Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  “Gregorio! You’re not going to believe it, but I …”

  He stopped dead.

  Gregorio was lying facedown, wrapped in the intense embrace of someone between whose legs he was convulsing and moaning. A woman’s hand pointed to Kilian. Gregorio turned his head and swore.

  “Do you like watching or something?” he shouted as he got to his feet and tried to pull up his pants.

  Kilian went red seeing the man’s penis, still erect between his bony legs. The woman stayed on the ground, smiling and completely naked on the orange clote. Beside her was an empty basket. He recognized the woman who had gone into the forest from the cocoa trees.

  “I’m sorry … ,” he began to apologize. “I went into the forest and got lost. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Well, you have! You’ve left me half done!”

  He motioned to the woman to get up. She rose and fixed the cloth around her waist. She picked up the basket, placed it on her head, intending to leave, and put out her hand to the massa.

  “Give me what you please,” she said.

  “No chance!” Gregorio replied. “This time I didn’t finish, so it doesn’t count.” He made gestures for her to disappear.

  “You no give me some moni.” The woman gave him an annoyed look.

  “Go away! I no give nothing now. Tomorrow, I go call you again.”

  The woman gritted her teeth and went off in a huff. Gregorio picked up his helmet from the ground, shook it, and put it on his head.

  “And you,” he said to Kilian sarcastically, “don’t leave the path if you don’t want to get lost.” He passed him without a second look. “You being so brave, you wouldn’t survive even a couple of hours in the jungle.”

  Kilian clenched his fists and followed him in silence, still embarrassed. Without warning, another wave of itches invaded his skin, and he began scratching furiously.

  His brother was right. He would have to wake up.

  That night, as arranged, they all ate dinner together to say farewell to Dámaso, an even-tempered man with a completely white head of hair and soft features who was returning to Spain after almost three decades of service as a doctor in the colony.

  They sat around the table, grouped by years of experience. On one end sat the longest-serving employees: Lorenzo, Antón, Dámaso, Father Rafael—who was in charge of saying mass in the village of Zaragoza—Gregorio, and Santiago. At the other end sat those under thirty: Manuel, Jacobo, Kilian, Mateo, and Marcial. Except for the harvest party or some official visit, rarely was the dining room so lively. While the boys, including Simón, served the meal, the older men reminisced about their first years on the island; the young ones listened with the arrogance of inexperience.

  When the meal was over, the manager honored his good friend Dámaso with a speech. Kilian did not hear much, due to the generous glasses of Azpilicueta Rioja wine that Garuz had brought, not to mention the burning sensation all over his body. There were rounds of applause, emotions, and words of thanks.

  As more wine was poured, the conversation grew louder.

  “Have you said your good-byes to everyone?” Mateo asked mischievously. A likable man from Madrid, he was small and wiry, his lips always ready to break into a broad smile under his sharp nose and thin mustache.

  “I think so,” answered the doctor.

  “Everyone?” insisted Marcial, a hairy man almost two meters tall with full features and a heart as large as his hands, which were like shovels. He was Jacobo’s partner in the Yakató yard.

  The doctor shook his head, smiling.

  “Those who really matter to me are at this table,” he said, gesturing to them all.

  “If Dámaso says he has, he has.” Santiago, a quiet and sensible man around Antón’s age with lank hair and a thin, pale face, came to his defense.

  “Well, I know a person who will be very sad tonight,” Jacobo chipped in.

  The younger ones burst out laughing. Everyone except Kilian.

  “That’s enough, Jacobo!” reprimanded Antón, glancing warily at Father Rafael.

  Jacobo raised his hands and shrugged innocently.

  “Young man, don’t be cheeky,” threatened Dámaso, wagging his finger in the air. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Right, Father?”

  The others laughed again. Father Rafael, a friendly man with a round face, a set of full lips, a beard, and a receding hairline, went visibly red in the face. Dámaso hurried to clarify. “Of course, I wasn’t referring to you, Father Rafael. I was quoting the Bible. These young people!” He shook his head. “They think we’re all cut from the same cloth.”

