Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  Clarence did not know what to say.

  They walked barefoot along the sand for a long time and then paused before a huge rock covered in moss and birds, which rose up thirty meters into the air. A small cascade seemed to flow from its top.

  “This is the guardian of the island,” explained Iniko. “Its purpose is to watch over the town of Ureca.”

  He put his hand in his trousers pocket and took out some seeds mixed with petals and placed them at the feet of the rock while murmuring some words.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving it an offering.”

  “You could have told me. I’ve brought nothing.”

  Iniko rummaged with his hand and took out a pinch of seeds. “Enough.”

  Clarence leaned down and placed the small gift. She asked for help not only in the search that had brought her to Bioko, but also going forward in life. She smiled. It was a lot to ask for such a small present.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what I asked for?” she teased.

  Iniko smiled. “I suppose the same as me. That they germinate well.”

  She agreed. He took her arm and silently guided her back to the start of the beach.

  They arrived at the edge of the pool under the Eola River waterfall. Without undressing, Iniko got into the water with his arms open wide and his hands toward the sky. Clarence was entranced, contemplating how the drops from the waterfall, actors in a natural journey that was at the same time circular and eternal, splashed against his skin. Then Iniko turned and signaled her to do the same.

  Clarence got into the water and allowed Iniko to circle her waist with his enormous arms. Very slowly, he drew her to his body until the embrace was complete and his head nuzzled in her hair. Her heart began beating out of control. Clarence could feel him breathing close to her ear, causing her to feel a delightful tingle. She heard him inhale her scent while softly resting his lips on her damp skin, sliding them down from her neck to her shoulder and again to her earlobe.

  She remained with her eyes closed to appreciate the full intensity of his caresses. At that moment, nothing existed except for her body, stuck to Iniko’s, in the middle of this beach. Never before had she been able to carry out such a fantasy. He wanted to taste her bit by bit, as if she were the last sweet morsel on earth. He rubbed gently against her, passing the tips of his fingers along her arms, which hugged his broad back. He slid his full lips over her cheeks, he looked at her for a few moments … and began again, with a slowness that did nothing but awaken her desire for him even more.

  Iniko began to unbutton her blouse very gently, still looking at her. Clarence felt her breathing accelerate and her skin tingle at the touch of his hands. He embraced her in his strong arms, and his lips busied themselves on her neck before daring to slide down to her breasts that hardened from the heat and moistness of his mouth.

  She could not remember the last time a man had tasted her with such passion.

  With the same steady rhythm, Iniko put his full lips on hers and kissed her while holding his arms around her waist. Clarence needed air and opened her lips slightly, allowing him to bite them before his tongue took control of her mouth.

  They were so close that despite the noise of the waterfall, she could make out the rapid beat of his heart. She slid her hands along Iniko’s strong arms and broad back to his waist to caress the skin under the damp shirt stuck to his muscles.

  Iniko moved apart a few centimeters and took off his shirt. Clarence reached out with her fingertips; he was a warrior, several scars furrowed his skin. She made no comment, putting her hands over the wounds and caressing them. She then brought her lips to them.

  In the same way as he had enjoyed her bosom, she wanted to taste his chest, while strong fingers fondled her neck and played with her hair until managing to release the plait that held it. Then Iniko placed his hands on either side of her face to hold her tightly, lift her toward him, and kiss her again, this time with more intensity. Clarence felt a wave of excitement and responded with a desire deep within her.

  Iniko kissed her lips, her forehead, her ear, her neck … In a whisper, he suggested that they lie on the sand. Their breathing began to adjust to the rumbling of the waves that lapped the shore.

