one day she would have to take that back before a biological brother.

  Iniko made a face, looked at Laha, and whistled.

  “Well, I have to admit that she does have a strong character.”

  He said it in a conciliatory fashion, but it annoyed Clarence. She leaned back in the chair with no intention of continuing the discussion. Fortunately, Bisila returned from the kitchen with a brush and a dustpan. She looked very tired. Laha moved to help, but his mother would not let him. They remained silent while Bisila gathered the bits of the cup until she asked, in a trembling voice, “What was your father’s name?”

  Clarence sat up in the chair and rested her arms on the table. “Jacobo. His name is Jacobo. He’s still alive.” Bisila’s renewed interest rekindled Clarence’s hopes. Her father’s name was not that common. Was it her imagination or was Bisila in a state of shock? She waited a few seconds before asking, “Does it sound familiar?”

  Bisila shook her head and brusquely finished cleaning. “I’m sorry.”

  “He came here with my uncle, my uncle Kilian. It’s a very unusual name. I don’t think you could forget it easily.” Bisila stood still. “My uncle is still alive …”

  “I’m sorry,” Bisila repeated in a subdued voice. “No, I don’t remember them.”

  She went to the kitchen murmuring, “My memory is getting worse and worse.”

  Laha frowned.

  A brief silence ensued, until Iniko rose to serve some glasses of sugarcane spirit.

  Clarence bit her lip, deep in thought. Everything that had to do with Sampaka always finished in a dead end. If someone like Bisila said that she did not remember her father, the only thing left to do was to put an ad in the national newspaper. She remembered her visit to the cemetery and decided to use her last shot. She waited until Bisila returned to tell them about the strange sensation she had when reading the name of Pasolobino written on a gravestone in Africa.

  “I’d like to know,” she wondered aloud, “who takes the time to bring flowers to my grandfather …”

  Bisila kept her head down and her hands crossed on her lap. It was evident that her mood had changed.

  “Well.” Clarence looked at her watch. “Thank you very much for the dinner, Bisila. And for your hospitality. I hope to see you again before going back to Spain.”

  Bisila made a small gesture with her head, but said nothing.

  Laha understood that Clarence was
saying her good-byes, but he had other ideas.

  “What type of music do you like?” he asked, getting to his feet. Clarence was surprised at the unexpected question, but finally understood that he was suggesting going out. “Are you up for it, Iniko? I was thinking of taking her to our favorite hangout.”

  His brother clicked his tongue, possibly annoyed at Laha for inviting her.

  “He’d probably get embarrassed if a foreigner gave him dance lessons,” she said scathingly, looking at Laha.

  Iniko pursed his lips, put his hands on the table, and slowly got up.

  “We’ll see who is giving the lessons,” he said with a mocking glint in his eye.

  After saying good-bye to Bisila, they took Iniko’s Land Rover and went to a club called Bantú, like the hotel, where they could listen to soukous, bikutsí, and Antillean salsa, or antillesa, as they called it. Just after entering the club, several people waved to the brothers.

  “Look who it is! Tomás!” exclaimed Clarence on recognizing her taxi driver, who got up to shake hands. “Don’t tell me you know one another!”

  “And who doesn’t know Iniko on the island?” he joked, pushing his glasses up every other second. The place was hot, and he was sweating a lot.

  They all sat down together, and after the introductions, the group of men and women, drinks in hand, shared laughs and cigarettes. Some of their names were simple, like that of a pretty girl with her hair done up in tiny braids called Melania, who insisted that Iniko sit beside her. But it was difficult to memorize the names of the other two women—Rihéka, small and round, and Börihí, tall and muscled like an athlete, with very short hair—and of the other man in the group, a young man named Köpé.

  At first, Clarence felt inhibited, although the company of the brothers gave her a sense of security. Every now and then, one or the other got up to dance, but she preferred to remain sitting down close to Laha, who admitted he was not a good dancer, and close to the drinks—which did nothing to alleviate the heat—moving her feet timidly to the repetitive and lively beat of the music. She watched the other dancers on the floor and asked herself how in hell they could move as they did. It was crazy.