Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

“If you stop him,” Simón interrupted, “Mosi will learn about your relationship with her, and you will both end up hanging from a tree.”

  Kilian, broken, leaned against the wall again.

  “In these matters,” said José, “white man’s law has no place. I’ve accepted and understood your relationship with Bisila, but she could be accused of adultery. If you really love her, you’ll stay out of this. Everything will soon return to normal.”

  Kilian wiped his forehead before standing up straight. “After this, nothing will ever be the same,” he said softly.

  He started toward the main building.

  He needed to think.

  Kilian did not go to see his brother for two weeks. He did not much care if the other thought it odd or if he suffered after finding out about the death of his friends. All his thoughts revolved exclusively around his desire to do him harm … and the fear of Mosi’s vengeance. He was sure that, for the moment, Jacobo was safe. The giant would not dare do anything while he was in the hospital.

  How could his brother have done such an unforgivable thing?

  He struck his machete in rage at the trunk of a cocoa tree. The blows fell on the ripe reddish fruit, destroying them, and leaving the beans open to the elements. He stopped dead in his tracks, got his breath back, and shook his head in regret.

  Why had he not told Jacobo before that Bisila had been his wife for a long time? If he had known, he would have never laid a finger on her. Even for someone like him, there were limits that should not be crossed.

  The only possibility left was that Jacobo had not recognized Bisila … Kilian’s stomach turned. Any punishment seemed too light to make up for the damage that those three had caused.

  He thought of the bodies of Dick and Pao. He visualized the terrible hours of agony that they would have suffered until the relief of death. A sharp pain settled in his chest. Would he remain with his arms folded, knowing that Mosi would come for Jacobo? For all that was holy, of course not! They had spent their whole lives together. They shared the same blood of the forebearers of the House of Rabaltué.

  Kilian had no other option. He had to talk to him. Nothing could excuse his brother’s actions, but he had to save his life. Despite everything, he was his brother.

  And then what? Would they go to the authorities and explain everything? They would arrest Mosi, and he would be punished for the murders. He remembered José’s and Simón’s words of warning. The Africans had their own way of sorting things out. If Kilian informed on Mosi, they would come for him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Don’t get involved, Kilian, he thought. You only want to get Bisila back. Drown yourself in her eyes until time stands still again and it is only the two of you.

  He leaned back against the tree and rubbed his forehead in anguish. He had no other choice. He had to warn Jacobo. What his brother did with that information mattered as much to him as the cocoa beans that lay crushed at his feet.

  When Kilian entered the room, Jacobo was sitting up against the headboard, finishing his lunch. When he saw his brother, he quickly left the tray on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Kilian,” he exclaimed happily. “The hours in the hospital seem like forever.” He got up. “Why didn’t you come before? I suppose Garuz has enough problems with one of us out of action.”

  Kilian looked at Jacobo and tried to keep his temper. From his cheerful attitude, he guessed that his brother knew nothing about the deaths of Dick and Pao. Manuel had probably not wanted to frighten him in his condition.

  Jacobo went to give him a hug, but Kilian took a step back.

  “Hey! It’s not contagious!” He hung his head, ashamed. “These days I’ve been thinking about what Father Rafael said. The longer we went without a woman, the better off we’d be health-and pocket-wise.”

  Kilian took a deep breath, and said flatly, “Sit down.”

  “Oh! I’m fine! I’ve been on my back all day. I want to get up and move a bit.”

  “I told you to sit down,” said Kilian between his teeth.

  Jacobo went back to the edge of the bed. “What’s the matter?”

  Kilian answered with another question: “Have you heard about Dick and Pao?”

  “Did they get the same thing?”

  “They turned up murdered a few days ago. Hanging from a tree. They had been tortured.”

  Jacobo let out a shout but did not say anything. Kilian studied his reaction. After a while, Jacobo, his voice trembling, asked, “But … how is that possible? Why?”

  “I was hoping you would be able to tell me that.”