  Clarence could not stop caressing him. Her hands wanted only to read each fold of his skin for when she would not have him with her, in Pasolobino. There, it was always cold. There would not be any sand. Nor two naked bodies beside the sea. This moment with Iniko would become one of the most beautiful memories of her life. On remembering it, she would smile and rememorize the tingles of desire that made her arch her back to receive him with all his force. Maybe she would find someone to share the rest of her life with, she thought in a brief lapse into lucidity, but it would hardly surpass this strange connection. No promises. No regrets. A connection born from a mysterious affinity in spite of the cultural and geographic distances. Each time she would hear the word Africa, in her mind she would outline Iniko’s handsome face and sad smile.

  And from the way he had taken her, she could see that Iniko felt the same.

  Both of them would always know that someplace in the world, there existed someone whose scent had invaded their senses, a body whose sweat had drenched their thirsty skin, a body whose taste had sated their needs.

  When they took the road back to the village, Clarence turned to look at the horizon from the upper part of the cliff. The sea in all its splendor, and the full moon, framed by palm leaves, creating thousands of silver reflections on the water’s surface.

  She seemed to have been in that place for an eternity. She felt comfortable, quiet, and relaxed. However, an unexpected feeling of loneliness overcame her. She did not know exactly what it was, but she began to have the worrying feeling that Iniko wanted to take over her body and her soul. Don’t forget these names, or these places. Don’t forget me. Go back to your country and remember the imprint that I have left on you. Under that waterfall, she had thought she had seen in his eyes a confused expression of desire and faint touches of resentment. Don’t you forget that for a few days, I took you for mine.

  “You’re very quiet, Clarence,” Iniko interrupted. “The climb has left you out of breath? Is Pasolobino very flat?”

  “I can’t believe I have been in such a place!” she exclaimed so he would not notice her confusion.

  Iniko stretched out his hand and stroked her hair. “From now on,” he murmured, “each time I hear your country’s name, it’s possible I’ll feel something different. I will think of you, Clarence.”

  Clarence closed her eyes. “The same will happen to me when I hear talk of this piece of Africa. Which, by the way, happens very often in my house.” She sighed before taking the way back. “In fact, I think I’m condemned not to forget you.”

  They went back to the car, took the bags out of the trunk, and entered the village of Ureca, made up of bamboo-roofed houses covered in palm leaves and surrounded by a green hedge, but built on stilts to protect them from the rain.

  There were around thirty houses built along an earthen avenue bordered by trees and staked trunks from which hung monkey and antelope skulls and snake skeletons to ward away the evil spirits. If Jacobo and Kilian were there, they would probably feel they had gone back in time. It was nothing like either the capital or the northern part of the island.

  At one end of the avenue, a larger building with no walls could be seen. At a certain distance, several people recognized Iniko and waved to him.

  “What is that?” Clarence asked.

  “It’s the village house. It is the most important place for us. It is used for meetings, to explain stories, to discuss day-to-day problems, and to sort out disputes. Everything I know about my people, I heard it here. By the way”—he signaled to the crowd coming over to greet them—“from now on, you also form part of the oral tradition of all the places we have visited.”

  “Ah, really?” Clarence looked at him, intrigued. “For being white
?”

  “The whites don’t surprise us as much as you think. You’ll go down in history as Iniko’s girlfriend. Even if you leave in a few hours!” He smiled wryly. “There is nothing you can do now.”

  He turned around and walked toward a group of neighbors. They greeted each other very warmly and exchanged a few words, and a woman pointed to one of the houses.

  “Come, Clarence,” said Iniko. “We’ll leave our things in our hotel.”

  Clarence raised her eyebrows, amused. On entering the house, she whistled in surprise.

  The floor of the simple house was of beaten earth, and there was hardly any furniture, but the room could not have been more romantic and welcoming. In the center, there was a circle of stones with wood prepared to light a fire. Close to the rudimentary fire, there was a large bamboo cot raised off the floor like a bed. On a small table, someone had prepared a bowl of fruit that looked very appetizing.

  “We will sleep here,” Iniko explained while he left the bags on the floor. “Now we have to accept the invitation of the chief. It’s time for dinner.”

  Clarence felt butterflies in her stomach. She was going to meet the inhabitants of the village? What better occasion to ask about her father’s supposed friends?

