Why had Julia reacted like this?
There was silence for a few seconds. Finally, Julia shook her head and raised her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. Relax. I’m just being a silly old woman. It’s my husband’s handwriting. I got emotional when I saw it.”
“Your husband’s . . . ?” Clarence asked, puzzled. “And do you know what it means?” Her curiosity got the better of her. “It mentions two people and their mother, and another dead person, four, there’re four . . .”
“I can read, Clarence,” interrupted Julia, raising a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Yes, sorry, it’s just very strange. Your husband writing this letter to Dad.”
“Well, they knew each other,” Julia said in a careful tone.
“Yes, but as far as I knew, they didn’t send letters to each other,” Clarence replied, picking up the slip of paper. “They saw each other when you came up here for the holidays. I would have found other letters, I think. But no, just this one.”
Julia turned her head to escape Clarence’s piercing stare, gazing at the passersby on the street as her mind was transported to another time and place. For a brief moment, the stone, wood, and slate buildings turned white, and the nearby ash trees became palms and ceibas. Not a day had gone by without her thinking of her beloved piece of Africa, where she had passed the most intense years of her life. Yes, she was grateful for her wonderful children and grandchildren and their comfortable life in Madrid. But at the bottom of her heart, it was the memories of those years that came to mind when she woke up every morning. Only someone who had been in the same situation could understand, like Jacobo or Kilian.
In spite of their long lives, Julia was convinced that they had not had a single day of peace.
What should she tell Clarence? Had Jacobo or Kilian told her something? Maybe now, at their age, they could not avoid that hidden part of their consciences. What would she have done? How could she have lived all her life with such a burden?
She let out a deep sigh and turned back toward Clarence. The young woman’s eyes, a deep green identical to those of Jacobo and Kilian, graced a well-rounded face encased by beautiful wavy chestnut-colored hair. Julia had known Clarence since she was little and knew how persistent she could be.
“And why don’t you ask your father?”
Clarence was surprised to hear such a direct question. Julia’s reaction was making her even more certain that something suspect was going on. She blinked a few times without knowing how to answer; she looked down and starting tearing the paper napkin into bits.
“The truth is, Julia, I’d be embarrassed. If I show him the note, he’ll know I’ve been rooting through his stuff. And if he has a secret, I don’t think he’ll tell me just like that, not after all these years.” She straightened herself up in the chair and sighed. “Anyway, I don’t want to put you under pressure.” She sighed again. “But it would be a shame if something so important were to disappear into oblivion . . .”
Clarence hoped that Julia would firmly answer that she was wasting her time, that there was no secret to reveal, and that she was dreaming up a story. Instead, Julia remained silent, only one question running through her mind: Why now?
Beyond the window, the rays of weak April afternoon sunlight struggled in their annual battle to dissolve the tiny crystallized drops of intermittent rain.
“Why now?”
Julia remembered her husband complaining about how—according to him—the witch doctors had a bad influence on the natives. “I have never seen anything as foolish,” he used to say. “Is it that difficult to understand cause and effect? In life and in science, a series of circumstances cause things to happen one way and not another. But no, for them there is neither cause nor effect. Only the wishes of the gods.”
Maybe the time had come, yes, but she would not be the one to betray Kilian and Jacobo. If God or the Bubi gods wished it so, Clarence would discover the truth sooner or later. And better sooner than later, as they did not have much time left.
“Listen, Clarence,” Julia said at last. “My husband wrote this letter in 1987. I remember it perfectly because it was on that trip that he learned an old acquaintance had died.” She paused. “If you are really interested in knowing what it means, go there and find someone named Fernando. He’s a little older than you. Only one of the sons is of interest. It’s likely that they still keep records in Sampaka, because the plantation is still in operation—not doing very well, but it’s still there. I don’t think they destroyed everything, but I’m not completely sure. Look for Fernando. The island is no bigger than this valley . . .”
“Who is this Fernando?” asked Clarence with sparkling eyes as she pointed to one of the lines on the piece of paper. “And why do I have to look for him in Sampaka?”
“He was born there. That’s all I’m going to tell you, dear Clarence,” Julia answered firmly. She looked down and petted Clarence’s hand in hers. “If you want to know more, it’s your father you have to talk to. If Jacobo hears what I have told you, I’ll deny it. Is that clear?”
Clarence reluctantly agreed, but that reluctance was quickly replaced by a growing excitement. In her head, she repeated the words over and over: Go to Sampaka, Clarence. To Sampaka!
“I have something very important to tell you.”