In the following years, the House of Rabaltué was filled with words shouted in English, Spanish, Bubi, one or two in Pasolobinese—Clarence made sure of that, trying to ensure that her nephew and niece knew something of the language of their forebearers—and even in Pidgin English. Samuel and his baby sister, Enoá, Laha and Daniela’s children, took everything in, like sponges. Clarence was certain that if they spent more time in Guinea than in California, they would end up learning French, Portuguese, Fang, Annobonese, Balengue, Ibo, and Ndowé. What a land, that Bioko, that little Tower of Babel! Clarence noticed Samuel’s big dark eyes and remembered those of Iniko, to whom she had once said that having two languages was like having two souls. Now Samuel and Enoá had millions of words to combine in different languages, and she only hoped they knew how to construct beautiful phrases with them.
Clarence enjoyed enormously the short visits of Daniela, Laha, and the children, during which the lonely house was filled with fresh air. For a few days, the walls reverberated to the echoes of past conversations, now bolstered by the voices of the new generation. Daniela pulled Clarence’s leg for still not having found a suitable man. Clarence slid her gaze over the toys scattered on the floor and smiled because when the children were there, it seemed that the house was being hit by a tornado that only Granddad Kilian enjoyed, since Carmen and Jacobo did not leave Barmón anymore.
Jacobo, selflessly cared for by Carmen, had gone through the aggressive stages of Alzheimer’s and was now in an almost-vegetative state. To Clarence, her father’s illness seemed a tragicomic twist of destiny. He had lost his memory, the past over whose consequences the cousins still had differing positions, both at a political and personal level.
Whenever Daniela got to Pasolobino, she spoke excitedly of the large number of improvements she noticed in Bioko, from the good fortune of the casino, which had finally been refurbished, to political, social, economic, and judicial reforms, without omitting the advances in the country’s democracy and human rights. Daniela passionately listed the public campaigns to combat child labor and discrimination and violence against women and against people from other races and religions; the efforts to make people aware of the importance of education, health, and children’s rights; the fight against AIDS; the improvement in access to new technologies; the increase in skills training . . .
Clarence was surprised because what her cousin told her did not coincide with the information she had read on the Internet. She criticized her for sounding like the minister for foreign affairs who admitted that Spain would continue to support the dictatorship in spite of the fact that part of the Spanish people and society were against it.
“And you, Clarence? What would your position be? Guinea needs international aid, but giving it means dealing with the dictator. It’s a quandary, isn’t it? Well, look, to me the answer is clear. Moral principles are difficult to maintain in situations of poverty and need. The more you invest there, the more jobs are created and the easier progress becomes. Everything else goes smoothly after that.”
“I don’t know . . . And wouldn’t it be easier to overthrow the blasted regime once and for all and free the country of tyranny?”
“Do you really think a coup from the outside would be organized for humanitarian reasons? If there wasn’t any oil, do you think there would be that much interest? There is life there, Clarence. There are political parties who are looking for change from within, participating in the institutions and waiting for the hoped-for change to arrive one day. They have resisted so much . . . I think it’s now time for the criticism to stop and that people accept that the Equatorial Guineans want to make their own future without outside interference.”
Clarence wanted to believe what she said. Maybe things had changed from when she had learned about Bioko’s history from Iniko’s lips . . .
The last journey that Daniela, Laha, and the children made to Pasolobino was different from the previous ones. There was neither joy nor jokes nor heated discussions. Clarence had called her cousin to give her the sad news that Kilian had been hospitalized. The prognosis was not reassuring.
They hid the seriousness of the situation from him, but one afternoon, just after going into his room, Clarence got the impression that Kilian was more than aware that the end was near. He conveyed a feeling of peace and tranquility.
Kilian had his head tilted toward the window, his gaze lost in some point in the sky. Daniela stayed sitting by his side, holding his hand as she had done for the last three weeks. Laha was close to both of them. Clarence leaned on the door, partly hidden so they would not see her tears. She admired the composure of Daniela, who had not shed a tear in front of her dying father in all the time she had spent with him. Rather, she made sure to appear happy—and she really looked it—so that her father would not notice the suffering she was going through.
Kilian spoke without taking his eyes from the sky, that day being especially bright and clear. Where was the rain that had always framed the saddest moments in his life?
“Daniela, Daughter, I would like you to answer a question for me. I can say I’m at peace and happy . . .” He paused. “But I want to know if I’ve been a good father.”
Clarence felt a sharp pain in her chest. It was impossible, since Jacobo had lost all his cognitive and physical faculties, but if her own father could ask her the same question in similar circumstances, she would be struck dumb. What would she say?
“The best, Dad,” answered Daniela while covering his face in kisses. “The best.”
Kilian closed his eyes, pleased with the answer. At least part of his waning life, after having separated from Bisila, had had meaning.
Heavy tears rolled down Clarence’s cheeks. She would now never have the chance to answer that question for her own father, and she then deeply regretted not having let Jacobo know, when he was still able to understand her, that if those who had suffered directly from his actions had partially forgiven him—as it was impossible to forget what he had done—and had managed to cast from their hearts their initial feelings of outrage, resentment, and shame, she had no reason not to do so. Too late, she thought, she realized she had inflicted the worst punishment possible on Jacobo; she had made him suffer the rejection of his own daughter.