  “I don’t understand, Kilian. I don’t know anything. I told you they were meant to come and see me, and they didn’t.” He opened his eyes, frightened. “Killed! But who … ? Do you think they were killed for being white?”

  “No.” Kilian moved a few steps closer. “It’s for something they did on their last trip to the island. For something you did.”

  “I’ve done nothing!” Jacobo got defensive. “I have never got mixed up in their problems. Could you tell me what’s gotten into you? That day we went to the city and drank like fish. I don’t even know how I got to bed. Maybe I overdid the iboga, but that’s it.”

  “You didn’t party with any girlfriend back here on the plantation?” Kilian chewed his words.

  In Jacobo’s mind, blurred images appeared of a dark place, some voices, some laughs, a body under him, a voice babbling his name, a pair of bright eyes. He coughed, nervous. He did not understand why Kilian was putting him through this. He got to his feet and stood in front of his brother.

  “And what do you care how I finished the night?” he asked arrogantly.

  “Bloody bastard!” Kilian sprung at him and began hitting him as hard as he could, aiming his fists at his face and chest. “You raped her! The three of you! One after another!”

  Jacobo tried to defend himself, but his brother had caught him unawares, and he was only able to dodge the occasional blow. He covered his face with his hands and let himself fall back on the bed, frightened and shocked.

  Kilian swore aloud and stopped as blood trickled from his brother’s face. “Do you know who she was?”

  “I was so drugged it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  Kilian leaped at him again, but this time Jacobo jumped up and tried to catch his eye.

  “I don’t go around raping women. I’d swear it was one of Dick’s friends.”

  Kilian gritted his teeth. “It was Bisila. José’s daughter.”

  Jacobo opened his mouth. He blinked several times and tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat. His brother narrowed his eyes and, in a cutting voice Jacobo had never heard before, added, “You raped my wife.”

  Jacobo felt his knees giving way. He sat down again on the bed and hung his head.

  His wife. Since when? He felt a sharp pain in his chest. When had they become so distant? Now the scene began to make sense. Kilian’s disproportionate reaction proved how important she was to him. What had he done?

  Kilian went over to the chair beside the window, let himself fall into it, and buried his face in his hands. After a long silence, he sat up and murmured, “Mosi will come for you. He knows. He’ll kill you.” He got to his feet and went over to the door. He rested his hand on the knob and said, “For the moment, you are safe here.”

  He left and slammed the door.

  In the adjoining room, Manuel sat down, placed his elbows on the table, and held his head in his hands. Someone knocked at the door and came in without waiting for an answer.

  “Can I come in?” Father Rafael frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Please sit down. Don’t worry, I’m fine,” he lied. The argument he had heard between the two brothers had frozen the blood in his veins. “A lot has happened in the last few days.”

  “People are very upset.” Slightly limping, the priest came over to the chair, sat down, and folded his chubby hands over his abundan
t stomach. Small nodules circled his finger joints, which looked swollen, rigid, and somewhat bent. “Just now I bumped into Kilian in the corridor. He didn’t even say hello to me. That lad …” He shook his head. “Do you know how long it’s been since he’s been to mass? Ah! How different from his father! I hope he’s not mixing in bad company. I’ve heard a rumor, I don’t know if you have too.”

  “He’s worried about his brother,” Manuel defended Kilian firmly. He normally enjoyed his conversations with the priest, whom he considered an intelligent man hardened by his years on African soil. However, his eagerness to guide everyone along the right path was sometimes uncomfortable. “And more so after the murder of Jacobo’s friends.”

  “Ah, yes. I also heard rumors that they won’t be the last ones.”

  Manuel raised his eyebrows.

  “But I don’t know whether to believe everything they say … Garuz is still in a state. How can this have happened in Sampaka?” He noticed the latest issue of the Claretian magazine on the desk. “Have you read about the Congo? They murdered another twenty missionaries. That’s over a hundred killed since independence. And many are still missing.”

