Pig's Foot: A Novel Part 8

'Listen, Ester, I'm not going to waste my time on El Mozambique. You said I was the spitting image of my father, so I a.s.sumed what you had to say to me was about him. So, are you going to tell me the story or not?'

'When he was ten years old,' Ester began, 'Oscar was sold to the owner of a large plantation named Giacomo Benvenuto. In 1868 war broke out. Oscar and Jose joined the mambi army under the command of General Antonio Maceo and, a few years later, they met Malena and her sister Betina. They pledged undying love beneath an avocado tree and, as time pa.s.sed, Geru, Melecio and you were born.'

'I know all that, Ester.'

'Do you want me to tell you how . . .'

'No, I want you to tell me everything.'

'Everything?'

'Everything.'

The midwife took a deep breath, so deep that for a moment she seemed to suck all of the oxygen from the room.

'Very well, Benicio, I shall tell you everything. Macuta Dos, Oscar's mother, was as short as he was. She had two older brothers. Their parents had long since pa.s.sed away long ago and had to be buried together because they were both found dead one morning with their arms so entwined around each other no one could prise them apart. When she was a little girl, Macuta Dos was convinced that the edge of the earth was somewhere on the outskirts of Pata de Puerco, that beyond the bounds of the slave quarters there was nothing but shadows and forests of flame. The idea had come to her in a dream she had while afflicted by a strange rash that almost killed her. Her dreams began with this mysterious disease which some people blamed on the urine of a large yellow hutia that appeared one day in the slave quarters and was never seen again. Others claimed it was the result of some magic by the Efik people with their ganga drums or the machinations of the Mayombe tribes, because it was not just Macuta Dos, but a dozen other slaves who fell ill, all of whom were immediately placed in quarantine to be cured of the rash, the itch and the fever brought on by the disease.

'In her fever dreams, Macuta Dos saw the past and the future, and sometimes she saw secrets and mysteries entangled in the trees of Pata de Puerco. One of those who appeared to her in these dreams was a wije a spirit named Bonifacio who wore a loincloth and claimed to be her guardian angel. No taller than a gnome, with frizzy hair and gleaming teeth, the wije Bonifacio knew everything: he revealed to her the precise day on which her brothers who since the age of ten had been her only relatives would die, and everything about the slave revolt which would bring about ruin on the Santisteban sugar plantation. He told her that she had something evil in her belly, that she would never know the love of a man and that her life would be empty and meaningless. All this Macuta Dos learned, just as she learned that she would live to see all those she loved perish and that before she got to heaven she would endure h.e.l.l.

'On the very day she became a woman, the wije vanished from her dreams. Macuta Dos would talk to him in dark corners when she was alone, though she could not see him and did not expect him to trouble to reply, but the world is full of miseries, after all, compared to which her wishes were insignificant. She had but one wish in life: she wanted a child.

'She began working on the plantation, feeding the animals, cleaning and drawing water from the well. Since she was a strong, muscular Negress, they set her to cutting cane with the menfolk and gave her so many backbreaking ch.o.r.es that often she worked twenty-two hours a day.

'On one of the countless days that Macuta Dos prayed and hoped the wije might hear her prayers, in one of the countless murky corridors on the plantation she encountered a small black man she recognised as the wije Bonifacio. He smelled of charred forests and he wore the same loincloth and had the same frizzy hair and gleaming teeth as when he appeared in her dreams. The wije told her he had been sent to her by Yusi the Warrior since G.o.d did not intend to answer her prayers. Bonifacio told Macuta Dos not to worry, because he would give her a child. He gestured for her to come close and whispered, 'Tombo,' then he kissed her gently on the lips. The moment she touched the wije's thin lips, which tasted of ripe mango, Macuta Dos knew that she would bear a son to a man named Tombo, but she had no idea who this man might be.

'One week later, a new consignment of slaves arrived at the plantation. Among them was Tombo, a pureblood Kortico four feet tall with velvety black skin and an impulsive character. The attraction between them was almost instantaneous and nine months later Macuta Dos gave birth to Oscar. Just as the wije had predicted, there was no love between them. Tombo was cruel and quick-tempered and the few times they had s.e.x, he would cover her head with a sack or push her underwater so that she could not breathe. But Macuta Dos expected these things because the wije Bonifacio had forewarned her. Just as she knew that Tombo's days were numbered.