  “Look where it’s gotten them.” The priest nodded. “I never get tired of repeating that the longer a man can go without a woman, the better off he is, health-and pocket-wise. Yet I’m afraid it’s like preaching in the desert in this land of sin.” He sighed and looked at Kilian. “Mind who you mix with, young man. I’m referring to these ruffians, of course,” he added with a conspiring wink that brought on another bout of laughter.

  “Well, I think it’s time for bed, don’t you think?” Dámaso put his hands on the table and pushed himself up. “I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”

  “I’m also going to bed,” said Antón, yawning.

  Kilian and Jacobo exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. Lately, he was always tired. There were dark bags under his eyes. What a change from the father they remembered from their youth! They had never once seen him sick. He had been a strong man, both physically and morally. Years before, just two days after arriving in Pasolobino from Africa, he would work in the fields as if he had never left. Perhaps he should take a holiday, thought Kilian. Or retire from the colonies, like Dámaso.

  The old doctor said good-bye to them one by one with a warm handshake before heading out the door with Antón, Lorenzo, Santiago, and Father Rafael. Jacobo also left, making a sign that he would be back shortly. As he got to the door, Dámaso turned and said, “By the way, Manuel, can I give you a last piece of advice?” Manuel nodded. “It has to do with Kilian’s itch.” He paused to ensure that all the younger ones were listening. “Salicylic iodized alcohol.” Kilian’s eyes widened, and Manuel fixed his glasses, smiling thankfully for the subtle manner in which Dámaso had passed the baton. “Get him to rub it all over his body, and in a fortnight the rash will have disappeared. Good night.”

  “Good night and a good trip,” Jacobo said as he returned with the bottle of whiskey he had bought in Julia’s shop. “If you don’t mind, we will have a last drink to your health.”

  Dámaso gave him a friendly pat on the back and left with a heavy heart, thinking of the many nights he had spent in just the same manner.

  Jacobo asked Simón to bring clean glasses. Between sips and laughter, Kilian learned that the person who would miss Dámaso most was Regina, his close friend over the last ten years.

  “Ten years! But doesn’t he have a wife and children in Spain?” he asked, slurring his words.

  “Exactly for that reason!” Marcial gave him another shot. He was capable of taking three times the amount of alcohol as everyone else. “Spain is very far away.”

  “And what can we do about it? They know our weakness!”

  Kilian thought of Gregorio writhing in the forest and his conversation in the pickup with Jacobo.

  “There is no doubt that our girlfriends help make life on the island more bearable.” Jacobo raised his glass above his head. “A toast to them!”

  The others drank.

  “And what will happen to this Regina now?” Kilian asked.

  “What happens?” responded Marcial, fighting with the buttons of his shirt. The ceiling fan did not offer the slightest relief from the heat. “She’ll be sad for a few days, and then she’ll look for another. It’s what they all do. Though she’s getting on a bit,” he added, slowly scratching one of his big ears. “Either way, she has lived very well these past years, like a lady. Dámaso was a gentleman.”
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  Kilian, glassy-eyed, contemplated the deep amber color of the liquid in his glass. He found their notions of gentlemanly behavior peculiar. According to them, it was normal to share such intimacy with a woman for ten years and then return to the warmth of your wife’s arms as if nothing had happened.

  Manuel had been watching Kilian for a while. He could imagine the questions going through his mind. It was not easy for the young Spaniard, brought up in an environment where adultery was considered a crime and couples could not even show affection in public. Here, sex was enjoyed with the same lack of ceremony as meals. These were rules that most men adapted to easily, but not all. Compared to his friends, Manuel led a relatively chaste life.

  “And what happens if children are born from these unions?” Kilian asked.

  “There aren’t that many really … ,” Jacobo interjected.

  “True, the coloreds know how to avoid it.” Gregorio nodded.

  “Yes, there are. I know there are,” Manuel interrupted in a hard voice. “But we don’t want to see them. Where do you think all the mulattos in Santa Isabel come from?”

