“Until October at least. That’s the good thing about having grown-up children. They don’t need me.” She gave a wry smile before adding, “And this way they can’t leave me with the grandchildren at all hours.”
Clarence laughed. She liked Julia. Although you would not think so upon first glance, she was a strong-minded woman. She was also cultured, observant, prudent, and sensible, very open and easygoing, with a certain air of sophistication that made her stand out. Clarence was convinced this was due to her well-traveled past and her years in the capital. Yet when Julia was in Pasolobino, it was like she had never left. Her down-to-earth ways won her many friends. Though she joked about her children and grandchildren, she could not help but offer her assistance whenever needed.
“Would you like a hot chocolate?” suggested Clarence.
“The day I don’t want one will be the day you should worry!”
They walked slowly through the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving the old quarter behind. They took the wide avenue that divided up the new part of the village, with high lampposts and four-and five-story buildings, to the only shop in Pasolobino, where—according to the expert, Julia—the chocolate passed her test. You could turn the cup upside down without spilling a drop. “When you grow up with pure cocoa,” she always said, “it’s impossible to abide substitutes.”
During the walk, they talked about day-to-day things, bringing each other up to date on their families. Clarence always thought she felt a shift in Julia’s tone when she asked about Kilian or Jacobo. It was very subtle, but preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.
“It’s been a while since I last saw your uncle. How is he?”
“He’s doing fine, thanks. Starting to get on a bit, but nothing serious.”
“And what’s your father up to? Doesn’t he come up?”
“He does, just not as often. He doesn’t like driving much anymore.”
“From the man who used to love cars!”
“I think he likes the cold less as he gets older. He usually waits for better weather.”
“Well, it’s the same with everyone. You have to love this area a lot to be able to put up with its savage climate . . .”
Clarence knew this was her opportunity to easily redirect the conversation.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Especially if you’ve lived in the tropics, right?”
“Look, Clarence.” Julia stopped in front of the chocolate bar. “If it weren’t for certain circumstances . . . anyway, the way we had to leave, I mean . . .”
They entered the bar, Clarence guiding Julia inside, delighted she had taken the bait.
“. . . I would have stayed there . . .”
They went over to the free table closest to the window; took off their jackets, bags, and scarves; and sat down.
“They were the best years of my life . . .”
Julia sighed, made a gesture with her hands to the waiter for two cups, then realized that she had not asked Clarence. She looked at her, and Clarence nodded before speaking.
“Do you know where I was recently?”
Julia arched her eyebrows inquisitively.
“At a conference in Murcia on Hispanic-African literature.” Clarence noticed the astonished look on Julia’s face. “Yes, it also surprised me at first. I knew something about African literature written in English, in French, even in Portuguese, but nothing in Spanish.”
“I had no idea.” Julia shrugged. “Well, to be honest, I never thought about it.”
“It seems there is a large unknown quantity of literary work both here and there. These writers have been neglected for years.”
“And why did you go?” Julia allowed the waiter to serve them their chocolate. “Has it anything to do with your research in the university?”
Clarence hesitated. “Yes and no. The truth is that after finishing the thesis, I didn’t have much of an idea what to do. A colleague told me about the conference, and it made me think. How is it that none of this occurred to me after spending all my life listening to Dad’s and Uncle Kilian’s tales?”
She clasped the cup of cocoa in her hands. It was so hot that she had to blow on it a few times before taking a sip. Julia stayed quiet, seeing how Clarence closed her eyes to taste the mixture of bitter and sweet, just the way she had taught her.
“And did you learn anything?” she asked at last. “Did you enjoy it?”
Clarence opened her eyes and placed the cup back on the saucer.
“I enjoyed it a lot,” she answered. “There were African writers living in Spain, others who live abroad in various countries, and those of us from here who were discovering a whole new world. They talked about many things, especially the need to promote their works and their culture.” She stopped for a second to check that Julia was not getting bored. “In fact, it was a real discovery to find out about the existence of Africans who share our language and grammar. Surprising, isn’t it? Let’s just say that their topics differed a lot from the stories I heard at home.”
Julia frowned. “In what way?”
“Obviously, the colonial and postcolonial eras were discussed a lot. The ideological inheritance that conditioned writers’ lives; the admiration, rejection, and even rancor toward those who had made them change the course of their history; their traumas with their identity; the attempts to make up for lost time; the experiences of exile and being uprooted; and the myriad ethnic groups and languages. Nothing at all compared to what I thought I knew . . . And I doubt if there were many colonists’ children at the conference! I, for one, didn’t open my mouth. I was a little ashamed . . . you know? Even an American lecturer recited poetry to us in his native language, Bubi . . .” She put her hand in her bag, produced a pen, and took a paper napkin. “Which is actually written like this: B?óbé.”
“Bubi, yes,” Julia repeated. “A Bubi writer . . . I admit I’m surprised. I didn’t think—”
“Sure, sure . . .” Clarence interrupted her. “Don’t tell me! My childhood dog was called Bubi.” She lowered her voice. “Dad named him . . .”
“Yes, not really very appropriate. Typical of Jacobo. Of course”—she sighed—“they were different times . . .”
“You don’t have to explain, Julia. I’m telling you so you can understand that, for me, it was like suddenly seeing things from the other side of the fence. I realized that sometimes it’s necessary to ask, that it’s not enough to take everything they say to us as gospel.”
She put her hand into her beige suede bag and took out her wallet, reaching for the paper fragment that she had found in the wardrobe.
“I was sorting out papers in the house, and I came across this among Dad’s letters.” She handed it over, explaining that it had been written sometime in the 1970s or 1980s. She stopped suddenly on seeing Julia’s face. “Are you all right?” she asked, alarmed.
Julia was pale. Very pale. The paper shook in her hands like an autumn leaf, and a tear began to trickle down her cheek. Clarence took her friend’s hand.
“What’s wrong? Have I said something to offend you?” she said. “If so, I’m very sorry!”