'"Oscar, say goodbye to your papa," Macuta Dos said to her son on the last night they spent together as a family. Tombo picked the boy up and kissed him on the cheek. The child wailed, he could sense something; but his parents simply looked at him in silence. The following morning at dawn, Tombo escaped into the hills. He was brought back that same afternoon dead, the skin flayed from his body, his face unrecognisable. They dragged him from the dense scrubland and strung him up in the middle of the plantation to serve as a lesson to others. Then they buried him in a secret place halfway up the mountain to obliterate any trace of him. Never again would anyone mention the name of the Kortico Tombo.

'Time pa.s.sed. Macuta Dos went on with her backbreaking ch.o.r.es and Oscar went on growing. Every night, Macuta Dos would shrug off her tiredness and tell her son stories from her native Africa, about how the Korticos were a tribe of fearsome warriors who knew the secret ways of plants. She told him that in Africa, even boys hunted with spears, though during their training many ended up in the maws of lions. Macuta Dos raised Oscar until the day she was locked away in a dark room with Tampico, a man who had the misfortune to have two metal bars by way of arms and a pillar of chiselled black marble by way of a torso. His legs were thick trunks of ebony, the very sight of him instilled terror.

'On the Santisteban plantation, Tampico was the man who turned the wheel for the sugar mill and the coffee mill. This task, which usually required three or more slaves, he did alone. He could carry fifty buckets of water a day, in addition to cutting cane. He was a clumsy, gruff, slow-witted Negro like a sleepy giant and he stammered when he talked. But he was very useful, according to Don Manuel who, from the moment he first bought the slave, recognised that Tampico had been born into this world to toil and sweat until he died. And so this muscular Negro lived his life exhausted and in pain because of his work on the Santisteban plantation.

'Manuel Santisteban had bought him in Havana; he had bought only Tampico, not his wife or his children. When he arrived in Pata de Puerco, Tampico found that everything was barren and desolate. No one knew him, no one spoke to him, people looked at him fearfully and in the slave quarters kept as far away from him as possible. And so, gradually, he began to grieve for the life he had left behind before he had been captured and s.h.i.+pped to Cuba.

'In the first few weeks, he obeyed every order and was meek as a lamb. But precisely a month after he arrived, he suffered a bout of depression and began to strangle any living thing that crossed his path. The steward and the overseers believed he was possessed, but on the strict orders of Don Manuel no one dared lay a finger on him. "We must find him a mate. Lock him in a dark room with Macuta Dos," suggested Don Manuel, and this they did.

'As she was torn away from Oscar, Macuta Dos realised that her dreams of shadows and forests of flame were nothing more than shadows of her own life. Nothing could compare with the pain of losing her beloved son Oscar. This is why she did not flinch when the giant Tampico pinned her to the wooden floor, nor when he straddled her like a rutting bull, biting at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sucking at her neck like a vampire. She allowed herself to be dragged along by the whim of destiny and nine months later a son was born.

'"We'll call him Satanas," suggested one of the female slaves. Macuta nodded her head in approval. "Satanas is the name of the devil. Damian is nicer," said another woman in the barracks. Again Macuta nodded in agreement. In the end the dozen or so slave women, fighting to pick an appropriate name for the boy, decided upon Mangaleno. For the fourth time Macuta gave her consent. She did not care because she already sensed her own life ebbing away. Reluctantly, she suckled the child, feeding him her frustrations and her pain at having lost her beloved son Oscar.

'Mangaleno grew up in the shadow of his brother. He knew no love, except for the love his mother daily professed for Oscar. She would talk about Oscar to herself and sometimes referred to Mangaleno as Oscar so that from his earliest childhood he learned to despise the name. "I'm not Oscar, I'm Mangaleno," the boy would say furiously, but nothing changed.

'So it was that Mangaleno grew up longing for a life he never lived, a life that for him could never exist. He had no choice but to rise from the ashes of his miserable existence and add more suffering to the suffering he had already ama.s.sed.

