Pig's Foot (22 page)

When Ester finished her confession, no one moved to kill her. Betina was weeping, but she did not move, nor did José. The neighbours stared at her but not in anger, more with surprise and pity. Juanita the wise-woman held her hand as the midwife sobbed.

‘Kill me, kill me, José,' Ester begged.

‘No one here will lay a finger on you,' said José and turned to look at the crowd. ‘Everyone stay here.'

‘No. Don't go, José. Stay,' said Juanita the wise-woman, taking his arm. ‘Stay. I know what I'm asking of you.'

José would not listen. ‘Melecio, make sure that Ester has everything she needs,' he said and, drawing his machete, he set off for the house of El Mozambique. Everyone ignored his order. Hardly had José stepped through the door than the whole neighbourhood followed him like a herd of mustang.

The Long-awaited Confrontation

As José arrived at the baleful shack of timber and palm fronds, he looked around and noticed that the dogs were chained up. And Benicio did not seem to be around, which made him think El Mozambique was expecting him. With the agility of a sixteen-year-old boy, he vaulted the fence, and gave the door a kick that took it off its hinges.

‘That’s what I like to see. Someone with balls coming to take me on,’ said El Mozambique, getting up from his chair to face him down. José did not let him finish, but leaped at him swinging his machete. The giant stopped him in his tracks, grabbed the arm holding the machete with one hand and with the other dealt a vicious blow to the Mandinga. José staggered back and crashed against the wall.

‘Kill him, José! Kill that son of a bitch!’ shouted Epifanio Vilo and his family, the fifteen Jabaos and the Santacruzes, in chorus.

El Mozambique lumbered towards José to finish him off, but the Mandinga kicked him in the belly making the giant double over briefly. José made the most of this to pick up the machete he had dropped. He swung viciously, attempting to cut off his rival’s head, but El Mozambique ducked and slammed him against the table which immediately collapsed, sending the Mandinga crashing to the floor and driving into his back a long iron nail from one of countless
santería
cauldrons lying around. José started to bleed. ‘Come on, José, don’t toy with me,’ roared El Mozambique. ‘Get up and stop being such a pussy.’ This silenced the cheering of those on the far side of the fence.

At that moment, Melecio arrived.

‘Son of a bitch!’ he cried, and ran to help José. El Mozambique blocked his path, smashing an elbow into Malecio’s face that knocked him unconscious. Then he grabbed one of his machetes, the one he used to cut the throats of horses, and stepped towards José who was howling with pain and bleeding like a stuck pig. El Mozambique lifted him off the floor, looked him in the eye and gave a twisted smile.

‘Now do you understand what life is, José? Who would have thought that these very hands would be the ones to end yours? Nothing is written. There is no justice, none at all. Everything is a lie.’

‘That’s what you say,’ said José. ‘But I’m sure your death will be much worse.’

El Mozambique’s smile faded. For a moment, everything was stilled: the roar of the villagers, the wails of the women, the barking of the dogs. There was only the quiet buzz of flies and the echo of an agonising silence that sent a shudder rippling through everyone. In that moment, El Mozambique swung his machete, aiming to cleave José’s head from his body. He did not succeed: his arm was blocked, something held him back, a strength greater than his own. When he turned, he found himself face to face with Grandpa Benicio.

‘What . . . What are you doing? Let go the machete, Benicio.’

‘No. Your journey ends here.’ This was all Grandfather said. Lifting El Mozambique by the throat, he slammed him with all his strength against the floor. The giant hit his head and passed out. Then everything happened quickly. In a split second, the thirty people who had witnessed what was happening rushed into the garden, some smashed windows the better to see, others peered through cracks between the timbers waiting for the fatal blow that would satisfy once and for all their thirst for blood.

‘Kill him, Benicio! Kill him now!’

Grandpa Benicio pinned El Mozambique to the ground. Reaching down, he picked up the giant’s machete and held it aloft. ‘Kill him, damn it! Kill him now, Benicio!’ He looked first at José who lay sprawled on the floor nodding his head in agreement. Then he looked round for Melecio, but his brother still lay unconscious on the ground. Scanning the faces outside he saw Betina and she, too, nodded. Lastly, he looked for Gertrudis who was standing in the midst of the mob, tears in her eyes, her hand over her mouth. Then he brought down the machete and embedded it in the floor next to El Mozambique’s head.

