“It snows and it’s very cold, isn’t it?” Laha added.
“I couldn’t live in a cold place,” Iniko said, playing with a small shell hanging from a leather band knotted round his neck.
“You couldn’t live anywhere else except Bioko,” Laha retorted, amused.
“I understand.” Clarence shrugged. “Sometimes I complain about the climate, but I couldn’t stand being away from my home for too long. It’s a curious love-hate relationship.”
Iniko raised his huge eyes to her, and she blushed.
“And what’s the name of your village?” asked Bisila, who had gotten up to serve more coffee.
“Oh, it’s very small,” Clarence answered, “although many people know it now because there is a ski resort there. It’s called Pasolobino.”
Everyone startled as the coffee cup bounced off the table and smashed onto the floor. Bisila reacted quickly, apologizing, and went to the kitchen to get something to clean up. Everyone else tried to brush off the situation.
“The truth is that the name is frightening,” Laha joked.
“They say all names mean something.” Iniko looked at Clarence, and his eyes at last seemed to smile. “In this case it’s easy. Pasolobino, path of the wolves.”
She arched her left eyebrow.
“Well, you don’t look like you could frighten anyone.” It was the first time he had been informal with her.
“That’s because you don’t know me,” she answered, boldly holding his gaze.
“If there is a ski resort,” Laha interjected, “it must be a rich place, correct?”
“Now it is,” Clarence answered. “A few years ago, the valley was close to being completely depopulated. There was no work, only cold and cows. Now everything has changed. Many people from outside have come to live there, others have returned, and services have improved.”
Laha turned to his brother.
“See, Iniko? Progress isn’t so bad.”
Iniko spent a few moments stirring his coffee with the spoon. “That is something you would have to ask the natives,” he said.
“And who am I then?” Clarence felt offended.
“For Iniko, you are like me,” said Laha sarcastically. “You belong to the enemy-of-the-land group.”
“That is a ridiculous oversimplification,” she protested, with flushed cheeks. “It’s very easy to jump to conclusions if you don’t ask. You don’t know anything about me!”
“I know enough,” Iniko defended himself.
“That’s what you think!” she retorted. “The fact that my father was a colonist doesn’t mean I have to walk around asking for forgiveness—” She stopped dead. For an instant, she wondered if one day she would have to take that back before a biological brother.
Iniko made a face, looked at Laha, and whistled.
“Well, I have to admit that she does have a strong character.”
He said it in a conciliatory fashion, but it annoyed Clarence. She leaned back in the chair with no intention of continuing the discussion. Fortunately, Bisila returned from the kitchen with a brush and a dustpan. She looked very tired. Laha moved to help, but his mother would not let him. They remained silent while Bisila gathered the bits of the cup until she asked, in a trembling voice, “What was your father’s name?”
Clarence sat up in the chair and rested her arms on the table. “Jacobo. His name is Jacobo. He’s still alive.” Bisila’s renewed interest rekindled Clarence’s hopes. Her father’s name was not that common. Was it her imagination or was Bisila in a state of shock? She waited a few seconds before asking, “Does it sound familiar?”
Bisila shook her head and brusquely finished cleaning. “I’m sorry.”
“He came here with my uncle, my uncle Kilian. It’s a very unusual name. I don’t think you could forget it easily.” Bisila stood still. “My uncle is still alive . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Bisila repeated in a subdued voice. “No, I don’t remember them.”
She went to the kitchen murmuring, “My memory is getting worse and worse.”
Laha frowned.
A brief silence ensued, until Iniko rose to serve some glasses of sugarcane spirit.
Clarence bit her lip, deep in thought. Everything that had to do with Sampaka always finished in a dead end. If someone like Bisila said that she did not remember her father, the only thing left to do was to put an ad in the national newspaper. She remembered her visit to the cemetery and decided to use her last shot. She waited until Bisila returned to tell them about the strange sensation she had when reading the name of Pasolobino written on a gravestone in Africa.
“I’d like to know,” she wondered aloud, “who takes the time to bring flowers to my grandfather . . .”
Bisila kept her head down and her hands crossed on her lap. It was evident that her mood had changed.
“Well.” Clarence looked at her watch. “Thank you very much for the dinner, Bisila. And for your hospitality. I hope to see you again before going back to Spain.”
Bisila made a small gesture with her head, but said nothing.
Laha understood that Clarence was saying her good-byes, but he had other ideas.
“What type of music do you like?” he asked, getting to his feet. Clarence was surprised at the unexpected question, but finally understood that he was suggesting going out. “Are you up for it, Iniko? I was thinking of taking her to our favorite hangout.”
His brother clicked his tongue, possibly annoyed at Laha for inviting her.
“He’d probably get embarrassed if a foreigner gave him dance lessons,” she said scathingly, looking at Laha.
Iniko pursed his lips, put his hands on the table, and slowly got up.
“We’ll see who is giving the lessons,” he said with a mocking glint in his eye.
After saying good-bye to Bisila, they took Iniko’s Land Rover and went to a club called Bantú, like the hotel, where they could listen to soukous, bikutsí, and Antillean salsa, or antillesa, as they called it. Just after entering the club, several people waved to the brothers.
“Look who it is! Tomás!” exclaimed Clarence on recognizing her taxi driver, who got up to shake hands. “Don’t tell me you know one another!”
“And who doesn’t know Iniko on the island?” he joked, pushing his glasses up every other second. The place was hot, and he was sweating a lot.