It was very simple, the
habanero
explained. All they had to do was light the fire which heated the water, feed the clothes into the drum, add some soap powder and turn the handle.
‘This also was invented by a Jew, this machine,’ said El Judío, but nobody paid him any heed. Augusto continued to explain: after half an hour, the laundry had to be taken out and rinsed in one of the drums out in the courtyard and then hung out to dry.
‘And people pay to have their clothes washed?’ asked Grandma Gertrudis.
‘Of course, we almost always get a full sack every day,’ said Augusto, pointing to the laundry sacks on the floor. And not only did they wash clothes, he added, they ironed them using five-pound flatirons that needed to be placed in the fire until they were red hot. The laundry business was still new and needed time before it took off, but in general, the customers always left satisfied and invariably returned with more bags of dirty clothes.
‘To address Benicio’s earlier concern,’ said Augusto, ‘as you can see for yourselves, thanks to this machine neither of us have ever had our hands in a wash trough.’ And with that he clapped twice and everyone got to work.
Grandpa Benicio turned the handle, my grandmother dried the laundry in the courtyard and ironed it while Augusto manned the counter, dealing with customers, and El Judío ran the cart, fetching and carrying laundry supplies. This was how The Good Life was run.
They started early every morning and finished at nightfall, making it exhausting work. In his first week there, Grandpa Benicio realised why no one had ever lasted working in the laundry. It required almost superhuman strength to spend all day turning the heavy handle. And the pay was meagre. Even so my grandparents were profoundly grateful to Augusto, the white man who had offered work and lodging to two black people from the country he had only just met. Not everyone is so generous and so they never protested. They never complained but welcomed this new life with the same enthusiasm they welcomed this new city. Within a few short weeks, Augusto, El Judío and my grandparents were like a family.
One day, some weeks after my grandparents’ arrival in Havana, El Judío took advantage of a moment when Grandma was hanging out laundry in the courtyard to ask my grandfather whether he could smell something.
‘Smell what?’ said Grandfather, still turning the drum filled with washing.
‘Sweaty tits.’
Benicio burst out laughing. El Judío adjusted his spectacles and kept a straight face.
‘The smell is coming from that sack there. Could you pass it over to me?’
Grandfather walked over and brought the sack to El Judío who rummaged through the clothes until he found a huge orange bra. He pressed his nose into the cups of the brassière and began to inhale. As he did this, he rolled his eyes back until they were white. These were the tits of Marta the Jew, he explained, and the smell of them drove him wild.
‘Damn it, Judío, you’re such a pervert,’ said Augusto, clipping him round the head. ‘Now get your hands off the customers’ clothes and stop messing around.’
‘What was the other thing Luis de Torres discovered when he arrived in Cuba?’ asked Grandpa and watched as the man’s face lit up. The little Jew flung his arms around Grandfather’s waist exclaiming that he knew all was not lost. He rummaged in his pocket, fished out a cigar butt and cried: ‘This!’
According to El Judío, this man named Luis de Torres had been much impressed when he saw the native Cubans smoking; he was responsible for bringing tobacco to Europe and for the first agricultural plantations on American soil. El Judío lit the cigar butt and Grandpa waved the billowing clouds of smoke from his face. The little man looked at his hands, mesmerised. ‘Tell me, Benicio, have you never been bitten by the boxing bug? Because with your build and those hands you could fight the great heavyweight Jack Johnson.’
Grandpa replied that, having had a violent past he did not care to think about, he had sworn never again to punch anyone, unless the man deserved it.
‘That’s what you say now. Let’s see what you think when you see the tough guy from El Cerro who’s recently come on the scene,’ said Augusto, fishing four tickets from his pocket.
They quickly despatched the washing and the ironing for the day and at five p.m. they closed the laundry. Benicio told Gertrudis that it would be better for her to stay at the house, that women were not accepted at boxing matches, but Grandma said that she would not miss it for the world.
