Palm Trees in the Snow

Everyone else remained in silence. Clarence hung her head. Her curiosity was hurting everyone else’s feelings. Her mother put out her arm and took her hand.

“Don’t worry, Clarence,” she said sweetly. “He’ll be fine. Tonight you’ve spurred a lot of memories.” She turned to her husband. “You spent many years in Guinea, and it was a long time ago. It’s only normal to be nostalgic.”

“This always happens.” Daniela sighed. “In the end, it’s better not to bring it up.”

Jacobo shook his head. “And you, Clarence?” he asked wearily. “Has Africa gotten into you?”

Clarence turned beet red.



The unusually cold spring gave way to summer. The valley of Pasolobino filled with tourists who had fled the heat of the lowlands. At the end of August, the last summer festival was held in honor of the patron saint, which, in times past, had been the celebration of the harvest and a farewell to the good weather until the following year.

Clarence stuck her nose out the window. A band appeared around the corner and stopped in front of the door. The noise of the trumpets and drums echoed in the street, festooned with small flags hanging from the front of the houses. The poor things had to face the buffeting of the wind and the children who jumped up to try and take them. After the musicians, many children and young people danced with their hands in the air, shouting with joy. Two girls went over to the door with a big basket, and Daniela put in various sweets and desserts for the villagers to eat after the mass. The band finished the number, and Daniela offered them a glass of tasty wine from the special cask in the House of Rabaltué’s cellar.

Clarence smiled. Daniela always said that the village festivals were as distasteful as that wine, which spent too much time in the barrel, but then she was the first one to help out and applaud. The music began to fade in the distance as the band moved toward a new destination. Daniela ran up the stairs. When she met Clarence, there was a twinkle in her eye.

“What are you waiting for? Get dressed! The procession will soon be starting.”

As tradition demanded, every year, several men carried the saint on their shoulders through the streets of the village, followed by a parade of villagers decked out in the typical dress of the valley. Once the procession was over, the statue of the saint remained in the square while the neighbors dedicated a dance to the saint, and then it was returned to the church until the following year. The traditional costume consisted of so many petticoats, skirts, sashes, and ties that Clarence needed nearly an hour to put it on. And then there was the complicated chignon, the pins, the neck and head scarves, the jewelry . . . For the first time in her life, she could not be bothered.

“And you, Daniela,” she asked as every year, “what are you waiting for?”

“Me? I’m not one for these sort of things. But I love to see you dressed up.” She shrugged while smiling. “By the way, who is your partner this year in the dance?”

“I’ll find someone.”

Clarence closed her eyes and imagined Iniko beside her, dressed in tight dark trousers, a white shirt with the cuffs folded to the elbow, a sash around his waist, a waistcoat, and a scarf around his head. How would the onlookers react? she thought wryly. His enormous body would stand out in the circle of couples, jumping and turning to the sound of the castanets adorned with colored ribbons. She bit her bottom lip and remembered the night in the disco in Malabo. Since him, she found fault in all other men. None of them had his captivating magnetism. Not one.

“I could always ask one of our unmarried cousins . . .”

“Girl, it sounds dreadful, but some of them aren’t half bad. We might have to go back to the old customs. Do you know if you still need a papal bull to marry a cousin?”

“What nonsense you are talking!” Clarence smiled. “Come on, let’s go!”

“Wait a minute . . .” Daniela put the last touches to the hairstyle. “Have you noticed you’ve got a few gray hairs? They say they appear with worry.”

I’m not surprised, thought Clarence.

The weeks passed, and still she made no progress. Jacobo and Kilian avoided the subject of Guinea, and she did not have the courage to be direct. Julia had arrived in Pasolobino a month ago for the holidays, and they had met only on a couple of occasions. When Clarence mentioned the trip, putting emphasis on certain people—Sade, Bisila, Laha, and Iniko—if her friend knew something, she had managed to keep a straight face. Since then Clarence had had the feeling that the woman was avoiding her.

On more than one occasion, she had been tempted to go up to her father and share her suspicions. But she needed definitive proof to disclose a family secret of this magnitude. And each time she was more and more frustrated: Julia’s clue had led to a dead end, not much could be gotten from the reactions of Jacobo and Kilian, and no matter how many times she tried, she could not decipher the meaning of Simón’s vague comments. He had told her to look for a Bubi bell if the eyes did not give her an answer. What a riddle . . . So she had decided to wait for the heavens to send her a sign.

“You’re being very quiet, Clarence.” Daniela’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I asked you if you were worried about anything.”

“Sorry. Lately I’ve had too much free time. When I go back to work, I’ll be okay.”

“Dad has also been a little down. Have you noticed it?”

Clarence nodded. Kilian spent the days walking the fields and paths close to the house or in his room. After dinner, he went right to bed. In fact, he did not even talk at the table.

“Our parents are getting old, Daniela.”

“Yes. It’s a stage in life where two things happen: either you become bitter, or you switch off. The first is the case with your father, the second with mine.” Daniela sighed deeply, then gestured to Clarence’s costume. “It’s turned out perfectly.”

After the procession and the dance, they enjoyed a large meal in the House of Rabaltué with all the uncles, aunts, and cousins from around the valley. The talk after lunch went on and on due to the wine: well-worn anecdotes, stories about the village and the valley, and comments about the previous generations and the neighbors. Clarence enjoyed this annual routine with a certain wistfulness. It seemed like a village house in miniature. In this way she had learned all she knew about her past.

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