Daniela poured more wine into Laha’s glass.
“But, Laha,” Jacobo began to say, “wasn’t Macías democratically elected?”
“He was always on the television,” mused Kilian. “He was very popular because he knew how to take in the people by using liberation talk. He promised to return to the blacks what belonged to the blacks.”
Laha cleared his throat. “The Spanish trusted the wrong person when leaving the island in his hands. He had learned the pruning technique very well . . .”
“And how long did that horror last?” asked Daniela, who looked at him with eyes open in indignation.
“Eleven years,” Laha answered. “From 1968 to 1979.”
“The year I was born,” murmured Daniela.
Laha quickly did the math in his head. Daniela was younger than he had thought.
“Do you know, Daniela, that the terror he awoke among the natives was so bad that no Guinean soldier dared join his firing squad? They had to use Moroccan soldiers to shoot him.” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “The legend also says that he murdered the ex-lovers of one of his women and that, when they were going to shoot him, he placed his outstretched arms behind him, palms facing toward the ground, prepared to fly . . .”
Daniela gave a start, and Laha smiled impishly.
Clarence remembered very well where conversations about the spirits could lead to, and she raised her hand to her neck to stroke the necklace that Iniko had given her.
“Well, everyone,” she cheerfully said. “Laha has yet to open his presents.”
She handed him a woolen hat with matching gloves and then a copy of a recently edited book titled Guinea in Pasolobinese.
“It’s a book written by someone from our valley,” Clarence explained, “about the people from here who lived for years in Guinea during the colonial period. Sure, it only gives one side of the story, the white side, but well, it could be interesting to know the context . . .” She began to think that maybe it had not been such a good idea to give him the book. “And there are photos of Kilian and Jacobo in it!”
Laha helped her. “Of course I find it interesting, Clarence!” he said, with a smile. “You can’t deny what happened.”
He opened the book and began to turn the pages, closely looking at the photographs. In them, he saw white men dressed in white cotton and linen clothes, with their inseparable pith helmets and, in many cases, holding a rifle. He also saw black men in worn clothes working on the plantations. When the black men were posing for the photographer, they were often sitting at the feet of the white men, and it was not uncommon to see a white man’s hand resting on the head of a black. As if he were a dog, Laha thought in disgust. There were also photos of men holding up large boa skins. He tried to rack his brain for early childhood memories, but he did not find anything he saw in the photos. Either he had not been born, or he had been very young when the last photos had been taken. Maybe Iniko would recognize some of those shots.
Kilian and Jacobo also made comments about the emblematic buildings in colonial Santa Isabel, like the Casa Mallo, on the old Avenida Alfonso XIII, and the cars of that period and the names of the ships: Plus Ultra, Dómine, Ciudad de Cádiz, Fernando Poo, Ciudad de Sevilla . . . Kilian took a breath on hearing this last name. How many times had he thought that the life of that ship had run parallel to his own! The luxurious and elegant flagship of Trasmediterránea, after traveling half the world, was partially scrapped in the middle of the 1970s. Then it was refitted, and one day it was found drifting near the port of Palma, in danger of breaking in two. Later, it suffered two big fires and had to be fitted out once again . . . But despite everything, after seventy-six years in existence, it was still out there.
When there were no more photos to comment on, Kilian shook his head and sighed. “How times have changed! It doesn’t feel as if so many years have gone by since we were in Fernando Po.”
Jacobo nodded. “And from what Clarence and Laha say, it doesn’t seem to have changed for the better.”
Laha arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Jacobo took a sip of coffee, cleaned his lips with a napkin, put his hands on the table, and looked seriously at Laha.
“In our time, around fifty thousand tons of cocoa used to leave the island, and from Sampaka alone, six hundred thousand kilos, thanks to us. And now, how much?” He looked at his brother. “Three thousand five hundred kilos? Everyone knows that since we left, the country hasn’t gotten its head above water.” He spoke to Laha directly. “You live worse now than forty years ago. Is that true or not?”
“Jacobo,” Laha answered in a level tone, “Guinea is a newly independent country that is trying to improve after centuries of oppression.”
“What do you mean, oppression?” Jacobo leaned forward. “Didn’t we bring you our knowledge and culture? You should be thankful that we took you out of the jungle . . .”
“Dad!” exclaimed Clarence, furious, as Carmen put an arm on her husband’s thigh to quiet him.
“Two things, Jacobo.” Laha sat back in his chair, his voice no longer calm. “One, we assimilated your culture because we had no choice. And two, unlike other Spanish colonizations, the conquistadors of Guinea only got involved enough to mix their blood with the conquered. That’s how inferior they considered us to be!”
Kilian observed both of them silently.
Jacobo opened his mouth to counter him, but Laha raised his hands. “Don’t give me lectures on colonization, Jacobo. The color of my skin makes it obvious that my father was white. It could be either of you!”
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Clarence hung her head, and her eyes filled with tears. If there was any remote possibility that Laha was her half brother, he could not have had a worse meeting with his biological father. Jacobo’s attitude was unforgivable. Why couldn’t he be like Kilian?
Daniela rested her arm on Laha’s shoulder. Laha turned and looked at her sadly. His soul was wounded, and it was not something he normally talked about.
“It’s a difficult subject,” said Daniela in a warm voice. “Even now, although we don’t realize it, we are all being colonized, in subtle ways, by networks woven by economic, political, cultural interests . . . It’s a different time.”
That was Daniela, thought Clarence. She never got agitated. She always tried to express herself in the same tone of voice, sweet, quiet, rational.
“I’m sorry for getting worked up,” said Laha, looking at Carmen, who waved her hand and smiled. She was more than used to heated discussions.