Pig's Foot (23 page)

All this, my grandparents saw in the moment they stepped out of the train station; it was as though they had been transported to another galaxy. Naturally, curiosity got the better of them and they strolled around, studying this landscape peopled by alien life forms, by individuals from a different species, trying to work out whether this new world were innocuous.

As you probably know, El Capitolio – The National Capitol Building – started out as a patch of swampland, a rubbish tip dotted with slaves’ huts, then a botanical garden was planted there before they built the Villanueva Railway Station which in turn was torn down so they could build El Capitolio. My grandparents watched carts and trucks transporting sand and blocks, cement and steel raising clouds of dust that blotted out the sun and impregnated everyone’s clothes. There were trees here and there, struggling up between the rows of buildings and more trees in the Parque Central and the Manzana de Gómez. Benicio and Gertrudis walked on, carefully studying every detail. They passed the Teatro Nacional and the Hotel Inglaterra and walked slowly down the Paseo del Prado to the sea. On the Prado there were more trees, more well-dressed people, more hawkers. They did not stop but carried on walking as though hypnotised by the sea. ‘I swear the waves were calling to us,’ Grandma Gertrudis would tell me years later as she remembered her first encounter with the ocean and her first frightening, thrilling glimpse of Havana. According to her, the waves were shrieking at them, screams that were more enthralling than the monumental buildings or the automobiles and the trams they were seeing for the first time.

They carried on walking, ignoring everything, until they stepped into the crystal-clear waters of the sea. Only then did they feel at peace. For a moment, they forgot the recent events in Pata de Puerco, the death of José, the regret they felt at leaving their mother and their brother and their arrival in the unfamiliar world of the capital. They stood in the waters off the Malecón, arms around each other, for a long time. They were in no hurry since they had nowhere to go and at that moment the ocean offered everything they needed to allay their exhaustion and their fear. Eventually a policeman appeared, asked what they were doing and pointed out that Negroes were not allowed to bathe on this section of the beach. Immediately, they collected their belongings and left.

They walked for miles, taking the first direction that occurred to them. After a few hours, Grandma Gertrudis was so exhausted she could not carry on. Their feet were swollen and tinged with purple. Grandpa Benicio asked a mule driver with a cart to take them as far as possible from the centre of the city, somewhere there would be no automobiles, no infernal tramways, somewhere they might be close to the soil and animals.

Were it not for the fact that by now Grandma Gertrudis could barely walk, Benicio would never have dared to speak to a stranger. He was a white man, but he was dressed in rags like a backwoodsman, a white shirt stained with mud, a pair of filthy green trousers and a hat woven from
yarey
. Despite his being white, he seemed to my grandparents to be the only man with whom they might have something in common in this strange modern world.

‘Somewhere outside the city?’ said the stranger, doffing his hat. ‘You’re in luck then, that’s exactly where I’m headed.’ He had dark hair, though this was barely noticeable since his high forehead extended beyond the hairline to the middle of his head. His face was deeply lined but genial, his eyes as keen and wise as those of a cat. Everything about him seemed friendly.

‘Pilar, go on, budge up and make room back there,’ he said.

‘Excuse me, señor, but my señora’s name is Gertrudis,’ said Benicio.

‘No, no, I was talking to my nephew.’

My grandparents stared at the child with the mane of black hair who seemed both wary and intrigued. Benicio and Gertrudis glanced at each other and then looked at the child again, still puzzled by what the man had said.

‘Don’t worry, most people have the same reaction,’ said the man. ‘I’ve said it to my brother a thousand times. With all the names there are in the world, what possessed you to give the boy a girl’s name? My name is Augusto, what about you?’

‘I’m Benicio and this is Gertrudis. We’ve just arrived from Pata de Puerco.’

‘Pata de Puerco? And where might that be?’ asked the man, scratching his head.

‘Near Santiago,’ said Benicio, though he was not very sure.

