“Yes? Who?” Suddenly, she regretted having asked the question with such interest. Could it be possible that the only person who remembered her father was an ex-prostitute who looked like a witch?
“Of someone I knew a long time ago. Someone from your country. You’re Spanish, aren’t you?” Clarence nodded. “Descendant of colonists?” Clarence again nodded, but this time vaguely. “Where are you from? From the north or the south?”
“From Madrid,” she lied.
She was sorry for not having left the restaurant in time. She did not want to even imagine that a connection existed between this couple and her. She began to feel very hot, suffocatingly hot. She tightly held on to Iniko’s arm.
“You must have mistaken me for someone else. I’m sorry, but we’re in a hurry. They are waiting for us.”
Her son took her arm with a peeved look.
“One more question!” the woman almost shouted. “What’s your father’s name?”
“My father died many years ago.”
“What was his name? Tell me!”
“Alberto,” lied Clarence once again. Her sight was becoming blurred. She was on the point of having a panic attack. “His name was Alberto!”
The woman twisted her lips. She looked at her for a few seconds more and finally bowed her head, retaining her dignified and proud bearing while waving her hand in the air in search of her son’s arm.
Clarence breathed a sigh of relief. She rested against the table. There was still some beer left in her bottle. She took a long swig. It was warm, but she did not care. Her mouth was so dry.
Iniko looked at her with a frown, his arms folded across his chest.
“Where have the rest gone?” she asked.
“They’ve gone on ahead.”
“Thanks for waiting for me.”
“I’m glad I did.”
Neither of them moved.
“Let me see if I understand,” Iniko finally said as he stroked an eyebrow. “You’re not from Pasolobino. Your father’s name is not Jacobo, and in addition, he’s dead. Who are you? An antorchona?” He gave a little smile. The bravest spy in the world. As soon as she discovers something she doesn’t like, she has a panic attack.
“You were the ones who insisted that I be careful.”
They left the restaurant. The moon was shining like a lighthouse amid wisps of clouds.
“Do you know, Iniko? Here the moon is nice, but in my mountains, it’s something else.”
“Ah! So Pasolobino does exist. Now I feel better . . .”
Clarence slapped his arm. It seemed that Iniko did have a sense of humor. What a discovery.
“And why did you wait instead of Laha?” She would have preferred to ask, How is it that Melania let you out of her sight?
“I’d like to suggest something to you.”
What would she say to him?
Time was running out, and Clarence was down to her last bullet: Ureca.
How could she refuse an opportunity like that?
And more so now, when she had abandoned nearly everything else. She had lied to those in the university, saying that her fieldwork recording oral interviews for their later analysis had her very busy. With regard to her progress in solving the family mystery, it had been reduced to casual and innocent conversations, using the recorder as an excuse, with mulattos slightly older than herself whom she interviewed until they revealed that their name was not Fernando or that their scant childhood memories of the colonial period did not have anything at all to do with Sampaka.
On various occasions, she had bumped into men who refused to answer any questions for a white woman.
Her eyes scanned the sea’s tranquil water. She was sitting with Laha on the terrace of the Hotel Bahía, from whose white tables and chairs they could see a huge ship anchored not far away. Laha had collected her from her hotel a little earlier that day. It would be a while yet before Iniko arrived.
What would she say to him?
“It seems,” said Laha in a casual manner as he stirred his coffee with his spoon, “that my brother likes you. And that’s not an easy feat.”
Clarence could not avoid blushing.
“It’s strange that, being brothers, you live such different lives . . .”
“I always say that Iniko was born too soon. The six years between us was crucial in the island’s history. He had to put up with a law that forced everyone over the age of fifteen to work on the state plantations. All the Nigerian workers had been expelled from the island.”
Laha suddenly stopped, confused by how attentively she was listening.
“I suppose Iniko has already told you all this.”
In fact, Iniko had told her a lot about the recent history of Guinea. After independence was achieved in 1968, the country suffered the worst eleven years of its history at the hands of Macías, a cruel dictator. There was no press of any type; all things Spanish were renamed; schools and hospitals were closed; cocoa production was ended; Catholicism was banned. The repressions, accusations, detentions, and deaths affected everybody—Bubis, Nigerians, Fang, Ndowé from both Corisco and the two Elobey islands, ámb?s from Annobón, and Krios—for any reason at all.
Clarence only a few days ago had learned that Iniko was a widower and had two children who were ten and fourteen and lived with their maternal grandparents. She finally said, “Iniko talks a lot about everything, but little about himself.”
Laha nodded and took a sip of coffee. He remained quiet for a few seconds.
“How were your parents able to pay for your studies in the United States?”
Laha shrugged. “My mother has always been a resourceful woman, both in her work and in managing to get scholarships and grants. With Iniko staying here, the two of them were able to help me a lot in allowing me to continue my studies, because I was good at it.”
“And your father?” she dared to ask. “What happened to him?”
Laha let out something like a snort. “You should really say your fathers. Iniko’s father died when he was a child. I never knew mine. My mother has never talked to me about him.”
Clarence felt ashamed for having asked. “I’m sorry” was the only thing she could say.
Laha waved his hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not that strange here.”
She decided to continue with another, less offensive, question. “And what scrapes did Iniko get into when he was young?”
“When he was young . . . And not so young, as well!” Laha sat into his chair, looked around him, and lowered his voice. “Have you heard of Black Beach or Blay Beach?”
Clarence shook her head, intrigued.
“It’s one of Africa’s most famous prisons. It’s here, in Malabo. It’s known for its mistreatment of prisoners. Iniko was there.”
She opened her mouth. She could not believe it. “And why was he put in prison?”
“For being Bubi.”
“But . . . how is that possible?”