Pig's Foot (34 page)

Atanasio held out his hand and I stared at it for a long time. I glanced around at the placid animals, the green plumage of the birds in the trees, the sicklebush, the mud. I had nothing to lose: no one would miss me, no one would weep for me. I shook Atanasio's huge hand and he smiled and with uncontrollable excitement said: ‘Welcome to Pata de Puerco.'

 

We sat down again and Atanasio told me a curious tale similar to the one my grandfather had told me. He talked about the founding of Santiago in 1515 by Diego Velázquez, about the first shipments of Korticos that arrived in Cuba in 1700 when this place was known simply as ‘the great forest'. Then all three men stood up, dropped their trousers and showed me how their dicks dangled down into the mud. ‘It is known as Elephant's Trunk Syndrome, and it is just one of our many curses,' said Atanasio as the men pulled up their trousers.

Atanasio talked about his ancestors who were despised even by the other Negroes, who had been slaves among slaves until the birth of Yusi.

‘Yusi the Warrior? I thought that was a legend,' I said. It was no legend, Atanasio insisted, Yusi the Warrior had actually existed.

‘In those days, people said that Pata de Puerco was the lair of the devil himself,' Atanasio went on, ‘when in fact it was the most beautiful place in Oriente. There was no mud, no grey, it was an earthly paradise, but such magical places are not destined to survive. The calamity began with the killing of the magic pig.'

‘The magic pig?'

‘Yusi's closest friend. A creature of extraordinary powers which, besides being able to speak, could divine the fates of men. It was this creature who gave to this place the name by which it came to be known, Pata de Puerco.'

I leapt to my feet, my voice rising to a scream as I said this was all lies. The old man replied that all he could offer was
his
truth. There were many truths, he said; I had to open my mind to the possibilities.

‘You're telling me I should believe in this invisible village and this talking pig? Next you'll be telling me there are men made of nicotine . . .'

‘You are beginning to see,' said the old man.

‘See what?' I said, angry now.

The old man ignored my question.

‘In 1811, Yusi and the other slaves on his plantation rose up,' he said. ‘It was the first slave uprising in Cuba, one that would serve as an inspiration for the massive rebellion led by José Antonio Aponte in 1812, and it was upon the ruins of that plantation that the Santistebans would later build their house. Yusi met and married Mariana, a beautiful Mandinga woman, despite the warnings of the magical pig that such a union would have grave consequences, that the blood of a Kortico and a Mandinga should never be commingled. But by then, Mariana was already pregnant and there was nothing to be done.

‘Drawn by the legend of the magic pig, the Nicotinas began to arrive. Some claim they are the last descendants of the indigenous Guanahatabey from Baracoa, wiped out centuries before by Hernán Cortés. Others claim they are the spawn of Satan himself – a theory I personally favour.

‘The pig knew it was his destiny to die at the hands of the Nicotinas, and pleaded with Yusi not to fight. The Nicotinas seized the animal, slaughtered and devoured it, thereby acquiring the power to manipulate the minds of people and rule the country for ever. Foolishly, they threw away the feet and Yusi ended up in possession of the most important gift: the four pig's feet, which would once and for all ensure an end to the misery Cubans had suffered. For it is said that when the pig's feet are united everyone in Cuba would prosper.

‘The Nicotinas, logically, had to gain possession of the four feet since, otherwise, their chances of ruling the country for ever would disappear. So it was that Pata de Puerco was divided between two clans, the Nicotinas and the Korticos, and in that moment darkness descended, mud covered the trees and clouds blocked out the sun.

‘For a time, the pig's feet were all in one place and the country prospered. Mariana bore twins. One, my great-great-grandmother who gave birth to a daughter, my great-grandmother Macuta Uno, who in turn had two children: Macuta Dos, mother of Oscar, and Esteban, my grandfather, who was sold into slavery as a boy. And so the tainted blood went on coursing through veins until it reached me.