  Mateo and Marcial traded looks before hanging their heads. Jacobo took advantage of the moment to refill the glasses.

  “Look, Kilian, usually the child lives with the mother and she receives financial support. I know of very few cases—I could count them on one hand—where the mulatto children were recognized or sent to study in Spain. It’s very rare.”

  “And do you know of any case in which a white man has married a black woman?”

  “To date, no. And if anyone has tried, they would be forced to go to Spain.”

  “Why would anyone want to marry a black woman?” scoffed Gregorio.

  “There’s no reason!” responded Marcial, pushing his wide shoulders against the back of the chair. “If they already give you everything you want without a visit to the altar.”

  Jacobo, Mateo, and Gregorio smiled knowingly. Manuel wrinkled his nose as Kilian fell silent.

  Gregorio had been closely watching him. “So you are interested in the subject. Is it because you want to try them out?”

  Kilian did not answer.

  “Leave the guy alone, come on,” said Mateo, gently nudging his arm.

  Gregorio squinted and leaned forward. “Or maybe it’s because you think Antón is a saint? With the years he has spent on Fernando Po, he’s sure to have had a load of miningas!”

  “Gregorio … ,” insisted Mateo on noticing the color drain from Jacobo’s face.

  It was one thing to joke; it was another to lie maliciously. Everyone there knew Antón extremely well. And in any case, conversations among gentlemen had an implicit bond of discretion. Even jokes had limits. That’s how things worked on the island.

  “It’s possible you have mulatto brothers and sisters running around out there,” continued Gregorio with a nasty smile. “What would your mother think, huh?”

  “That’s enough,” Jacobo seethed. “Be very careful about what you say! Do you hear me? That’s a lie and you know it!”

  “Fine, fine, relax!” Gregorio said arrogantly. “But as far as I know, he’s just as much a man as everyone else …”

  Manuel turned on him next. “Much more of a man than you.”

  “Don’t get us started,” added Mateo, stroking his mustache.

  “I was only winding up the new guy!” Gregorio protested. “It was a joke. Although I wouldn’t put my hand in the fire, not even for Antón.”

  Kilian moved the whiskey around his glass in slow circular motions, thinking clearly again. He raised his eyes and stared, hard and cold, at Gregorio. “The next time you insult me or my family,” he spit out, “you’ll regret it.”

  Gregorio let out a snort and got to his feet. “You don’t have a sense of humor either?”

  “That’s enough, Gregorio,” said Manuel sharply.

  “Yes, enough.” Marcial stood, towering above him.

  “You are well protected”—Gregorio pointed to the others—“but one day you won’t have anyone else around to defend you.”

  Jacobo strode toward Gregorio and gripped his arm powerfully. “Are you threatening my brother?”

  Gregorio tore himself away and stormed out. Marcial and Jacobo sat down and took another shot to calm their nerves.

  “Don’t mind him, Kilian,” said Marcial finally. “He wasn’t like this before. He’s grown brutish. A barking dog …”

  “Well,” answered Kilian quietly. “That’s the last time he gets away with it.”

  On Friday night, Yeremías gave Simón a note from Julia’s boy, inviting the brothers and Antón to dinner at her family’s house.

  Kilian waited until Saturday morning before telling Jacobo. At six, he went down to the yard, where the laborers waited for their week’s wages. They stayed in rows until they were called, one by one, to get their money and put their fingerprints on the list set out on the table. The job, like doling out food on Mondays, took two hours. As the laborers waited to hear their names, they rubbed their teeth with the ever-present chock sticks, small brushes made from roots, which made their teeth the envy of all.

  Kilian found Jacobo and gave him Julia’s note to read.

  “Very clever,” he scoffed. “She sent it to you to make sure we go. Look at all the days available! But no … she had to pick Saturday.”

  “And what’s the difference between one day and another?”

  “Saturday nights are sacred, Kilian. For everybody. Look at the men. Aren’t they happy? They get paid this morning and will spend some of it in Santa Isabel tonight.”

  “Shall I let her know that we are going, or not?”

