The plane arrived in Madrid on time. A taxi took her to the train station. Three hours later, Clarence arrived in Zaragoza, stunned by the rapid change in scenery. In a few months, it would be even more drastic, with the introduction of the first high-speed train. She had left her car in the garage of the apartment she was renting in the city. She was tired, but in a good two hours, she could be in her village. She decided against it. She could not adjust so quickly, going from Iniko’s arms and the exuberant foliage of the island to the abrupt mountains of the valley in just a few hours. For an instant, she was jealous of the long boat journeys of the last century. The long days at sea inevitably gave the soul time to mend. It was possible to prepare for the next stage on life’s journey.
So Clarence spent the night in Zaragoza. She needed to be alone, even if just for a few hours. Maybe things would look different in the morning.
Lying on the bed in her apartment, her skin free of the stickiness that had accompanied her in the last few weeks, she could not get to sleep. Iniko was still beside her, on top of her, under her.
Why had she felt attracted to him and not to Laha? Would not a relationship with someone whose life was more similar have been easier? Laha was intelligent and well mannered. He was used to traveling and dealing with different people . . .
But no, she had to set her eyes on Iniko! She smiled. Probably the spirits that permeated each centimeter of the island had something to do with it. Or maybe it was just chance that had joined twin souls together. There was one point of total convergence between Iniko and her: he would never live in a place other than Bioko, and she could never live far from Pasolobino, even if the intensity of the last few days would be remembered for the rest of her life. Her eyes filled with tears. The freely accepted chains that tied them to their respective worlds could not be broken either by love or passion.
Maybe if Iniko and she were younger, the moment of their parting at the airport, fused in a deep and silent hug, would have been more dramatic. Or maybe if both of them had been forced to separate due to circumstances beyond their control, bitterness would pursue them for the rest of their lives. However, a reasoned love, a permitted passion, and an agreed separation had forged another type of very different drama: that of resignation, even crueler, if possible, she thought as she wiped away the tears with a tissue, because it lets you go through life not letting anything really affect you.
How she would miss that man! Iniko possessed the power of the waves of the beach of Riaba, the majesty of the tongues of foam of the waterfalls of Ilachi that fell hundreds of meters down the vertical walls of the Moka forest, the energy of the cascade in Ureca, and the ardor of a tropical storm over the plumes of the palm trees. Above all, she would miss the unyielding solidity of that guardian of the island, faithful Bubi heir of the high priest, abba m?óte, at whose feet she had placed a small offering in exchange for an enormous wish.
She was still very young. It was certain that many seeds would germinate through her life, with or without the help of the gods. But would she be brave enough when the time came to gather the fruit, or would she let the harvest spoil?
All these recurring thoughts accompanied Clarence until, the following day, she parked the car in the outside yard of the House of Rabaltué.
The first one to come out to greet her was her cousin. Daniela gave her a big hug and asked, “So, Clarence? Was everything as you expected? Were our parents right?”
“Believe it or not, Daniela,” Clarence answered, “there was a lot of life outside Sampaka and the parties in Santa Isabel.”
When she went into the house, the familiarity mingled with the unsettling certainty that the possible existence of a brother could only be answered in Pasolobino. She longed for the island just then.
“God knows what you’ve been eating the last few weeks!” Carmen did nothing but refill her daughter’s plate.
“Did you eat turtle?” Daniela wanted to know. “And snake?”
“Snake meat,” Jacobo butted in, “was very tasty and tender. The turtle soup, a feast. Wasn’t it, Kilian?”
“Almost as good as monkey stew,” Kilian teased.
“Clarence!” Daniela opened her big brown eyes. “Tell the truth.”
“I mainly ate fish. And I loved the pepe-sup.”
Jacobo and Kilian laughed.
“I see you remember the spicy fish soup!” They nodded. “And a lot of fruit—papaya, pineapple, banana . . .”
“Ah, the fried banana of Guinea!” exclaimed Jacobo. “That really was delicious! In Sampaka, we had a cook from Cameroon who prepared the best bananas.”
Clarence nodded. That night, everyone was happy and expectant, peppering her with silly questions. Finally, Kilian adopted a serious tone to ask her how she found everything. She told them the more entertaining anecdotes and about the tourist sites that she had visited, and she summarized the curious aspects she had learned about the Bubi culture. The marvelous journey to the east of the island was whittled down to the names of the villages she had visited with—she lied—two lecturers from Malabo University.
She left her visits to Sampaka for the end. She described how the plantation now looked and how it still continued to produce cocoa. Suddenly, she realized that it had become very silent around her. Daniela and Carmen were attentively listening. Jacobo was playing with a piece of bread and clearing his throat. And Kilian had his eyes fixed on his plate.
Clarence understood that her story had already transported them to another place, so she decided to tell what for her was one of the highlights.
“Do you know what struck me most during my time in Bioko? There is still someone who puts flowers on Grandfather Antón’s grave.”
Carmen and Daniela gasped.
Jacobo froze.
Kilian raised his eyes and fixed them on his niece to make certain she was not lying.
“Have you any idea who it could be?”
Both of them shook their heads, but both were frowning.
“I thought it might be Simón . . .” She shook her head. “But I don’t think so, not him.”
“Who is Simón?” her mother asked.
“Uncle Kilian, in Sampaka, I met an old man who told me he had been your boy while you were there.”
Kilian’s eyes misted up. “Simón . . . ,” he whispered.
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Jacobo, in a forced cheerful voice. “Simón is still alive and still in Sampaka! But how did you meet up with him?”
“Actually, it was he who recognized me,” she explained. “He said I looked a lot like both of you.”
She remembered that Mamá Sade also thought her face looked familiar, but Clarence did not say anything. Not yet, she thought. Later.