  “That’s not going to happen here, Father. It’s impossible. You have been on the island longer than me, but you know the island natives are peaceful.”

  “As quiet as an illness,” said Father Rafael, crossing his arms. “You don’t realize you have it till it hurts.”

  “Have you had your injection today?” The priest came often to the hospital, looking for relief for the arthritis in his hands and knees.

  “Not yet. The nurse with the hands of an angel, Bisila, was not there. They told me she would be back soon, so I came to see you while I waited.”

  “I know you’re not going to listen, but I think you’re taking too much cortisone. In fact, it was Bisila who showed me some very effective remedies prepared from Namibian devil’s claw …”

  Father Rafael shook his head forcefully. “Never. You think I’m going to trust a plant named devil’s claw? I wonder what side effects it has! I’d rather put up with the pain.”

  “As you wish.” Manuel shrugged. “But you should know your arthritis is not going to get better. Maybe you should think about moving to a dryer climate.”

  “And what would I do without my children in Guinea? What would they do without me? If it is God’s will, I’ll be here until the end of my days, come what may.”

  Manuel diverted his gaze toward the window, drenched by the last rays of the evening sunlight. He thought the priest’s words coincided with those of many of his patients. For the priest, it was God’s will; for the others, the will of the spirits. Manuel did not agree with any of them. It was the will of men that made the world go crazy.

  “You and me, Manuel”—Manuel listened to the priest—“we owe it to our patients. You wouldn’t abandon a wounded man in the middle of an operation? Then …”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Father?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, son. I’ve spoken to Julia, and she told me that you’d like to leave. She doesn’t want to.”

  Manuel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Sooner or later, she’ll agree it’s the best thing for our children. Don’t take it the wrong way, Father, but I have two children I can save. If you could bring everybody, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do it. I have seen many sick people in my life, Father, and I can assure you that the sorrows of the soul are nothing compared to physical pain.”

  “Ah, Manuel! Blessed are you! If you say that, it’s because nobody has really done you any harm.” Father Rafael got up. “Let me not delay you any further. I’ll come around again some other time.”

  Alone once again, Manuel thought of his words. Maybe the sorrows of the soul were much worse than physical pain. Bisila’s arm was healing, and the bruises were disappearing. But there was no medicine, neither native nor foreign, that could mend her grief.

  Bisila entered the hospital as Kilian bumped into her. She could see the fire in his eyes and felt an iron grip on her heart. For a few seconds, he held her arms, calming down.

  Bisila drew away slowly, but he did not release her.

  “Bisila,” he murmured.

  The words choked in his throat. He wanted to tell her that he missed her, that he loved her, that he was sorry for her suffering, that she should let him share her pain, and that he would always be by her side. But he did not know how to begin.

  “I know everything. I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms. He wanted to take her from there, go up to Bissappoo, and shut themselves up in the house where he had been her king and she his queen, in that place where they had loved each other.

  Bisila cautiously drew away.

  “Kilian …” It had been ages since she had said his name out loud. Her voice was sweet. He needed sweetness after the bitter discussion with his brother, after the anguish of the last few weeks and the last few months. “I need time.”

  We don’t have any, Bisila, he thought. Time passes very quickly when we are together. We’ll run out of it, and then we’ll be sorry.

  But he agreed.

  “I want you to tell me one thing, Bisila.” He inhaled deeply. The question was not easy. “When is Jacobo getting out of the hospital?”

  Bisila turned away, clenching her jaw. She despised that man, just as she had the other two. When she saw their lifeless bodies, she felt no remorse. The hurt would not be erased with their deaths. No. It would stay with her, between them, all their lives.

  She knew that Kilian wanted to protect his brother. Protect him from Mosi. But Mosi would not be stopped. Of that she was sure. Jacobo would also pay for what he had done. Kilian should not ask her anything to do with Jacobo.

  “I have to know,” he insisted.