‘The four pig's feet were dispersed and Cuba's fortunes began to slide. Macuta Dos, Oscar's mamá, inherited one of the amulets and much of the tainted blood, which accounts for Mangaleno's terrible wickedness, for Oscar's temperament and for the violent past of your grandfather Benicio. The descendants of the Nicotinas also multiplied and with them the ancient hatred which has long blighted these lands of mud.

‘The struggle between the Korticos and the Nicotinas continued while we waited for the heir to the missing pig's foot to finally arrive. So you see, Oscar, our meeting is not the result of chance and coincidence. It was written in my destiny that I should meet you on the day I died and you would carry on my work here in Pata de Puerco. But before my hour comes, let me tell you one last thing.'

The old man led me back into the centre of this wasteland, where the mud was thickest, and, his voice quavering, he said, ‘When you arrived, everything here seemed dead to you because you were dead inside. But I would like to think that in the course of my tale some hope was kindled in your heart, for in such evil times as these only hope can lead to salvation. I leave you to the care of my brothers Palmito and Lucumí, knowing that one day you will heal the divisions in this land of mud and that the sun will once more shine on Pata de Puerco. I take this hope with me to my grave.'

With these words, Atanasio's body crumpled.

‘Señor! Atanasio!' I shouted, trying to revive him, but the old man's lips were sealed for ever. ‘Quick, we have to get help,' I cried frantically. No one listened.

‘This is his destiny,' said Palmito and Lucumí. In silence the two men walked over and kneeled by the body of Atanasio, they embraced him and said their goodbyes. Gradually, the animals gathered around the corpse. I stood and watched this ritual of men and animals who, incredibly, accepted death without grief. I thought about my grandparents, about Elena, and I felt my heart tighten. Then gradually I heard a rising murmur which I recognised as the animated sounds of a village, and when I looked up I saw a long street lined with houses and, in the distance, the majestic wooden belfry of the Casa de la Letra. I could just make out the chalk line that divided the rival factions and the distinctive stone well. I saw children, shopkeepers, street hawkers, farmers, craftsmen and labourers: all cloaked in the caramel colour of the mud.

‘I don't believe it,' I said, staring at this world that had suddenly appeared before my eyes. ‘There are houses, people, an entire village.'

‘Yes, yes, I know. But we have to hurry, the Nicotinas will be here soon,' said Palmito and asked me to help him lift Atanasio's body. Lucumí interrupted to say that I should be allowed to savour this moment of revelation since the Nicotinas could not cross the chalk line into Kortico territory without suffering the wrath of Commissioner Clemente. ‘Though to be honest,' Lucumí added, ‘I'd like to see Clemente give those sons of bitches a good beating.'

I asked who this Commissioner Clemente was.

‘The Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in Cuba, the most powerful man in this area, the man who maintains order in Pata de Puerco.'

‘Really?' I asked.

‘Really. Those he takes away rarely return,' said Palmito and explained that this was the war of the mute, of those without a voice.

‘The war of the mute?' I said.

‘The war of the oppressed,' said Palmito. ‘The Nicotinas oppress the Korticos and the Ku Klux Klan oppresses everyone.'

‘But no Cuban has ever belonged to the Ku Klux Klan,' I said. ‘Nothing like that has ever existed in Cuba.'

‘That's what they want us to believe,' said Palmito. ‘In fact, the Klan is everywhere. In Oriente, in Havana, in Pinar del Río. Artemisa is full of Klan leaders.'

‘Who?' I asked.

Palmito named three officials in the Politburo, and two directors of Televisión Cubana.

‘You're telling me the head of Cuban television is a member of the KKK?'

‘Of course. Have you ever seen a black person on television?'

‘Not many.'

‘And the few black people you do see are only on TV because racism and segregation are supposedly banned in Cuba,' said Palmito.

Looking down at Atanasio's body I asked if it was true that Korticos could foretell the future. Palmito explained that they could not see their destinies, but knew only the day when they would die. It appeared to them in a dream, he explained, hazy at first and shrouded in mist, but over time it took on colour and form like a photograph and they understood that they were seeing their own death.