The boxing ring was on the Explanada de la Punta near the Malecón. When they arrived, Augusto asked for someone named Pincho Gutiérrez. Ten minutes later, a man who introduced himself as Jesús Losada appeared and led them down a narrow corridor to the ring where the boxers were sparring and warming up. Pincho Gutiérrez came over to them, looking worried.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Augusto.
‘Our sparring partner hasn’t shown up,’ said Pincho Gutiérrez. ‘The Kid has got no one to warm up with.’
Augusto introduced the man to his friends. Gutiérrez bowed to Gertrudis, shook hands with El Judío and lastly with my grandfather. He stood staring for a moment at Grandpa, then glanced back at Augusto.
‘I know what you’re thinking but no, Benicio is not interested in boxing,’ said Augusto and handed him an immaculately ironed white linen suit. It was on the house, he said. Gutiérrez was still staring at Grandfather.
‘
Oye
, Augusto, don’t take this the wrong way but could you persuade Benicio here to take a few punches?’
Augusto shrugged. Benicio looked at Gertrudis. El Judío kept punching Benicio on the arm and nodding.
‘I’m sure that someone would have some use for ten pesos,’ added Gutiérrez.
‘Ten pesos!’ cried Gertrudis.
Ten minutes later, Grandpa Benicio was in the boxing ring kitted out in blue shorts and black boxing gloves. There were a few people gathered around the ring who clapped as a black boy of about five foot six climbed over the ropes. His arrival was greeted by wild cheers and my grandfather realised that this was no ordinary boxer. The boy had slicked his hair back with so much brilliantine it was blinding; he had the sleek, silky skin of a horse and a face that betrayed not a hint of violence. He looked to be about seventeen.
‘Listen, Kid, my friend Benicio here is going to be your sparring partner today. He’s never boxed in his life, so go easy on him, OK? And you, Benicio, you don’t need to do anything, just roll with the punches, all right?’ Pincho Gutiérrez climbed out of the ring. The two boxers were formally announced. The Kid told my grandfather he was happy to take a few punches, but to only throw a punch when he was asked. They touched gloves and the sparring match began.
The Kid started laying into Benicio from all directions like he was a punchbag.
‘The little bastard hit me hard,’ Grandpa would tell me years later. He had the speed of a panther and a jab that could inflict serious damage. My grandfather did as he had been asked; he took the punches and tried to make sure they did as little damage as possible.
At some point his opponent said, ‘Now punch me.’
‘You want me to punch you?’
‘Yeah, punch me.’
Benicio hit out, landing a harmless punch to the Kid’s chest.
‘Harder!’ said the Kid, throwing a jab at my grandfather’s face.
Benicio threw a left hook, putting a little more force behind it this time.
‘Harder!’ yelled the Kid.
So Grandpa did as he was asked, lashing out with his right fist and landing a punch on Kid Chocolate that sent him sprawling, unconscious, to the mat.
The audience leapt to their feet, hands above their heads. Pincho Gutiérrez, looking horrified and open-mouthed, rushed to the ringside with Augusto and El Judío.
‘Hell, Benicio, you KO’d him!’ roared Pincho Gutiérrez, signalling to someone to fetch a bucket of water which he threw over the unconscious boy.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ mumbled the Kid a few seconds later. He shook the water from his hair like a wet dog then scrabbled to his feet. The audience clapped and cheered.
‘It’s my fault. I told him to hit me. But, Benicio, I told you to punch me, not fire a cannonball at me!’ the Kid said, smiling. Pincho Gutiérrez relaxed. ‘Guess I’m ready for the fight now,’ said Kid Chocolate. My grandfather apologised again. He took off his gloves and his boxing shorts and sat down next to Gertrudis who kissed him and told him she was proud that her man was a real man.
It goes without saying that the champion won the fight that night, defeating Pablito Blanco with a KO in the seventh round. But to tell the truth it was like Augusto and El Judío didn’t even see the fight. They spent the drive home talking about the miraculous right hook by my grandpa Benicio that had knocked out Kid Chocolate, a boxer who not only never lost a fight but one on whom few fighters managed to land a blow, or even muss up his hair. The next day the champion went to visit Grandfather to ask him how he did it. Grandpa said it was easy, that all he had to do was follow the left jab with a right hook. And showed him. ‘You see, it’s easy. Try it.’