'At the time the Slaughter of the Santistebans took place, Mangaleno had just turned thirteen. The blockhouse was one of the first places torched by the slaves and in all the chaos and all the shouts of joy and freedom, no one realised that Macuta Dos had deliberately remained inside. But Mangaleno knew she was in there and ran to rescue his mother. He dashed through the flames, oblivious to the pain as they burned his skin, and he searched among the rubble until, beneath a burning beam, he found a bundle that had a human form. His mother lay dying, her frail body half-charred, her head a ma.s.s of red and black blisters that spread all over her skin. Mangaleno doused the flames and lifted her up, wrapped her in his s.h.i.+rt, cradled her in his arms and clutched her to his chest as though she were a newborn, then he ran straight at the nearest wall which offered no resistance, it crumbled, and Mangaleno kept on running frantically as far as the river, hoping with every step that he might still save not only his mother's life, but his own.

'"Don't leave me, Mama, don't leave me alone," he begged, pressing her to him. "I love you, Oscar," were the last words Macuta Dos ever spoke as she stared into the eyes of Mangaleno: two dark pools, a vast universe of hatred and bitterness.

'From that day, Mangaleno had only one goal in life: to track down this man he hated more than anyone on the face of the earth, this man who had stolen his mother's love, who had ruined his life, this man he had never met but whom he dreamed about every day, thought about every minute, this ghost of a man named Oscar. His was a simple life. Other people had to worry about learning to read or write, about being loved or admired, about acquiring a trade or being loyal to their family. Not he. He had been put on earth with the sole purpose of using every ounce of strength to make Oscar suffer.

'But to wound, to wound deeply, one must be patient. This was something Mangaleno understood even as a child. And so he waited until he had grown into a man. In the year 1878 Mangaleno was twenty-five years old and his body was a lethal weapon, not simply because he shared his father's genes, but because he had spent his every waking hour exercising, carrying logs, cutting cane, dreaming of the day when he would be avenged. It was in that same year that Oscar and Jose, with their respective wives, settled in Pata de Puerco. Mangaleno was already here, waiting for him. He a.s.sumed that since he was hatred incarnate, then Oscar must be his ant.i.thesis, meaning someone who felt fulfilled, happy, in other words a romantic, and romantics invariably returned to their birthplace. This was why he had spent years here in a remote shack he had built with his own hands, patiently waiting like an alligator for its prey.

'But Oscar did not come alone. And what is the most effective way to make a man suffer? To hurt that which he most loves. This is what Mangaleno planned to do. He devoted himself to hounding Malena. He found out everything there was to know about her; that she fell ill at least once a month, that she was quiet and reserved, that she often made a pilgrimage to the church at El Cobre. He knew that in the church she prayed for everyone, for her family, for her friends, for strangers and even for a world ravaged by poverty, which proved that Malena had the temperament of a saint; she was a woman who preferred to conceal her pain so as not to hurt others, a woman who had long since learned to suffer in silence.

'The most important fact was that, after she had prayed for the world and its misfortunes, Malena always concluded with a dozen prayers for her soul and that of her husband Oscar, the love of her life, the one man who had taught her how to love. Mangaleno could not believe it could be so easy. He licked his lips, realising that in Malena he had found the perfect means of destroying the life of his mortal enemy.

'On one such afternoon, Mangaleno lay in wait on the Callejon de la Rosa. Malena appeared looking happy, radiant. The sun had set by the time Mangaleno confronted her, grabbing her by the throat as though she were a meek dove. She tried to resist, began to scream only to be silenced by two blows to the face that left her dazed. Mangaleno covered her mouth but he did not cover her eyes so that she would be able to see his spider's soul and his overflowing hatred. He bit her neck until blood began to spurt from her veins, he covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with bitemarks, blood-sucking bruises that would never fade. Then he thrust into her, again and again until he saw her eyes well with tears of pain and rage. Having satisfied his ancient and twisted desires, he tossed her into the gra.s.s. Then he b.u.t.toned his breeches and walked away smiling, leaving Malena's groans behind, groans that seemed to come from a mouth with no tongue, no lips; it was the sweetest revenge he could have had. "The happiest day of my life," as he would describe the moment years later.

