Pig's Foot (35 page)

I asked what was happening and Palmito explained that it was simply Wije Alberto up to his usual tricks. A
wije
's laugh was contagious, he added, it could infect everyone around him. I thought of how Grandma Gertrudis died of a fit of laughing and wondered if perhaps a
wije
had snuck into our house and triggered the laugh that finally caused her heart to burst.

I asked whether Wije was his name or whether he was actually a spirit of
santería
.

‘He is a true
wije
,' said Palmito.

‘But surely such things don't exist,' I said.

‘This is Pata de Puerco,' said the Kortico, ‘a village where anything is possible.'

Next to arrive was Reverend Carlos, a white, freckle-faced man of about fifty who wore a cassock and carried a thick book. He seemed gentle and serene. He had spent his whole life waiting for my arrival, he told me, and now that I was here he did not know whether to laugh or cry. Last came a fat woman who looked Chinese and her twin boys. Her jet-black hair was tied into a long mane like a Shaolin monk and she and her sons wore ornate embroidered kimonos.

Taken as a group, I realised, the Allies represented the ethnic make-up of the Cuban people: black, white, Asian. All that was needed was a couple of native Cuban aborigines to complete the group. I felt as though I were in a fairy tale where reality and fantasy were woven together by some higher power. This curious place seemed to be the embodiment of someone's dream. Then something happened that shook me from my trance.

‘Señores!' I shouted and everyone turned. ‘The Nicotinas you mentioned . . . Do they look like Indians, with bronzed complexions and feathers in their hair?'

Everyone rushed to where I stood, their faces frozen in fear.

‘The Nicotinas!' shouted Palmito. ‘Hurry!'

Atanasio's body was carried back into the wooden house while I gazed at the group of Indians bearing down on us like a herd of buffalo. They stopped at the chalk line dividing the two factions. The leader of this group of seven men was immediately obvious. Pablo, as I discovered he was called, was the most physically powerful; his lips were curled into a rictus grin, his body was covered with scars and he had the arrogant, authoritarian air common to leaders. He wore leather breeches and sandals and about his throat were strings of crocodile teeth and antlers. He reminded me of a picture I'd once seen of a Taíno Cacique chief – Hatuey or perhaps Guamá. The youngest of the group was called Iván; he had the same muscular physique, the same bronzed complexion and, like his chief, he wore his hair in a ponytail adorned with feathers. When he laughed, he brayed like a donkey. The other men wore similar outfits, but were leaner and did not seem to be related.

Pablo began by announcing that this was an auspicious day, since old Atanasio had finally kicked the bucket. His words were like a body blow to me: nothing could be more cruel than to mock a man who had just died. I felt it particularly, having recently lost my whole family.

Reverend Carlos looked up into the grey skies and asked whether Pablo and his troop were getting some sun or whether they had come to offer their condolences.

‘Carlos, what a pleasure to see you,' said Pablo mockingly. ‘I won't deny that marking the death of a Kortico is one of my favourite pastimes. Atanasio's death is terribly sad, though a little unexceptional since, to die, a man need do nothing but be alive.'

Palmito stepped towards the Nicotinas and said that it was sadder still that there were people who wanted to rule for ever.

‘It's the most tedious thing in this world,' said Lucumí.

At that point, Iván, the youngest of the Indians, almost stepped across the chalk line.

‘Some day soon all the Korticos will be dead,' he growled menacingly, ‘the Nicotinas will inherit the four pig's feet and we shall see whether wielding power is tedious. But why should we wait – why don't we find out today?'

With these words Iván Nicotina drew his machete while his comrades drew crowbars and baseball bats. The Kortico Allies moved into position, preparing for hand-to-hand combat. None of them were armed. Lucumí handed me a machete then dropped his trousers, grabbed his penis in both hands and roared defiantly that it would be interesting to see whether his prick or Iván's crowbar caused more pain.

‘Listen, Pablo, we don't want any trouble,' said Palmito. ‘You have crossed the chalk line into our territory but that we can forgive . . .'

