Pig's Foot (18 page)
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 pronounced, 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 José, 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 hell 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 bastard 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 identity.
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 Papá José 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.
José 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 José and Betina to tell them rumours circulating about their son. Before long word spread that José 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 association 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 José 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 hell, 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 passion 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 José 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 passed, and even when José’s twisted grimace had been healed by Betina massaging 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. José 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, José 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 José 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 José, spraying spittle. ‘
I
built it.’
The coachman noticed the tension in the air. Betina looked at him and then scowled at José.
‘The thing about you, José, 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. María 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 María has been the making of him; before she came along Melecio scarcely knew how to wash his own balls – 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, José?’
‘Or their damnation,’ said José, 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 José 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.’
José got up from his chair. ‘I’ve told you, out there the two of you can do what the hell 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, José, it had to happen some time. I’m sure the boy is not so bad. Besides, as Señorita Gertrudis says, nobody’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, José? 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 José.
Aureliano looked at Betina’s face and saw Gertrudis begin to cry. Betina scolded José 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, José, 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 Señora 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?’
‘José, don’t upset yourself,’ said Betina.
‘Fetch me my walking stick, Betina, I’m going to the cemetery,’ said José. 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, Señora Betina, but don’t you think perhaps you are overreacting?’
Betina continued to insist that the relationship 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.
Melecio had begun to travel abroad. He had visited a place called San Juan in a country by the name of Puerto Rico, which was very much like Cuba. Puerto Rico had a Morro Castle with a lighthouse just like Havana. Melecio designed a building there, and another in a city called New York a long way north of Cuba in the United States, a cold country where snow fell from the sky.
As Aureliano read on, the letter took a darker turn, Melecio was unhappy. There was a strangeness in his tone: a longing, a confusion; something was not right. It was as though he had left adolescence behind and become a man who shared with Melecio only his name, his face. The other Melecio, the one they all knew, had stayed behind in Pata de Puerco. These were his words. He was tired, he wrote, of living another’s man’s life, far from his birthplace, far from this village built without a single brick, where concrete was unknown, exiled from the far-flung place that was his true home.
He could hardly complain, he wrote, since the Bacardí family had lavished such generosity on him, something he felt he ill-deserved since deep down he sensed that he was not quite normal. Melecio had got it into his head that he was a cross between a human and some other animal, a dolphin, perhaps, given his love of the sea. He lived his life hoping for something, something that had not yet arrived. Sometimes he wondered whether the stillness that consumed his days, this peace that filled his mind was what people called happiness.