  Nervous and expectant, she followed Iniko to the village house, which was filling up with people.

  The chief was called Dimas. He was small and sturdy, with curly gray hair. Two deep wrinkles marked his cheeks. From the way he greeted Iniko, with the same affection as the majority of the men, Clarence was able to judge that her friend was very well liked.

  They sat on the ground in a wide circle. Clarence and Iniko were seated in a place of honor near Dimas. Some of the men gave curious looks to Iniko’s companion, and several children sat around them. It was inevitable that Clarence would be the center of attention that night. During the feast, consisting of fish, fried banana, yucca, and roasted bread-tree fruit, she answered many questions about life in Spain. The men remained comfortably seated, and the women came and went with bowls of food and drink—especially drink—trying to avoid the children who swarmed between the white woman and the dishes. When the inevitable subjects of snow and skiing came up, Clarence became infected by everyone else’s laughs.

  Her eyes were filled with tears and her throat burned from the palm wine. “How do you make it so strong?” she wanted to know.

  Beside the chief, a man so thin that you could see all his bones, who went by Gabriel and who seemed to be around the same age as Dimas, answered.

  “We make it in the traditional way. We climb up the palm trees, helped by liana arcs and thin ropes. We cut the stems of the male flowers”—he gestured by moving his hand horizontally—“and we gather the liquid in a gourd or a container. Then we leave the liquid to settle for several days to let it ferment”—he stretched his hands with the palms facing the ground—“very, very slowly. Yes. It has to settle to gain strength.”

  “Like the Bubis,” Iniko pointed out, and everyone laughed and nodded.

  They finished their meal, and the chief took on a serious pose. Everyone became quiet, and Dimas began to narrate, in Spanish, the history of his people, which they had certainly heard hundreds of times before, thought Clarence, but nobody showed any signs of impatience. On the contrary, they often nodded as Dimas described how the Bubis had first arrived on the island, thousands of years before; the wars between the various tribes over the best land; the list of kings and their great deeds; Ureca’s fortunate location, which made it difficult to find at the time of slaving; the arrival of the first colonists and the conflicts with them; and life under the Spanish.

  Dimas’s voice took on a grave tone when naming the kings.

  “Mölambo, Löriíte, Löpóa, Möadyabitá, Sëpaókó, Möókata, A Löbari, Óríityé …”

  Clarence closed her eyes to listen to the history of the Bubi nation. Her mind traveled back to the time of slavery and the conflicts between Bubis and Spaniards that took place before the Bubis were completely pacified.

  “The colonists removed the king,” murmured Iniko, “but we retained our national symbol. I knew Francisco Malabo Beösá. He was like our spiritual father. He was born in 1896 and died a couple of years ago, at the age of one hundred and five.”

  “I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Clarence in a low voice. “He shattered the life expectancy—”

  “Listen,” Iniko interrupted. “The part I like most is coming now, when he tells of the deeds of Esáasi Eweera.”

  Dimas told the tale of King Moka’s deputy, who was proclaimed king in Riaba before Malabo. He described Esáasi Eweera as a strong, brave, and determined young man, who detested the colonists and attacked with fury the peoples who came from outside to take over the arable land, and those Bubis who showed sympathy toward the whites. In the end, he and his men were captured by the colonial forces and sent to the prison in Black Beach along with his wives. They were brutally raped by the colonial guards in the presence of their husband and king, who went on hunger strike.

  A silence fell when Dimas told of the end of Esáasi Eweera, who, according to the colonists, was converted, baptized, and buried with the name Pablo Sas-Ebuera. According to the Bubis, he was murdered by the colonists and buried on the high grounds of Moka, sitting up, in accordance with the Bubi customs for the burial of a king.

  Dimas finished the story and began to talk of his own life. After a while, Iniko whispered, “Now comes the part when Dimas admits how well he lived under your people.”