‘
Your
territory? This whole area, from the sicklebushes to the north to the sicklebushes to the south, was discovered by my grandfather, Alfonso Nicotina, the one true hunter of the magic pig, which means that this land belongs to his descendants. But I did not come to talk about that, nor about the death of Atanasio. I heard you have a new ally, a certain Oscar Mandinga. Is this true?'

‘A new ally? And who told you that?' said Palmito.

‘I may not be able to read destinies, but I have my spies.'

‘Then tell your spies to check their sources. The only new ally we have is Napoleon, our newborn crocodile.'

Pablo's face became a mask of fury, the veins in his neck stood out, his eyes bulged as though he was about to explode.

‘How dare you give such a distinguished name to such a lowly beast?'

And so the battle began. Pablo launched himself at Palmito, Iván swung out at Lucumí with his machete, Reverend Carlos engaged in fisticuffs with one of the Nicotinas while Monsieur Julián pinned another in the mud and Lucumí beat his opponents with his penis. The women fought just as viciously. I simply stood, frozen, and did nothing. I racked my brain, trying to think of some way I might help these people who believed I was the heir to the last pig's foot, the saviour destined to bring peace to this muddy world called Cuba. I was sick to death of all the Machados, all the Batistas, sick of the Communists, of Masferrer's Tigers, of the March of the Combatant People, the power cuts, the refugees throwing themselves into the sea, I was sick to death of history and the way it had of repeating itself.

Suddenly I realised there was only one way to resolve the situation: the leader of the Nicotinas had to be neutralised once and for all.

That's how I came to smash Pablo Nicotina's face in. I split his head in two, and let me tell you I don't regret doing it. That is what I told Commissioner Clemente when he and his whiteshirts came and dragged me off the battlefield.

And that's all there is to tell. Though you might not believe it and though it might not look like it, I am not a man of violence. But there are times when a man has to do what he has to do and take the consequences.

The Interrogation

‘
So, tell me, Señor Ulises.’

‘Ulises? My name is Oscar.’ I spat the words at chrome-dome Clemente.

The first thing Commissioner Clemente did was to lock me in this miserable little cell, this termites’ nest, this ramshackle hovel with snot-green paint daubed over the walls and on to the filthy floor. Commissioner Clemente and his three henchmen sat on one side of the dark wood table, I sat facing them. A wary cockroach scuttled up the wall behind the only whiteshirt not wearing sunglasses, a guy with piercing eyes like a Catholic inquisitor. A malevolent feeling hung in the air, swirling around me as though I were not the heir to Yusi the Warrior who had just freed my country, but a terrorist who had just colonised it.

The four men studied me for several minutes in silence, an impenetrable, endless silence made worse by those eyes as sharp as spears that drilled into my pupils. Then Clemente ordered his men to leave us alone and the whiteshirts got to their feet and left.

Clemente bombarded me with questions, wanting to know my name, where I was from, my age, the names of my parents, a whole shitload of stuff. I duly answered all his questions and I also told him
my
truth, the history of Pata de Puerco, just as I have told it to you. When I’d finished, I asked Clemente whether I might have some food and the commissioner got to his feet and yelled, ‘Margarita! Margarita!’, then sat down again.

‘A fascinating story,’ Clemente said. ‘The most fascinating story I’ve heard in years. You tell it with such conviction, such passion, that I almost want to move to Pata de Puerco. I feel as though I know these characters personally: José, Betina, Oscar Kortico, Atanasio.’

It was not a story, I told him, the characters were people who really existed. The commissioner narrowed his eyes and jotted something down in his red notebook.

‘I’ve no doubt that you believe it to be true,’ he said. ‘Such a tale requires considerable imagination, not to mention talent, though you should be careful to whom you tell it . . . some of your political comments are a little sensitive. Even so, I find it difficult to believe this place called Pata de Puerco, with pygmies called Korticos, a talking pig and
wijes
, ever existed.’