'Yet still he continued to spy on her, slipping among the trees, and did the same to Oscar as he worked in his vegetable garden; he even followed him when he went to Chinaman Li's store. He quickly realised that Oscar knew nothing of what had happened, that Malena had buried her secret even as her belly was already beginning to swell with the fruit of lovelessness and hatred.

'"He who does not see, does not know. He who does not know, does not suffer." Oscar was not suffering. Mangaleno realised that Oscar was living his life as through nothing had happened and that was something he could not allow. He writhed to think that the man he most loathed was living a life without pain. He spent a long time looking for some way of hurting him more effectively. He tried to discredit him with the other macheteros, hacking off the leg of their mare, but nothing worked. Oscar carried on with his life, his idyllic life with Malena, as though nothing had happened, while Mangaleno carried on raging that he could not find a means to bury him.

'When he heard gossip that Malena was pregnant, he went to check. He hid behind some trees and watched the couple argue. Oscar could not understand how his wife could have become pregnant. He gesticulated wildly, and the more he waved his hands, the more Mangaleno licked his lips. This, he saw, was his sweet revenge, something that would make his half-brother writhe in pain and remorse, a pain that would dog him like a shadow to the end of his days. Mangaleno had only to wait for the child to be born. Nine months later, you were born. What happened next, you already know.'

Grandpa Benicio sat, slack-jawed, confused, pressing the amulet to his chest, not knowing what to do, what to say.

'But . . . but what does it all mean?'

'It means that Mangaleno raped your mother,' the midwife said simply.

'But . . .'

At that moment the door flew open. Benicio and Ester leapt to their feet.

'Mangaleno!' cried Ester, her voice tremulous with fear.

Turning his head, Benicio found himself face to face with El Mozambique.

'Thank you, Ester. Now go into the kitchen, my son and I need to talk.'

'Don't you dare call me that,' said Benicio.

'What would you like me to call you? Don't be stupid, Benicio. Did you really think a four-foot pygmy could have given you that body of yours? Don't make me laugh.'

Benicio did not say anything, he could not understand anything. He glared at El Mozambique, eyes blazing, then looked to Ester as though waiting for her to say that it had all been a joke.

'Don't believe me if you don't want to. Check for yourself. Ester, fetch the tin,' ordered El Mozambique. Ester went into the kitchen and brought back a sheet of nickel-plated tin like a mirror. She handed it to El Mozambique who stepped closer to Benicio, smiling viciously, and pressed his face against the boy's.

'Tell me then, what do you see?'

Benicio stared at the two faces. He saw the same thick veins in the neck, the same square jaw, the same flat nose. His lips were slightly thinner and his cheekbones slightly less p.r.o.nounced, but Benicio still had a lot of growing to do.

'It doesn't matter what you say, you're not my father. I'm not your son, and I never will be.'

'This isn't about what you want and what you don't want,' said El Mozambique, handing the tin plate back to Ester. 'My blood runs through your veins. I'm sure you're thinking, "Carajo, first I was told my father is Jose, then I was told it's Oscar and now it turns out to be neither of them but the man despised by everyone." I know what that's like, and I don't expect you to accept me right away: I am the living face of hatred in this village. But as I told you once, hatred is not so bad. After all, it was hatred that conceived you. I don't think anyone can understand you as I do; I know what it is like to live with no one for company, to be spurned like a plague while having the person you most loved in all the world taken from you, as has happened to you, now you've been thrown out of your home and robbed of Geru simply because you feel for her something more than a brother's love.'

'Who the h.e.l.l are you to talk about love?' said Benicio, and for the first time his eyes paled, like El Mozambique's.

'Me? No one. But if you think I don't know what it is, you are making a terrible mistake. Love is something that cannot be forgotten. This is why I raped Malena. An eye for an eye, I told myself. I could not bear the thought that the man who robbed me of what I most loved should go on living, feeding his soul with the hope of life eternal. All I wanted was the one thing I had never had because of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Oscar. This is why I raped Malena, why I beat her, I did it to teach him about the pain he never knew.'

'You're a murderer, that's what you are.'

'A murderer? Let me think . . . It's true that I hacked the leg off Oscar's mare, and Evaristo's horse. But for all that, if we compare, I still come off the worse.'