‘This ends here,’ he roared.

‘What do you mean, it ends here?’ roared the crowd. ‘Kill that son of a bitch!’ Benicio did not listen. He got up off the floor and ordered everyone to go home, saying that though El Mozambique might be a monster, that was no reason for anyone else to become one. ‘This ends here,’ he repeated.

For a while, the crowd went on protesting, waving their arms, shouting, cursing the Blessed Virgin and all the saints. Then gradually the flame inside them guttered out and slowly they began to trudge home.

Benicio picked up José and sat him on one of the chairs that was still in one piece. Betina and Gertrudis kneeled next to Melecio, who had come round. Grandfather brought water from the kitchen for the wounded.

‘Water is not going to help me,’ said José. Then they noticed that the nail, a long spike used to secure railway sleepers, was deeply embedded in his back. There was little anyone could do. Still, Benicio refused to admit defeat. ‘It’s all over now, Papá José,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’ Everyone, including José, turned to Benicio in surprise. His eyes were different, filled with tears and remorse. Benicio explained that he had arrived back from the river famished to find a cake sitting on the table. He ate a slice of the exquisite delicacy and then found Ester on her bed sobbing uncontrollably and Juanita trying to comfort her. The
santera
told him what had happened and the news was like a body blow. The cake had a curious effect on him: suddenly his head was filled with all the terrible things he had done, with how he had torn his family apart. In his mind he saw the face of everyone he had ever hit, among them the twisted rictus on José’s face; he wept to think about how heartless he had been to Melecio, to Betina, and especially to Gertrudis. Juanita shook him hard and told him this was no time to cry, that José was in danger, that saving him would be his own salvation.

‘But there is nothing to be done now, my son,’ said José. Betina, Melecio and Gertrudis watched as Benicio began to weep. José asked him why he had not killed El Mozambique. He dried his eyes and turned to look at his family, then turned and looked at José as though he did not understand the question. ‘He is my blood father, Papá José. Besides, if I had killed him, I would have become a murderer like him.’

Melecio finished his glass of water and said that Benicio had done the right thing and that El Mozambique could not have been other than he was. ‘What can you expect of a man who has never known a friend, a mother, a father; who has never known the love of a woman? Can you imagine the hatred he must feel? Knowing only hatred, anyone might become a killer.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ came a booming voice. ‘Hatred is not so bad.’

Betina was the first to scream, then everyone turned to face the fearsome figure of El Mozambique who was now standing, laughing, brushing dirt and blood from his hands.

‘What did you think? That a little knock on the head would kill me? Did you really think it would be so easy? And you . . .’ He pointed at Benicio. ‘Expect no mercy from me, do you hear? You will pay dearly for what you’ve done.’

El Mozambique launched himself at Benicio and grabbed him by the throat. The villagers reappeared and once again took up their posts, peering through windows and cracks in the boards, hurling insults and obscenities as though watching gladiators in the arena. José sat in his chair, unable to do anything.

‘Get ready to join that bastard Oscar!’ roared El Mozambique. He began to throttle Grandfather with both hands. ‘The monster,’ yelled the crowd, ‘he’s going to kill the boy!’

Grandfather was on the point of being strangled when the back door of the shack was thrown open and, like a thunderbolt, Ester suddenly appeared in the room. ‘Let him go, Mangaleno!’ screamed Ester.

‘You? You fucking whore, what are you doing here? Get out and go home, you wh—’

Ester did not allow him to finish. From the folds of her skirts, she took an axe and with a single blow sliced Mangaleno’s head clean from his shoulders. The hulking body crumpled. The head rolled out of the door, past the neighbours. Epifanio Vilo picked it up and spat at it several times. Someone else punched it. They were about to toss it into the swamp when Melecio came outside and reminded them of Benicio’s words earlier: they were not brute beasts but human beings.