‘Not existed, it
exists
,’ I said, feeling blood rush to my face.

‘All right, that such a place
exists
somewhere near Santiago,’ said Clemente. ‘Still, you must admit it is curious that your father Melecio supposedly knew Emilio Bacardí, that he supposedly invented the art-deco style, designing the Bacardí Building in Havana, that he supposedly drew up the plans for a town called Cabeza de Carnero – a place I’ve never heard of in my life.’

‘Not “
supposedly
invented”, Señor Clemente,’ I interrupted him. ‘He
did
invent the art-deco style, he
did
design the Bacardí Building and he
did
plan the town you just mentioned.’

‘I’ve always believed that the architect of the Bacardí Building was Rafael Fernández Ruenes,’ Clemente said.

‘That’s what the bastard wants everyone to believe,’ I said. ‘He stole the blueprints from my father Melecio and put his name on them.’

‘So, tell me, Señor Ulises . . .’

‘Why do you keep calling me that?’ I snapped. ‘My name is Oscar.’

‘Tell me, Señor Oscar, where does this fixation with mud come from? I mean you were conceived in mud in a village of mud, you slid down your mother’s legs into the mud, your namesake Oscar Kortico had sex with Malena in the mud, Melecio lost his virginity to María in the mud . . . I’ve never heard the like of it.’

‘It’s not a fixation, it’s what happened to my ancestors,’ I almost screamed.

‘Don’t upset yoursel
f
’, Clemente said. ‘I simply find it difficult to believe that as a child you had to be put in a basin of mud to calm you down, just as I find it hard to credit the idea that four pig’s feet could determine the future of Cuba. Come now, even you have to admit that part is a little far-fetched.’

I said it was all true: all the stuff about the basin and the aforementioned pig’s feet.

‘Aforementioned . . . what a lovely word. What a man, what a way you have with words. Anyone might think you were a writer,’ said Clemente. I ignored this remark and said nothing.

‘Well, excuse me, Ulises – I mean Oscar – excuse me, but I have to be honest with you. Your story seems a little melodramatic. You are obviously an educated man, that much is obvious from your lucid account of Cuban history. Yet your story is full of contradictions, of inconsistencies that could only come from a disturbed mind. Take the murderer Pilar García, for example. It’s interesting that you assume a murderer like that could forgive anyone.’

‘A murderer is still a man, Señor Clemente. Are you telling me that a murderer can never feel compassion?’

‘That’s not what concerns me,’ said Clemente, adjusting his glasses. ‘A murderer is still a man, in that you are absolutely right. What is abnormal is that someone should seek to vindicate a murderer, and I feel it explains much. The hatred in your story is palpable. And yet there are episodes of extraordinary tenderness. All that stuff about wanting to unite the country by bringing the four pig’s feet together, Melecio’s eagerness to build villages with paved roads and brick houses, is very pretty.’

‘As pretty as the primrose way that leads to the everlasting bonfire?’

‘Bravo! Another charming expression,’ exclaimed Clemente. ‘What poetry! What a man! Are you sure you’re not a writer?’

Again, I said nothing.

‘Tell me, Señor Mandinga, are you sure that your grandfather taught Kid Chocolate to box and KO’d Rolando Masferrer?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘But you surely realise that there are no direct descendants of Satan, that such a thing is impossible.’

‘I believe what Atanasio said about the Nicotinas. There are many people in those parts with the devil’s blood coursing through their veins. I think it is possible.’

At this point the bastard burst out laughing and said I was truly a fascinating specimen, the most fascinating he had encountered in his long career as a psychiatrist.

‘Are you a doctor?’ I asked.

‘A psychiatric doctor, to be precise,’ said Clemente.

When I told him I thought he was the leader of the Cuban branch of the Ku Klux Klan, his eyes narrowed again and he scribbled something in his little red notebook. I asked again about some food and he called for Margarita. A scream came echoing back down the corridors, the metallic shriek of an old man’s voice. I opened my eyes questioningly and asked where I was, what this place was.