Benicio fell silent. For an instant it seemed to him that the faces of Ester and El Mozambique belonged to a different species.

'Well, now you know. You are my son, whether you like it or not. My door is always open to you. But take your time. In the meantime, you can stay here with Ester. Besides my hounds will take time to get used to you.'

With that, El Mozambique set off back down the path. Benicio felt the air grow heavy, an air that did not smell of the countryside, did not smell of anything in nature. It was a rainstorm so heavy he could not breathe and for a moment he thought he might drown. Watching the figure of El Mozambique disappear into the distance, he thought this was the end. He was wrong. In fact, it was the beginning of a new life under his true ident.i.ty.

Further News of Melecio.

Gertrudis was the only one in the family who knew what had happened. When Benicio explained that Ester had told him El Mozambique was his real father, Geru told him not to listen, that Ester was half-mad; besides he knew who his father was. The argument was always the same.

'It's like Papa Jose told you: your parents are not those who gave birth to you, but those who raised you.'

'Parents don't throw their children out of the house,' said Benicio.

They would always make peace, with Benicio telling a joke or performing some trick with his hands that ended up with Gertrudis rolling on top of him and sending unforgettable feelings thrilling through him.

Jose and Betina knew nothing of this, but the other villagers quickly began to talk. Some said they had seen Benicio by the river with a heavyset man who looked a lot like El Mozambique. Others were not sure whether it really was Benicio or some relative of El Mozambique, since the resemblance between the two men was astounding. Still others went round to Jose and Betina to tell them rumours circulating about their son. Before long word spread that Jose had thrown his son out of the house, a story confirmed by the fact that Benicio and El Mozambique were often seen together.

The Santacruzes and the Aquelarres felt that even if Benicio was no longer the boy everyone had loved, it was their responsibility to watch over him and muttered darkly that his a.s.sociation with El Mozambique would have irreparable consequences for his education. The Jabaos for their part said that they had long since seen this catastrophe coming, that they knew better than anyone how much the boy had changed, but they agreed with Silvio and Rachel Aquelarre: Benicio should not be left to himself.

'Since you care so much about the boy, why don't you take him in?' said Jose simply. He wanted nothing to do with Grandfather. Benicio, he said, was a grown man who knew what he was doing and he was not about to give himself another stroke attempting to reason with him. Life in Pata de Puerco, had become a living h.e.l.l, a theatre of furtive glances, glowering faces and awkward silences. For a long time, Benicio and Gertrudis felt their souls were unquiet, as though night would not come and bring them rest. Their sole consolation was the love that bound them and even this they had to temper so as not to grieve their parents even more.

Every morning, Gertrudis set off early to fetch Benicio from Ester's house and together they would head down to the river so that, when Betina rose to make breakfast, she did not have to deal with the awkwardness of finding her daughter at home. There in the dark waters beneath the sheltering canopy of green, they sought solace. Often they made love and the more they did so, the deeper grew this pa.s.sion that left them gasping for breath, as though someone had poured a pitcher of water into their lungs. When they returned late at night they would sometimes see Jose sitting on the porch, his lips twisted in a grim rictus, a terrifying expression on his face. He would stare out at the horizon, gazing past them as though they were not people but merely dark shapes or shadows moving along the path.

Grandfather would turn on his heel and go back to Ester's house. So the days pa.s.sed, and even when Jose's twisted grimace had been healed by Betina ma.s.saging his face daily, still he sat with that terrible look of disbelief, a look that it seemed might always be there.

Neighbours visited him, brought him gifts in the hope of lifting his spirits. Jose would thank them, nodding his head and withdrawing to his room where he could be alone.

'He is still not himself,' Betina would explain, and those who came to visit would nod. She would show them to the door and the following day the scene was played out again gifts were brought, Jose nodded his thanks and Betina watched the neighbours leave: it was a ritual. It was thanks to these gifts that the Mandinga family managed to survive these difficult times.

Aureliano the coachman was the only person with whom Jose spent time, the only one to whom he would listen. Aureliano still visited regularly, bringing news of recent events across the country.

'Good afternoon, Aureliano. It is a pleasure to have you in our house again,' Gertrudis greeted the coachman on one of his visits.

'Our house! This is my house,' spluttered Jose, spraying spittle. 'I built it.'

