Truthfully, she was irritated. Not only was she afraid to go out on her own, but her visit to Sampaka had not been as fruitful as she would have liked. On the one hand, she had not been able to see anything due to the rain, and on the other, Julia’s clues now seemed more impossible than ever.
She would have to wait until she met Laha to wheedle information out of him about his childhood. Thankfully, he was not like Iniko, who was about as easy to talk to as finding snow in Bioko. If Iniko had been born or lived on Sampaka, it was logical to think that Laha had as well. At least that’s something, she thought.
She reflected a few more minutes about what to do and finally picked up the phone to call Tomás.
She had noted down three places to visit on Bioko. She was already familiar with Sampaka. Why not use the following day to see the second?
“I don’t like this place at all, miss,” said Tomás, creasing his brow while casting nervous looks at Malabo’s old cemetery, located in the Ela Nguema district. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Tomás, don’t be so formal with me. Okay? We’re the same age.”
“As you wish, but I have no intention of going in.”
“Fine, but don’t even think about leaving.”
As soon as she got to the gate, Clarence was sorry she had decided to visit the cemetery. She did not like the idea of wandering alone through a place that felt so sinister. She asked Tomás with a look, her last attempt to get him to go with her, but he shook his head. She placed her hand on the rusty railings and stopped.
“Can I help you with something?” asked a deep masculine voice.
She got such a fright that she turned to leave, but then the voice continued, “You can come in. The gate is open.”
Clarence stopped and saw a small, friendly old man with hair completely white and almost no teeth.
“I am the caretaker of the cemetery,” he said. “Can I help you with anything?”
She walked toward him with the small bunch of orchids that she had bought at a street stall and explained that her grandfather had been buried there in the 1950s. She wanted to visit the grave if it still existed.
“From the date,” the man said, “it would have to be in the old section. If you like, I can take you there. Not a lot of people visit.”
Not even in the abandoned villages of her home had Clarence seen a cemetery so badly kept. Some of the graves were hidden in the weeds, and others had sunk. It seemed it was true that the natives did not like to visit the graves of their dead. Her guide explained, with the ease of delivery that comes with age, that due to the country’s high mortality rate, it was common to dig one grave on top of another, which led to some very disagreeable situations. Neither the perfectly ordered gravestones nor the inscriptions that Clarence was used to could be seen anywhere. It looked like a jungle, even though, according to the man, it was now much better looked after than before. A couple of years ago, he said, you could not even come in without running the risk of being eaten by a boa.
The old part of the cemetery, however, turned out to be more reassuring. Perhaps because the graves were easier to make out, surrounded by railings rusted by age. Or maybe because the graves were at the feet of some enormous and beautiful trees whose bark reminded her of elephant skin. From their size, they looked to be over a hundred years old, and although some seemed dried out, none had lost their majesty.
“What beautiful ceibas!” exclaimed Clarence.
“It’s a sacred tree,” the old man began to explain. “Neither hurricanes nor lightning can conquer them. Nobody touches the ceibas. To cut them down is a sin. And ceibas do not forgive. If your grandfather is buried here, his grave will be as intact as they are.”
A shiver went down Clarence’s spine. One part of her still wanted to run, but something held her back. There was a special peacefulness calming her fears.
She began reading the names on the crosses and gravestones. She went over to one in particular that seemed hidden between the folds of two intertwined ceibas. It was also guarded by a smaller tree that she could not identify.
She looked up and read out loud, “Antón of Rabaltué. Pasolobino 1898 to Sampaka 1955.”
Clarence’s heart skipped a beat, and tears fell.
How strange to see the name of her village in a place like this! As if there were not thousands of kilometers separating the beginning and the end of her grandfather’s life!
She wiped away the tears and bent down to remove an almost completely withered bunch of flowers that someone had placed against the stone cross, and added her own.
But how . . .
Someone continued to bring flowers for Antón!
She frowned.
“Do you know who visited this grave?” The cemetery caretaker shook his head.
“No, miss. The few who come don’t need me. Only the foreigners like you ask for my help . . . And none have visited this grave. I would remember that, yes, that I would remember.”
“And those few who do come, natives from what you’re saying, are they men or women?”
“I wouldn’t be able to say. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Thank you anyway.”
He guided her back again to the entrance, where she gave him a small tip and he shook her hand repeatedly in thanks.
Tomás noticed her reddened eyes and said, “This island doesn’t suit you, Clarence. Wherever you go, you cry.”
“I’m overly sentimental, Tomás. I can’t help it.”
“Do you want to go and have a beer on a terrace overlooking the sea? It works for me when I’m sad.”
“Good idea, Tomás. I’m very lucky to have met you. You’re very kind.”
“It’s because I’m Bubi,” he said with pure conviction.
On Monday morning, Clarence went to her appointment with Laha a little early. As on the previous day, the weather was still fresh and sunny. As the hours went by, the unbearable heat would probably prevent her from doing anything except sleeping or drinking on a terrace.
She had already been warned that she could not take photos or film in the country—and that it was advisable to be discreet in her comments and her attitude in public—but at this time of day, everything was very quiet, so she took out a small digital camera and began taking shots of the cathedral. She started with the main facade in front of a round white marble fountain, with a number of figures that held a small ceiba on their shoulders. Then, she walked down a side alleyway. At that moment, her enthusiasm made her careless, and suddenly, she found herself being approached by two police officers who gruffly asked for her papers.
She grew nervous when she saw that neither her passport nor all the other papers she showed them seemed to satisfy them. The pitch of her voice rose. Did she look like a spy? They took her fear for arrogance. When one grabbed hold of her arm, Laha came out of nowhere, intervened, and very politely offered to clear up the situation.