‘Santiago? Now that’s strange, I’ve been down that way many times and I’ve never heard mention of it. Is the old church at El Cobre still standing?’

‘Yes. It’s still there.’

‘It’s a beautiful building. Well now, you two make yourselves comfortable, it’s a long ride. And, Pilar, you mind your manners.’

My grandparents settled themselves on the cart next to the boy named Pilar with the jet-black hair and the awestruck expression. Gertrudis offered him one of the sweets that Betina had given them for the journey while Benicio massaged her tired feet. Pilar ate the sweet without so much as a thank you. Gertrudis smiled, but the boy did not return her smile.

‘If you’re from Santiago, I assume you don’t know anything about Havana,’ said Augusto. My grandparents nodded. ‘In that case I have no choice but to offer my services as your guide,’ said the man and turned round to signal to them. ‘
Bueno
, first off let me explain that this road is the Calzada de Jesús del Monte. Until the eighteenth century, it was known as the “Santiago road” since it leads to Santiago de las Vegas and Bejucal which are a few miles straight ahead. This used to be the only road leading out of the city into the countryside, and a dozen tobacco growers were hanged from the trees that lined this road for protesting against the Spanish Government’s monopoly of the tobacco trade. Obviously, a lot has changed since then and, as you can see, there’s not a single tree left standing.’

Augusto removed his hat and with a sweeping gesture indicated the utter lack of vegetation.

‘The Camino de Santiago became the Calzada de Jesús del Monte sometime around 1800. Then, after 1918, it was renamed the Calzada del Diez de Octubre, though no one really calls it that. I assume you know the story of Pepe Antonio?’

My grandparents shook their heads.

‘Pepe Antonio was the mayor of Guanabacoa, a little town over that way,’ the man pointed to the north.

‘In 1762, when Havana was captured by the English, Guanabacoa was known as Pepe Antonio’s villa, because according to the stories he was a brave man indeed. I’m sure you know that Havana belonged to the English for a year before they traded it with the Spanish for Florida.’

‘We don’t even know how to read and write,’ said Grandpa Benicio, and Grandma Gertrudis glared at him as if to say ‘speak for yoursel
f
’, since she had learned to read and write fluently at Melecio’s classes.

‘Ah, I understand,’ said the man. ‘Well, anyway, Pepe Antonio was the man who led the resistance against the English. Even so, it came to nothing because one of his men ousted him and then rolled over for the enemy. Pepe Antonio died at home, his house is still there in Guanabacoa. After that, the English gave Havana to the Spanish in exchange for Florida, and the way things are going with the new president, it looks like he’ll hand it on a silver platter to the Americans.’

‘And who is the new president, if you don’t mind me asking?’ my grandfather said.

‘Of course you can ask. His name is Gerardo Machado y Morales and everyone in Havana has high hopes of him, especially my brother Itamar who is in the army. He says Machado will do wonders for this island, but I have to say personally the guy gives me the creeps. I’m from the old school, like Maceo and Martí, I believe Cuba should belong to the people. But my brother maintains that an island the size of a sardine can’t govern itself, that one way or another it is dependent on the whale in order to thrive. Are you interested in politics?’

‘To tell the truth, I don’t really know what it means,’ said Benicio.

‘Well, well, Benicio,’ said Augusto, taking off his hat again and turning to look at my grandparents. ‘You might not be able to read or write, but that’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard a Christian say in a long time. And the honest truth is
nobody
knows what it means. Some people claim it’s the art of words and lies, but I think it’s a weapon used to control the people for personal advantage because all politicians follow the same pattern: they say what people want to hear and once they’re on the horse they make sure no one can unseat them. That’s how it is with the new president. Now he’s elected he’s scheming to try and change the constitution so he can govern for another six years. Can you imagine? A president ruling for eight years? That’s a long time. But nobody will say anything, people will keep their mouths shut and the exploitation will carry on.’

‘Who is being exploited?’ asked Benicio.