  Indeed, the chief nostalgically went over his adolescence in Santa Isabel; how comfortably he lived in the city in a small house along with his wife and children; the money he earned as a foreman of batas—or workers—on a cocoa plantation called Constancia, which even allowed him a small car; and how lucky his children were to have been able to go to school. Clarence saw out of the corner of her eye how Iniko kept his eyes fixed on some point on the ground, his hands clenched.

  Dimas paused to drink from his bowl, and Clarence spoke up. “And this plantation, Constancia … was it close to Sampaka?”

  “Oh, yes, very close. I didn’t go very often, but I knew people who worked there. There was a doctor”—Dimas half closed his eyes—“called Manuel. A very good man. He helped me once. Later I was able to return the favor. I wonder what happened to him.”

  Clarence’s heart skipped a beat. A doctor called Manuel? From Dimas’s age, she reckoned that the dates could fit. What favor would that have been? Was he referring to the money installments? To this out-of-the-way village? It did not make sense …

  “Do you know if this Manuel was married to a woman called Julia?”

  Dimas opened his eyes in surprise. “Yes, that was the woman’s name. She was Emilio’s daughter …” His voice weakened. “Is it possible you know them?”

  “Manuel died not so long ago. I know Julia very well.” She tried not to appear too eager. “They were here with my father, Jacobo, and my uncle Kilian.” She observed the face of the man and noticed no change. “I don’t know if you remember them …”

  Dimas shook his head while mumbling some words. “Their names sound familiar,” he answered, “but their faces have been erased from my memory. I might have known them, but after so many years …”

  Clarence decided to push a little further. She had to know if there existed the remotest possibility that Dimas was one of those friends in Ureca whom her father supposedly sent money through. But to whom? Why?

  “And you say that Manuel helped you and that you later returned the favor …”

  Dimas rubbed between his eyebrows as if trying to forget. “They were hard times for everyone, blacks and whites—”

  “The whites imprisoned your brother,” Iniko said abruptly. “And they sent him to Black Beach. And they tortured him.”

  Dimas nodded at first and then shook his head. “The whites didn’t kill him. Macías killed him. He made sure of liquidating all those who were economically stable. Those
who were spared, he ruined. Like me. But it’s not the same.”

  “The whites placed Macías in power,” insisted an obstinate Iniko.

  “But they also gave you independence,” pointed out Clarence quickly. “Wasn’t that what you wanted, that my country leave you in peace?”

  “Nobody gave me my independence,” he replied in an offended voice. “I am Bubi. The inhabitants of this island, the first ones, the natives, before any ship had the damned luck to bump into the island, were the Bubis. Here there weren’t any Portuguese, English, Spanish, or Fang. But when it was in Spain’s interest and they had no choice but to give independence to Guinea because the UN insisted on it, they did it in the most glorious way they could think of. Handing it over to a paranoid Fang with the brilliant pretext that we would be one single nation. As if it was possible to unite night and day!”

  He passed his gaze over those present and raised his voice.

  “This island and the continental part of Mbini are—well, were until very recently—two completely different worlds with different ethnic races. My Bubi traditions are different from Fang traditions.” He turned to Clarence, and she saw that his eyes were glowing. “Earlier you were told how we Bubis make our palm wine. We go up the tree and extract the liquid. Do you know how the Fang do it?”

  He did not wait for her to answer.

  “They cut the tree … Yes, Clarence, those from your country made us accept a fictitious, unitary, and unbreakable state, knowing that it couldn’t work. And what happened then? Have you listened to Dimas? He, at least, was lucky enough to seek refuge here.”

  The older men nodded. Clarence pursed her lips. Whenever the conversation was diverted to political matters, his attitude toward her changed completely. And what was worse, she mightn’t have another chance to ask Dimas without raising suspicions.

  “Iniko, you’re right,” Gabriel intervened in a soft voice, “but you are talking with your heart. The old times won’t come back. Before it was the cocoa, now it is the oil.”