  Bisila fixed her eyes on his and saw him sway between his loyalty to her and to his brother. For her there was no possible justification that could erase Jacobo’s sweating face over hers. But he wanted her to understand that in spite of everything, he was still his brother. He was asking her to help him save his life. He was asking her to name the time and place when Mosi’s vengeance, and of course her own, would be enacted. What would she do in his position? Would she save her brother? Or would she allow hate to blind her?

  “Saturday afternoon,” she said in a hard voice. “You could have asked the doctor.”

  “Does Mosi know?”

  Bisila lowered her eyes and began walking toward the door. Kilian quickly put his hand on the knob to stop her.

  “You taught me something,” he mumbled, “and I believed you. You told me that even when a bad man escapes punishment of this world, he will not escape punishment in the next. Let the baribò deal with him.”

  Bisila closed her eyes and whispered, “Mosi knows. He will come for him. At dusk.”

  It would take Kilian years to erase the memory of Mosi’s enormous body crushing him against the ground, the feeling of asphyxia and shock. Throughout his life, he would often wake up in the middle of the night startled by the sound of a gunshot.

  On Saturday, the spirits conspired so that Kilian would not arrive in time to collect his brother. The blasted truck broke down in the most distant part of the plantation. Kilian shouted at Waldo to hurry up, to fix it no matter what. Waldo became nervous with the massa’s shouting. At last, he got the engine running, but they had wasted a lot of time, and the vehicle could not go any faster. Sitting beside him, Mateo did not understand the rush.

  On the horizon, the darkening speck told them that soon the world would become quiet, an intense calm would precede the noise of thunder, the roar of the wind, and the breaking of trees.

  The downpour unleashed as Kilian approached the hospital.

  Everything was water.

  He put on his helmet and jumped from the truck. Behind the liquid curtain, Jacobo was holding a pistol, threatening Mosi. Why had Mosi come to the very entrance to the hospital? Or had he planned
to follow Jacobo and the unexpected storm had given him the perfect opportunity? On the steps, a desperate Manuel shouted at Mosi, trying to get him to stop. The wind and the water swallowed his words.

  Mosi was not afraid. He moved closer to Jacobo, wielding a machete in his hand. Jacobo shouted at him to stop, that he would not hesitate to shoot, but Mosi was not listening. Followed by a stunned Mateo, Kilian ran toward them like a madman, bawling at Mosi not to go any farther.

  Jacobo’s arm tensed. Mosi took another step. Kilian threw himself at him, and a shot was heard.

  The bullet grazed Kilian’s head and embedded itself in Mosi’s chest.

  Everything happened at once: Kilian in the air, the bullet close to his head, Mosi’s blood mixing with the rain, Kilian on the ground, and the giant falling on top of him.

  Steps approached.

  Someone got Mosi off him, helped him up.

  The doctor. Nurses.

  Jacobo trying to explain to a mute Manuel.

  “He tried to attack me,” he said over and over again. “You saw it.”

  Mateo shaking his head. “It’s obvious that the whites aren’t wanted here anymore.”

  And Jacobo: “We’ll all end up sleeping with a gun under our pillows. Thanks be to God nothing happened to you, Kilian.”

  And Mateo: “I’d never have thought Mosi would do something like this!”

  Bisila knelt beside Mosi’s body.

  All was water and silence.

  “Run, Bisila. Go and tell your son his father is dead.”

  People and more people.

  Water and more water.

  Kilian needed something to lean on.

  And Jacobo: “He tried to attack me. You saw it, Kilian. I had no choice. It was in self-defense.”

  “Who did you pay, Jacobo, who did you pay to get you the pistol?”

  “Why did you jump on top of him? Did you want to save him?”

  Bisila picking up his hat from the ground, stroking it with her soft hands.

  And Jacobo’s voice: “Best let Manuel have a look at you. I’ll sort all this out with the police.”

  “Go, Jacobo. They’ll come for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”