The champion took Grandpa’s advice; he did a quick one-two, followed by a right hook.
‘That’s the way, Choco! Cross and hook! Cross and hook, Choco!’ Benicio cheered him on, but when he suggested they practise it together, Kid Chocolate said better not, it was getting late and he had to go. ‘But I’ll see you around,’ said the champion and, having thanked Grandpa again, he sauntered down the street, punching the air and chanting, ‘Cross and hook, Choco! Cross and hook, Choco!’
Much was said later about Kid Chocolate’s boxing style, about how he had learned his moves watching movie footage of Joe Gans and all that. But anyone who really knows the story knows: Kid Chocolate learned to box from my grandpa Benicio.
These were the years when Machado was president, the years which, according to my grandparents, brought terrible misery to Cuba. That’s what they used to say. It’s also what it says in the history books because obviously I wasn’t alive back then and I’m guessing you weren’t either. All I can think about is how things are these days, about the hundreds of
balseros
jumping into the sea with rafts or inner tubes or anything that floats desperate to get away from this country, about the power cuts and the shortages and, the way I see it, things are just as fucked up these days. Still, my grandparents insisted that things were even more fucked up back then, that Machado was a son of a bitch just like Commissioner Clemente.
I agree with what Bacardí said, that no one is absolutely good or absolutely evil, we’re all a combination of both, a whole that is flawed and sometimes stinking, and that we should be proud of the fact because it is inasmuch as we are imperfect that we achieve perfection, if you take into account the fact that we expect human beings to be imperfect. I’m telling you this because I’m the most cynical, selfish guy on the planet, the sort of guy who sticks his nose into other people’s lives; I’m filthy, I’m pedantic, I’d even say I’m a yob. But there’s one thing in my favour: I can say ‘I was wrong’. Don’t laugh, not everyone has the guts to be able to say ‘I was wrong’ and really mean it.
My grandparents also used to tell me that when Machado was president, he instituted a massive programme of public works, improving roads, building aqueducts, drainage systems, schools and hospitals. He built the vast stone staircase of the University of Havana and the stadium, the Capitol, the Parque de la Fraternidad and the Carretera Central. Of course the guy stole loads of cash while he was at it. But as you know, stealing is nothing new, particularly not now.
Someone who works in a paint factory survives on the paint he steals every day. The same is true of someone who works in a tobacco plant, or as a builder. Engineers have no choice but to work as taxi drivers; doctors don’t steal, but they prioritise patients who can give them presents – a bottle of perfume or a crate of beer; even young people are abandoning their studies because they suspect their careers will not provide for them financially in the future. That’s why so many of them are becoming whores and rent boys because it’s the only way they’ll ever know what a disco is, or visit Varadero, and so it goes on, it all becomes a never-ending chain. Everyone steals. I stole a pile of fruit from my neighbours, I even stole a watch.
Now the Romans, for example, they gave the world architectural wonders like the Coliseum using stolen money. The Vatican was built with stolen money. The Medicis in ancient Florence built their kingdoms on stolen money. The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, Big Ben, all of these wonders were made possible by money stolen from the people. With the sweat and toil of the oppressed. A friend of mine says that what’s important is not work, but what you become through work, because at the end of the day all men die, but their work lives on in spite of the suffering and the sacrifice. Just tell me, who in Cuba doesn’t admire the majestic Capitolio? What’s really sad is when, as years go by, a government’s legacy is barely noticed.
Obviously this doesn’t change the fact that Machado was a bare-faced thief and Augusto was right when he said the man gave him the creeps. He already sensed something was amiss, but he had no idea how bad things would get.
One day, in 1929, Augusto showed up with a face like a slapped arse and a copy of the newspaper. My grandparents asked what was wrong, but Augusto didn’t say anything. El Judío took the paper from him and read aloud that Julio Antonio Mella had been assassinated in Mexico. Alfredo López, leader of the Confederation of Cuban Workers, had also been murdered.