‘What does it feel like, to know when you're going to die?'

‘Wonderful,' said Lucumí. ‘You have a better life, you're not afraid of lightning or diseases.'

‘What will you do with his body?' I said, looking at Lucumí who told me they would hold a wake and then burn the body according to Atanasio's wishes. In the meantime, Palmito said, people he called the Allies were coming to meet me.

‘To meet me, or to pay their respects?'

‘Both. But mostly to meet you,' said Palmito. ‘We all knew that our brother would die today, so we have long been preparing for this moment.'

I told him I found it strange they did not grieve for their brother, that his death did not make them sad. Of course he would miss Atanasio, Lucumí said, especially his terrible farts. And then he laughed. I don't know why, but he reminded me of Judío Alemán.

‘Don't pay my brother any mind, he's not as insensitive as he likes to make out,' said Palmito. ‘The thing is when you have lived your whole life embracing the prospect of death, you learn to accept its nature, and in time you feel no fear.'

I thought about the time I had climbed to the top of the FOCSA Building and not had the guts to jump. I had accepted the idea of death, but I had never been able to rid myself of the fear.

The three of us carried Atanasio's body into the house, into a narrow living room furnished with smooth rocks in place of chairs and a beer crate for a table. On the walls were animal figures cut from sackcloth and two crossed machetes. The only light came from lanterns filled with fireflies. The dank smell of mud crept across the wooden floor and mingled with the smell of mould. Surprisingly, the house was clean, but it was a spartan cleanliness that lacked the feminine touch, a sterility that evoked a monk's cell.

We wiped the mud from our feet, washed the dead man's body, dressed him in a white cotton shirt and beige trousers and brought him out on to the porch. People were beginning to arrive. First came a couple and their little girl, all dressed in sackcloth decorated with flowers, who introduced themselves as the Buenaventura family. They kneeled when they saw me and I begged them to get up. The little girl stood and handed me a parcel wrapped in banana leaves which contained sackcloth clothing like theirs. ‘My grandfather's suit,' she explained. ‘It is our greatest treasure.'

I thanked them as another couple arrived, looking for all the world like European royalty. The pale-skinned man, wearing a tuxedo, a waistcoat and a silk cravat, introduced himself as Monsieur Julián. ‘Thees is a
graaate
moment for our cause. Ze rebel Nicotinas will get what zey deserve,' he said. ‘
Ah, j'ai oublié
. . . This is Madame Mirriam.
Allez, dépêche-toi, Mirriam.
' The woman stepped forward, pale-skinned as her husband, wearing a light-blue colonial-era dress with a cinched waist and an alarming bustle. She wore a large hat and clutched a white silk kerchief.

I said that I did not realise there were foreigners in Pata de Puerco and Mirriam explained that her husband was from Guanabacoa and she from Regla; like me, they both came from Havana. Julián was tetchily interrupting, claiming they hailed from Paris, when Lucumí stepped forward to introduce a blonde woman of about forty with gentle eyes, silken lips, perfect teeth and a slim curvaceous body wearing a green dress, her hair swept back with a red rose pinned to one side.

‘Allow me to present Matilda,' said Lucumí, ‘the sweetest woman in these parts.'

I took the lady's hand; Matilda curtsied and then shyly withdrew. Lucumí winked at me and punched the air. I laughed, which had Monsieur Julián and his wife laughing too, the Buenaventuras hooted, their daughter stamped her feet and sniggered, Matilda giggled and threw up her hands. The hysterical laughter rose to become a symphony of treble and bass notes, of spittle and tears.

Only the Korticos retained any semblance of solemnity.

‘There, Lucumí, behind the palm tree,' said Palmito, pointing towards the tangle of undergrowth. Lucumí raced into the house, grabbed a machete from the wall and ran to where his brother had pointed.

‘Shut your mouth, you little bastard, or I'll slice you in two,' he roared, dragging a man who was shorter and blacker than himself, with bulging eyes like a frog, into the middle of the muddy circle.