Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  “No white gives us orders,” said another.

  The sticks rose in the air. Kilian crossed his arms over his face. He waited, but nothing happened. Then he heard a familiar voice say in a friendly tone, “If I were you, I wouldn’t do that.” Baltasar had placed himself between him and the circle of boys. “I am the nephew of the head of police, Maximiano, and this man is a friend of his.”

  Without turning, he said to Kilian, “Go back to the car. I want to talk to these lads so they can explain to me why they are so angry.” He asked them a question in Fang, and the others blabbered out a litany of responses.

  Kilian got into the car. His legs were still shaking. Miguel was hunched in the backseat.

  Kilian said nothing. He looked through the window into the sitting room of the house and felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. A woman with a baby in her arms squeezed a child of about five or six against her waist. He thought he heard her cries. Would they see their father and husband alive again?

  Baltasar returned to the car accompanied by the shaven-headed youth. Baltasar said good-bye to him and got in. The youth leaned down to catch Kilian’s eye. “Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

  Kilian started the engine and began to drive off. “Thank you, Baltasar,” he said. “You’ve saved my life.”

  He waved his hand in the air and said nothing.

  “Would you mind telling me what was going on?” Miguel asked after a while.

  “A group of Portuguese mercenaries tried to invade Guinea Conakry. Macías gave his youth sections free rein to protest against the Portuguese.”

  Miguel grunted. “This afternoon I’m going up to the television station on the summit, and I don’t intend on coming down for a week.”

  “It’s not a bad idea, given the current mood … ,” mused Baltasar.

  Kilian took a sideways look at him. What in hell is happening to this blasted country?

  “Why don’t we leave?” Kilian repeated.

  “Go where?”

  They had been through this before.

  “To Spain. Together. You’re my wife. I’ll take you with me.”

  “My place is here.”

  “Your place is with me.” Kilian got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and hung his head. “Everyone is leaving,” he said.

  Bisila sat beside him. “The children of a white and a black are Guinean, not Spanish. They wouldn’t let them leave.”

  A silence.

  “I don’t belong in Pasolobino. I would always be the black woman that Kilian of Rabaltué brought back from the colony.”

  Kilian protested, “You would be my wife! They would get used to you!”

  “But I don’t want anyone to have to get used to me.”

  “We could also live in Madrid, or in Barcelona. I would get a job in any factory.”

  “You’re a man of the land, of the mountain, of the plantation. In a city, you would be unhappy. As the years passed, you would blame me for your sadness, and our love would end.”

  “Then I will stay. I still feel safe on the plantation.”

  Bisila got up and went over to the table with a small mirror resting on it. On the mirror, Kilian had stuck the only photo of them both together. She smiled, remembering the day when Simón came to show them his new camera: “Let’s see, Bisila. You put yourself here … Like that … Fernando come to your mother. Here and still. And now smile … Kilian, now you, here, yes, that’s good. You can lean on the truck if you want.”

  Life was full of ironies; as soon as they became free to love each other, the persecution of the whites had begun.

  “Yes, on the plantation, you’re safe,” she repeated without taking her eyes off the photo. “But … for how long?”

  “Where are they going?” Kilian, puzzled, followed Garuz to the middle of the main yard. A group of laborers carrying large bundles with their few belongings had gathered there. Their wives and children were with them. He saw Bisila holding on to Lialia’s arm, and Oba with one of Ekon’s children in her arms.

  “Where are you going?” Garuz repeated.

  “We’re also leaving, Massa,” Nelson answered in a deep voice. “News has come that we can go back home. There’s very little for us here.”

  “But … the war?” Kilian asked.

  “It’s over. They are going to pardon those who were defeated. Well, that’s what they say. And they have sent ships for us.”

  “We don’t want the same to happen to us as happened to the Portuguese,” Ekon intervened. “The president here only wants Guineans.”

  Kilian hung his head. They were also leaving. His last companions. And the harvest? Who would collect the fruit ripening on the trees?

  Garuz swore and went to his office.

  Bisila stood beside Kilian. Nelson put out his hand to say good-bye to his boss, but Kilian shook his head.

  “I’ll take you in the truck. It’s a long walk for the children.”

  “I don’t think it …”

  “I couldn’t care less if it’s risky or not. I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll go as well,” said Bisila.

  An hour later, the group of Nigerians began descending the slope of the fevers, hesitant. Hundreds of people were piled up on the small jetty as the Guinean authorities asked for their identification documents one by one, before allowing them on the narrow gangway.

  Kilian and Bisila leaned on the balustrade of the upper balcony with other curious onlookers. Fortunately, he was not the only white there, thought Kilian. He saw Miguel and Baltasar in the distance. Every few seconds, Bisila raised her hand and waved to Lialia and her children. Kilian admired her ability to put on a cheerful smile when he knew how sad she was to lose her best friend. Ekon and Lialia’s children, whom Bisila had cured of little cuts and illnesses since they were small, also waved until it was their turn to board.

  Nelson and Ekon showed their papers; Lialia did the same. When it was her turn, Oba showed them her passport, and the policeman frowned. He talked to his partner for a few seconds and finally said, “You’re Guinean. You cannot leave.”