The coachman noticed the tension in the air. Betina looked at him and then scowled at Jose.

'The thing about you, Jose, is there's no stopping you,' said Aureliano. 'Anyone else might have become bitter at being paralysed, but not you. You've still got your sense of humour. You're always teasing the children, always joking. You haven't changed at all.'

'And how is Melecio?' asked Gertrudis.

'The young man is doing splendidly. Maria has taken him in hand, but that is a good thing. The other day he seized me by the arm and confessed that he is in love. Can you imagine? As though love were something he had just invented. I told him I was happy he had finally realised something the rest of us have known for an age. He asked whether it was really so obvious and I said that lovestruck man always has puppy-dog eyes you know what I mean, those pleading, soulful eyes. "So I've turned into a dog," he said miserably. "Indeed you have, some time ago," I told him. Now let me just be clear, I think Maria has been the making of him; before she came along Melecio scarcely knew how to wash his own b.a.l.l.s if you'll excuse my language. These days he's always clean, his hair is combed, and I don't mean that tousled mop that looked like a bird's nest. I tell you, women truly are men's salvation! Am I right, Jose?'

'Or their d.a.m.nation,' said Jose, glaring at Gertrudis.

'Exactly. One or the other. But in Melecio's case, as indeed in mine and in yours because your wife here is truly an angel-' the coachman gestured to Betina who smiled, 'they are the best thing that could ever have happened.'

'The same is true for me,' said Gertrudis. Betina and Jose stared at her coldly.

'For you?' said the coachman. 'We were talking about women. Surely you're not saying that . . .'

'No. I am talking about a man. A man with many flaws, but his love for me is not among them.'

Jose got up from his chair. 'I've told you, out there the two of you can do what the h.e.l.l you like. But this is my house and I make the rules here.'

'Ah! So little Gertrudis is in love!' said Aureliano. 'Why did no one tell me? Come now, Jose, it had to happen some time. I'm sure the boy is not so bad. Besides, as Senorita Gertrudis says, n.o.body's perfect. Don Emilio maintains that man is made up of mind, body, imperfections and extremities, and I believe he's right. And what is this about this being your house, Jose? Don't make me laugh. It belongs to Gertrudis too, and to Benicio. Where is young Benicio, by the way?'

'Benicio is no longer welcome in my house,' roared Jose.

Aureliano looked at Betina's face and saw Gertrudis begin to cry. Betina scolded Jose for treating his daughter in such a manner in front of Aureliano.

'Now I understand,' said the coachman, 'This is what brought on the paralysis. But you're wrong, Jose, not to accept your children for who they are. We cannot crawl inside our children's minds and force them to think as we do. They're in love? So what? In my family brothers marry sisters, cousins marry cousins, there's nothing wrong with that. I tell you I wouldn't be shocked if men married goats. If someone came to me and told me he was in love with a gorilla, I would say, "My best wishes to Senora Gorilla, I hope you have many baby gorillas; after all, deep down man is just another animal."'

'Whether deep down, in the middle or on the surface, I will not tolerate it. Is that understood?'

'Jose, don't upset yourself,' said Betina.

'Fetch me my walking stick, Betina, I'm going to the cemetery,' said Jose. He grabbed his ceiba cane and, muttering to himself, he left.

'Don't listen to him, Aureliano. He has suffered more than anyone from the two of them falling in love.'

'And what do you think?'

'Me? Obviously I agree with him.'

'But we're not really brother and sister, not by blood,' protested Gertrudis, drying her tears.

'You might just as well be. It's disgusting.'

'They're not related by blood?' said Aureliano. 'Well in that case I'm sorry, Senora Betina, but don't you think perhaps you are overreacting?'

Betina continued to insist that the relations.h.i.+p between Gertrudis and Benicio was disgusting while Aureliano insisted that they should not have thrown Benicio out of the house, that adolescence is a time of confusion during which it was crucial that parents practise tolerance.

'Well now, I think that is enough discussion for today,' said the coachman, 'Why don't you make me a little coffee and I'll read you Melecio's letter?'

Five minutes later Betina returned with the coffee. Aureliano took an envelope from his jacket pocket and began to read to her about the exploits of her gifted son.