Melecio and Ester rushed back to where José was sitting. Benicio was already by his father’s side. The moment his real father had been felled, he had not wasted a second. Betina ran, Gertrudis ran and lastly Juanita the wise-woman who had just arrived. Through the shattered windows and the cracks in the boards, the neighbours stared at the bloody body of the Mandinga. There was so much blood, seeping through his clothes, pooling on the floor, that it seemed hardly possible he could have any left.

‘Do you know what your first word was?’ said José, squeezing Benicio’s hand. ‘Tell him, Betina.’

‘Papá,’ said Betina, drying her tears.

‘One day you just looked me right in the eye and said “Papá”,’ José went on, squeezing Benicio’s hand, struggling to breathe. ‘I wanted to cover you in kisses.’

‘Forgive me, Papá,’ said Benicio.

‘There is nothing to forgive. I am the one who should be asking for forgiveness, son. Now I realise that Juanita was right when she told me you were different. And you are, Benicio. You are different for the simple reason that you are better. We all wanted blood, and what did you do? You stood up for something none of us cared about. Loyalty, Benicio. That is something truly important. To be loyal to those who gave you life, to your sons, to your family, however bad they may be. It was something I did not think about when I threw you out. That’s why, for all your faults, you are a better man than I.’

Benicio squirmed at every word, unable to accept this obvious truth. José told him there was no reason to cry, that he had lived a long life and a good one and that his last wish had just been granted: he had been reconciled with his son before he died. ‘I’m dying in peace,’ he said and kissed Benicio on the cheek. He looked at Melecio. Then at Gertrudis. Lastly he gave Betina a long look and whispered: ‘I love you,
mi amor
.’

He was buried in a dark hole next to Malena and his inseparable friend Oscar. The day after the funeral, Grandpa Benicio and Grandma Gertrudis said their goodbyes to everyone; they could not go on living in Pata de Puerco because the memories were too painful. Betina and Melecio and all the other villagers watched sadly as they moved off down the Callejón de la Rosa, heading nowhere. This was how they came to live in Havana, to settle in a
barrio
called Lawton. The death of José and the departure of my grandparents Benicio and Gertrudis closed for ever an important chapter in the history of that long-forgotten village.

Part Two

To the Roots

The Road to Lawton

All the stuff I’ve just told you makes me terribly sad, and that’s the honest truth. That’s why I never talk about it to anyone. Commissioner Clemente, with his bald head and his moustache like some Mexican
bandido
, forced me to tell him the whole story and then the son of a bitch refused to believe me. He looked at me like everything I’d said was gibberish, like I was insane. All he wants to know is how I came to be here and why I smashed in the face of that rat whose name I hope I never have to mention. This was the real reason for the hours of cross-examination when he wormed his way inside my brain. So that’s how things stand now, me with the blues, reliving the story of my grandparents and the chrome-dome commissioner with that look that says ‘like I give a fuck’. You don’t have to worry: I’m going to tell you what Clemente really wanted to know about – all that murky business about the Nicotinas. But before I get to that part, let me get a glass of water because my throat’s parched from all this yammering.

Aaaaah, lovely. Just what I needed. I have to say right now what I’d really love is a sticky guava
masa real
, or a traditional Cuban cake. What I’m saying is this is the hunger hour, though in this part of the world hunger has no hour, it’s as contagious and as commonplace as madness. These days anyone who’s starving is labelled mad – not that I give a shit. The important thing for me is to cure my weakness, it’s just that I’m not used to going hungry. In 1995, what with the ‘special economic period’, everyone is used to running on empty, as though we’re all sleepwalkers wandering through a dream that seems as though it might never end. I call it a madhouse. But, well, madness is a different story, it has nothing to do with the one I’m telling. Or does it?

This is exactly what my grandparents Benicio and Gertrudis discovered when they arrived in Havana: a madhouse. It was the capital in the 1920s, the capital of noise, of chaos, but also of progress. A vast metropolis full of automobiles roaring up and down the streets at all hours. Full of streetcars, of hawkers selling fruit, of well-dressed gentlemen, of ladies mimicking the latest American fashions, with their hair crimped and straightened like Bette Davis. Full of men wearing straw hats and white linen suits. Full of flower shops and shoe shops. A powerful city with a thriving commerce and billboards in American.