  “Yes, yes, sure. Now go with Gregorio or you’ll never finish. Today he’s as easy as pie.”

  When Kilian got to Gregorio’s table, his partner gave him the list of brigades. Without meeting his gaze, he got up from the table and said, “Here, you continue. I’ll go and prepare the material for Obsay. Nelson will help you.”

  Kilian sat down and continued reading the names on the list. He noted that Simón looked bored. The lad was dressed the same as every other day, in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, both beige. His feet were covered with a pair of simple sandals made from leather straps instead of boots. Though he was mostly similar in appearance to other lads his age, Simón had enormous eyes that shone as if on continuous alert, moving from side to side to take in everything that was going on around him. Kilian waved at him to come over to the table and help Nelson in translating. As he called out another name, the man stepped up with another at his side, complaining nonstop. Kilian cursed his bad luck. The day had begun with another argument.

  “What’s going on, Nelson?”

  “This man says that Umaru owes him money.”

  The name sounded familiar. Kilian looked up and recognized him from the day of the boa incident. He was the one who had begged for quinine.

  “Why do you owe him money?” he asked.

  Although Nelson was translating, Kilian could tell just from Umaru’s gestures that he had no intention of paying anything. The other man kept interrupting, growing more and more annoyed. A silence fell over the rest of the workers as they stopped to listen to the row.

  “Ekon offered him his wife. Umaru accepted her services and now doesn’t want to pay.”

  Kilian blinked and pursed his lips to stop from laughing. He looked at the handsome man, of medium height, with very short hair, high cheekbones, and dimples in his cheeks.

  “You’re telling me that Ekon lent out his wife?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” answered Nelson without batting an eye. “Umaru is single. Single men need women. The married ones take advantage if the woman is willing. Ekon wants his money.”

  “Moni, moni, yes, Massa!” repeated Ekon insistently, nodding.

  “Moni, no, Massa! Moni, no!” repeated Umaru, shaking his head.

  Kilian sighed. He hated acting as judge. At this rate they would never be finished.
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br />   “Are there any witnesses?” he asked.

  Nelson translated the question loudly. A colossus almost two meters tall with arms like legs stepped forward and spoke to the foreman.

  “Mosi says he saw them in the forest. Twice.”

  Kilian smiled. It seemed he was not the only one who stumbled onto illicit happenings in the forest. He asked the amount owed, took the quantity out of Umaru’s envelope, and put it in Ekon’s.

  “There is nothing more to talk about.” He handed over the two envelopes to the satisfaction of one and the anger of the other. Afterward, he turned to Simón. “Do you agree?”

  Simón nodded, and Kilian exhaled in relief.

  “Palabra conclú, case closed, then,” Kilian said.

  At seven o’clock, the day ended and darkness descended. Kilian and Jacobo got into the pickup to go to the city. At the entrance, Jacobo shouted to Yeremías, “Remember to get Waldo to do what I told him!”

  “What does Waldo have to do?” Kilian asked.

  “Nothing important.”

  On the way out of Zaragoza, Kilian saw many of the laborers laughing and joking with their shoes in their hands. They had changed out of their old and dirty clothes into long trousers and clean white shirts.

  “What are they doing?” he asked his brother.

  “They’re waiting for the bus to go out and celebrate in Santa Isabel.”

  “And why are they carrying their shoes? So as not to dirty them?”

  “More likely so as to not wear them out. They try and save as much as they can.” He chuckled. “But tonight they’ll be spending a little of their earnings on alcohol and women. By the way, I see you’re scratching less.”

  “Manuel prepared Dámaso’s remedy. It seems to be working.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Jacobo. “There is nothing like experience!”

  Kilian agreed.

  “Hey, Jacobo. Don’t you think Dad should go home? Each time I see him, he’s more exhausted. He didn’t even want to come with us to dinner tonight.”

  “I agree, but he’s very stubborn. I’ve brought it up many times, and he just tells me he knows what he’s doing and that it’s normal to get tired at his age. He doesn’t even want Manuel to examine him. I don’t know.”