‘The Cuban people, who else? You and I are being exploited. That’s why I’m on the side of Alfredo López’s Confederation of Cuban Workers; they’re the only people who seem to be fighting against waste and inequality. But it’ll cost them dearly, because our new president doesn’t tolerate opposition. He’s quick to get rid of anyone who opposes his policies. Not long ago Julito Mella and his troops – actually Mella lives just down there,’ Augusto pointed. ‘Anyway, they organised a peaceful demonstration at the university, demanding freedom and improvements for the people, and the army waded in and arrested twenty of them. All this just for saying they didn’t agree with some policy or other. So you should probably be careful while you’re here, because things in Havana are pretty tense. I don’t know what it’s like in Pata de Puerco, but round here, every day you go out in the street could be your last.’

Gertrudis clutched her chest and looked at Benicio, petrified. Little Pilar reached out his hand towards her. Gertrudis smiled and dug out some more sweets which the little boy wolfed down as though he had not eaten in days.

They continued their journey along the Calzada del Diez de Octubre, my grandparents drinking in every detail. They watched as the asphalt roads gradually petered out to become lanes which in turn became dirt tracks that stretched away into the distance. In this part of Havana, horse-drawn carts were more common than automobiles, but progress was such that the glamour of the city extended even to the remote suburbs. My grandmother Gertrudis pointed out a man herding a flock of goats as though it was impossible to believe such a thing could exist in this part of Cuba. All around there were still majestic houses and lavish cars, but for the most part the inhabitants seemed to be working class.

‘You see those African tulip trees in the distance near the big white house with the roses? Enriquito Diaz lives there; he was the first man in Havana to make a silent movie like the ones Charlie Chaplin makes. Some say he was the first filmmaker in Cuba even though most people didn’t like the film. They said it was boring. I thought it was good. Maybe because the main character is called Manuel García and I was excited because he had the same surname as me. Though there’s no shortage of people called García here in Cuba. What’s your surname, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Mandinga,’ said Benicio.

‘And the señorita?’

‘She’s Mandinga too,’ said Benicio.

‘Are you sure there’s no one named García in your family? That’s strange. I have to say, though, I’m obviously not quick on the uptake, because I would have thought you two were too young to be married.’

‘You’re right, we’re not married,’ said Grandfather.

‘Then how come you share the same name?’

‘Because we’re brother and sister.’

‘Really? Well, well. I must be going deaf because I was sure that when you introduced me to the young woman, you called her your señora.’

‘It’s true, I am his señora,’ said Grandma Gertrudis, ‘but that’s a long story.’

‘Ah . . . I understand,’ said Augusto and then fell silent.

They carried on along the Calzada del Diez de Octubre until they came to the junction with the Calzada Dolores. Here, Augusto stopped the cart and pointed out the neighbourhoods: to the north Regla, to the east San Miguel del Padrón and to the south a district known as Arroyo Naranjo. They had left El Cerro behind, he said; once you turned the corner and headed down the Calzada Dolores, you came to Barrio Lawton, which was where he lived.

My grandparents thanked Augusto and said goodbye to little Pilar, then quietly stepped down from the cart. They stood there waving, but still Augusto’s cart did not move. The
habanero
lit up his pipe and stared out at the horizon like a man in no hurry to be somewhere. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty minutes later, Augusto was still in the same spot.

‘Tell me, Señor Augusto, you wouldn’t know where we might find work and perhaps a place to stay?’ asked Gertrudis shyly.

The man turned and smiled at my grandmother. ‘Of course I would. Why do you think I have been sitting here waiting for you to ask? I have a perfect solution. As long as you like laundry, of course. And boxing, obviously.’

My grandparents glanced at each other.

‘Well, there is no problem as far as laundry is concerned,’ said Grandpa Benicio, ‘but I don’t know about boxing . . .’

‘We love it, we love boxing,’ said Gertrudis, pinching my grandfather.

‘Well, that settles it then. Welcome to my house,’ said Augusto enthusiastically, and my grandparents clambered into the back of the cart once more.