  Oba felt the earth swallow her up.

  “But I’m going with my husband.”

  Nelson moved back a few steps. The passengers behind Oba began to shout in protest. “What’s going on?”

  The officer looked up at the colossus with the round face.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “This woman is my wife.”

  “Let’s see papers.”

  Nelson and Oba felt a sudden panic. They had planned to get married, but for one reason or another, they had kept putting it off.

  “Where is the marriage certificate?”

  “We’ve lost it,” Nelson answered rapidly, hoping with all his heart that the police would accept his lie and let Oba through.

  “Well, then she’s not going.” He grabbed her by the arm and removed her from the line with such force that Oba fell to the ground. The impatient shouts increased, now mixed with indignation at the man’s rough treatment of Oba.

  “Oba!” Nelson pushed the two police and hunkered down beside her. From the boat, the desperate voices of Ekon, Lialia, and Nelson’s family could be heard, confused that they were taking so long to get on board. The ship’s horn sounded, warning that it would soon be departing. Those left on land began to push forward, and they knocked down the police officers. From the ground, one of them took out his weapon and began to fire indiscriminately. The other followed suit, and several people fell to the ground. The cries of impatience became howls of pain and panic. Those who were able to get on board got to the gangway. Others, stunned, tried to help their wounded relatives.

  From above, Kilian and Bisila watched the scene in shock. When the gunfire stopped, the ship began to slowly move away on the waters, unaware of the bewilderment of the people who leaned over the deck’s railings in a vain attempt to find out what had happened to their friends or relations. On the jetty, several bodies lay on the ground, men and w
omen raising their hands to their heads in grief. Bisila tightly held Kilian’s hand and stifled a scream when she recognized Oba.

  Sitting down, with Nelson’s bloody face in her lap, Oba moved backward and forward, rocking him. Not a sound came from her throat. She opened and closed her mouth as her small hands stroked her man’s hair, soaked in his blood.

  “What a surprise, Kilian!” exclaimed a biting voice. “Still here?”

  Kilian grimaced. He still had suspicions that Sade and her friends were behind Gregorio’s beating. As had been made clear in the casino, she enjoyed the friendship of high-ranking people. He took Bisila by the hand.

  “We’d better leave,” he said.

  Sade squinted. Why did that woman look so familiar? Where had she seen her before? Those big, bright eyes … Then she remembered that day in the hospital. There she was, holding his hand … And later, the same day Kilian split up with her, she had seen her close to his quarters. So this was the one who had robbed her of Kilian’s favor? She licked her bottom lip.

  She did not know how, but someday she would get her revenge on her as well.

  The three men drained some brandy saltos after dinner. European food had become scarce, but the vegetable plots still grew in abundance, and the hens, left abandoned to their wiles after Yeremías’s mysterious disappearance, continued to lay eggs.

  “He must have gone to his village,” said Garuz. “One less.”

  “Where was he from?” Kilian asked.

  “Ureca,” Father Rafael answered. “He’s gone with Dimas, who comes and goes from the village to Santa Isabel to help his friends escape. This time he didn’t even wait for the farce trial Macías has arranged for those in last year’s attempted coup. The majority have already been killed. And of the others, like his brother Gustavo, nothing is known.”

  Suddenly, the light over the dining room table went out. Instinctively, they looked out the window and only saw darkness.

  “Blasted generators …” Garuz looked for some matches in his pocket.

  “I’ll go and see what’s wrong.” Kilian took a lantern from a side table.

  He went out, skirted the building, and opened the door of the small generator room.

  A blow to his back left him breathless. He could not even shout. Before he realized what was going on, more blows, punches, and kicks rained down on each centimeter of his body until he collapsed and lost consciousness.

  In the dining room, Garuz and Father Rafael began to get worried. When they got to the small room, Kilian was lying on the ground in a pool of blood.

  “Kilian, everything’s already been organized,” announced José. “Next week you’re taking a plane home to Spain. You’ll be traveling with Garuz and Father Rafael. The last of the last. If you don’t go, Simón and I will drag you there.”

  He sighed.

  “Say something, Kilian. Don’t look at me like that. I’m doing it for you. I’m doing it for Antón. I promised your father. I promised him I’d look after you!”

  “Bisila …”

  “Bisila, come! Come with me!”

  “I can’t, Kilian, and you know that.”

  “I can’t leave either.”

  “If you don’t go, they’ll kill you.”

  “And if I go, I’ll also die.”

  “No, you won’t. See? The spirits have answered your dilemma. You must go and live your life, take your place in the House of Rabaltué.”

  “How can you talk to me about spirits? Is this what they want? Is this what God wants? For us to separate? What will happen to Iniko and Fernando? What will happen to you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Nurses always have work, even more in times of conflict. Nothing will happen to me, you’ll see.”

  “How will I know? How will I get news of you?”

  “You’ll know, Kilian. You’ll feel it. We will be far away, but close. I will always be by your side.”

  How was Kilian to remember what he could never forget yet remain continuously present, even when surrounded in haze, sometimes crystal clear, sometimes blurred?

  Waldo’s handshake.

  Simón’s tears and his whispered promise never again to speak his friend’s native language.

  Lorenzo Garuz’s heavyhearted words leaving José in charge of the plantation.

  The silent tears of Father Rafael.

  The texture of Fernando Laha’s hair.

  The desperation with which he made love to Bisila on the last night. Her essence. The taste of her skin. The sparkle of her clear eyes.

  The tropical rain. The lightning. The shell collar on his chest.

  His guardian, his waíríbo, his love, his mötémá, his sweet company in uncertainty, in fear, in moments of weakness, in joy and in sadness, until death do us …

  The warm, thick, lazy, and cruel tenderness of the last kiss.

  The sobs.

  The royal palm trees, resolutely reaching the sky, undaunted by the pain left at their feet.

  The weak handshake from Ösé. The last touch of his fingertips. The long, deep, and emotional hug. His promise to put flowers on his father’s grave.

  The DC-8 over the green island that had invaded his very being and now became a faint mark on the horizon until it disappeared.

  Garuz, Miguel, and Baltasar beside him.

  His father’s words, spoken thousands of years before: “I don’t know how or when … but the day will come when this small island will take control of you, and you’ll never want to leave … I don’t know anyone who has left here without shedding tears of grief.”

  The brief journey that made him yearn for the tranquil scything of a ship.

  The landing in Madrid.

  His good-bye to Garuz, after he gave his wife a hug: “Cheer up, at least we’re alive.”

  Baltasar’s words: “One day we’ll return, no problem.”

  Miguel’s words: “Do you know the first thing my television bosses told me when I got off the plane? Not a word about this to the press.”

  The train to Zaragoza. The coach to Pasolobino.

  The eleven years of darkness.

  The silence.

  The tenuous ray of light when his daughter was born, a few months after his fiftieth birthday.

  Daniela.

  Like her.

  19

  Official Secrets

  1971–1980

  “If you ever get out of here, Waldo,” said Gustavo, leaning against the cold wall of his cell, “promise me that you’ll look for my brother, Dimas, from Ureca and tell him about me.”

  Waldo agreed with closed eyes and made himself another promise.

  He would get out of that place.

  Suddenly, they heard a commotion of shouts, insults, blows, and footsteps. Seconds later, the lock on the iron door squeaked, the door opened, and two hefty guards dragged a naked body onto the earthen floor, as if it were a sack of potatoes.

  “Here’s a new cellmate for you!” shouted one of the guards as he threw an empty tin after him. “Teach him the rules!” He howled with laughter.

  Gustavo and Waldo waited until the footsteps had receded and then knelt down by the badly wounded man. How many times had they been here before? More than a dozen since that day when first Gustavo and Waldo some time later had crossed through the iron gate. Both had gone through the same routine. They were taken to the warden’s office, whipped until they lost consciousness, and then locked up in a cement box, the height and width of a man, laid out in rows in one of the sheds. A small skylight, protected by bars, allowed for the disturbing sounds of the night and the communication with other prisoners, provided they had not gone through the interrogation room yet. If they had, the only sounds that would reverberate around the walls of Black Beach Prison were ones of inhuman shrieks, shouts of desperation and suffering, and the occasional guttural snore.

  The man tried to move.

  “Stay still,” said Gustavo. “It’s better that you lie on your chest and stomach.”


  His back and legs were full of open wounds, and skin and bits of flesh were missing. It was obvious that the sergeant major of the prison had let his dog loose. It would take three or four days before the man could change position. When he was able, they would take him to whip the sore-covered body again. And like that until he died, or they got tired, or they decided to send him to clear weeds, like Gustavo and Waldo. For the wardens, the prisoners had no soul. If they were to read the inscriptions on the wall, thought Gustavo, where the prisoners had written their last anguished thoughts in their own blood, the wardens would know what they had done with their souls.

  For a good while, Gustavo and Waldo talked to the new arrival without getting any reply. They knew from experience that words of comfort did a lot of good. They explained to him where they were, the meal routine, and the cleaning out with the tin where he would have to do his deeds. They told him his body would become used to the blows and that there was a possibility of surviving—like them, who had been imprisoned a long time and were still alive—or getting out, by whatever stroke of luck.

  When he noticed the man’s breathing relaxed, Waldo asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Maximiano … Why are you here?”

  “The same reason as everyone else.”

  Gustavo preferred not to give any more explanations. Since Macías had created a one-party regime, a never-ending and cruel hunt had begun, and an indiscriminate purge of both the opposition and all those who could try and become president of the republic through their ability or influence. From one day to the next, anyone could become a subversive or an enemy of the people. In the case of Gustavo, who had been a member of a political movement, the reasons for his arrest were obvious; not so with Waldo, whose outspoken comments in the presence of a former colonial guard, dressed in plainclothes and converted into a Macías spy, had been enough to imprison him. In many other cases, a system of informing took over, even among members of the same family, in order to get a promotion or settle an old score. Thanks to the comings and goings of prisoners, Waldo and Gustavo had been receiving news from the outside about the paranoia of the president of the republic.