Pig's Foot: A Novel Part 12

'Don't worry, senora, you've more than paid your fare simply by listening to me. You've no idea how long it's been since I got to tell the story of Pepe Antonio and all that stuff back there. Living alone has its compensations, but you get used to not talking and little by little you start to forget everything. Let's get you settled into your room.'

Augusto helped them with their luggage, then showed them the bathroom and the kitchen. Then he excused himself, explaining that he would be right back but first he had to deal with the cart, and he headed outside, whistling a little tune.

'I can't believe our luck,' said Grandma Gertrudis as she stared at a real bathroom for the first time in her life, a genuine bathroom with tiles and a shower, with a mirror and a privy. It was a little early to be celebrating, Grandfather said, because from what they had seen and from the stories Augusto had told them, Havana was a h.e.l.lhole. By now, night was drawing in. The mango and the avocado trees cast dark shadows over the house, shadows whose tentacles slithered into the rooms. When they were finally tired of exploring, they lay down in their room and made love.

When they woke the following morning, my grandparents found a mouthwatering breakfast waiting on the table: boiled eggs, b.u.t.tered toast, tropical fruits, orange juice and coffee, all carefully set out on a red tablecloth. In the middle of the table was a jug filled with brilliant flowers. They were so hungry they could have devoured everything in a single mouthful, but instead they called out to Augusto to ask whether he was expecting guests or whether the breakfast was intended for them. Their host was nowhere to be found. So they decided to stroll through the courtyard filled with fruit trees, to wander through the kitchen and the bathroom to check that what they had seen the day before had not simply been a dream. Grandma Gertrudis reached out to touch the bathroom tiles one by one. Then they went back to their bedroom.

Two hours later Augusto arrived back with another man and found the table exactly as he had left it.

'What . . . what happened . . . ?' he said, knocking at the door of my grandparents' room.

'It's just . . . we weren't sure who the food was for,' said Grandma Gertrudis.

'For G.o.d's sake, Gertrudis, I don't want you fading away while you're living in my house. Now go eat the breakfast before it spoils.'

My grandparents went into the living room and saw Augusto's friend, who immediately doffed his Bolshevik hat and introduced himself as El Judio the Jew. He was as pale and bald as Augusto, but shorter than their host and had a large aquiline nose which permanently propped up a pair of spectacles; he had a curious manner of walking on tiptoe, his heels hardly touching the ground, which made it seem as though he moved on springs. He was about forty years old, the same age as his friend.

El Judio shook Grandmother's hand, bowing deeply and complimenting her appearance which he described as beautiful. Grandmother smiled shyly. Then he shook Grandfather's hands and carefully studied them as though they were bedecked with jewels.

'You see what I mean?' said Augusto, clapping his friend on the back.

Grandfather asked if there was something wrong with his hands and El Judio replied that they were magnificent and that, at first glance, they signalled a great future. Benicio looked at Gertrudis. Then he said that he had something he needed to confess; Augusto had been more than generous to them, he said, and he felt they could not lie or keep secrets from him. The truth, he admitted, was that these supposedly magnificent hands had never touched a bar of soap; his hands had never laundered so much as a pair of underpants.

Augusto and El Judio burst out laughing.

'Nor have mine,' said Augusto, and once again he bid them go and eat the food, he told them to take their time but that he would be waiting for them outside with the cart so that they could all go to the laundry which was only a few blocks from here. My grandparents waited until Augusto had stepped out into the hallway, and El Judio had bounded after him, then they fell upon the food like animals. They did not leave so much as a crumb of bread behind.

They drove down the Calle Armas. The day was sunny and the gentle breeze cooled their skin, a blissful relief from the sweltering heat. Along the way, my grandparents noticed that the throngs of people were even more numerous than they had been the night before. Morning is when one can really see people go about their business in Barrio Lawton. Hundreds and hundreds of people walking up and down the street, stopping off at baker's and butcher's, children heading to school, hawkers dragging carts behind them, men weaving straw hats. The neighbourhood teemed with life and my grandparents could see little difference between Barrio Lawton and the centre of Havana other than that there were fewer imposing buildings and fewer people dressed in finery pa.s.sing in expensive cars.

Something else they noticed was the level of deference and respect, as though, in spite of the obvious divisions between social cla.s.ses, everyone was keenly aware of the position of everyone else. Respect was something my grandparents were always talking about, lamenting the fact that all the magic words and the courteous phrases of yesteryear had long since disappeared. They were very critical of the modern world. For example, they used to tell me that in the old days, in spite of their poverty, paupers would say 'good day' and 'thank you' and use words like 'please' and phrases like 'if you would be so kind', and they doffed their hats to women. There was a pleasing harmony about things, though this was superficial since the reality, as I'm sure you know, is that back then the effects of slavery, and all the suffering it caused, were still keenly felt. Even so, a certain respect prevailed between people. My grandparents were quietly drinking in all these new sights when suddenly they heard something surprising.

'Did you know that the first European to set foot on Cuban soil was a Jew?' asked El Judio, turning in his seat to look at my grandparents.

'Oh, no,' said Augusto, raising his eyes to heaven. 'Here we go again.'

'There's no "Here we go again" about it, Augusto. They need to know these things. It is part of every Cuban's education,' said the man and lit a fat cigar.

My grandparents looked at him, puzzled. A cloud of smoke billowed towards them. They did their best to waft it away, but the little man went on puffing and blowing smoke as though he had not noticed.

'This is the story. The first person to set foot on Cuban soil was a man named Luis de Torres, a converted Jew, what are commonly called Marranos. Luis de Torres was sent as an interpreter to accompany Christopher Columbus. He spoke four languages including Spanish which is why Columbus asked him to go ash.o.r.e when he was exploring, looking for the Cuban king. Obviously, what they found were Indians. They also found something else. Can you guess what it was?'

'Come now, that's enough. Leave them alone, I'm sure Benicio and Gertrudis don't even know what a Jew is.'

El Judio's face took on a look of shock as though he had just seen a green cat jump on to the cart, as though the sky had suddenly fallen in.

'You don't know what a Jew is?'

'Of course they don't know,' said Augusto. 'No one in Cuba knows.'

'What are you saying, Augusto? This is sacrilege. There are more than eight thousand Jews in Cuba, we have synagogues and even our own cemetery. A Cuban who does not know the meaning of the word Jew is a heretic.' As he said this, El Judio blessed himself three times.

'And what exactly is a Jew, senor?' asked Gertrudis, frowning. 'We thought Judio was your name.'

'It is my name. Judio Aleman is my name it means German Jew. And it so happens I am a German Jew.'

'What you are is a German-Jewish pain in the a.s.s,' roared Augusto and my grandparents laughed.

'That's not funny, Augusto. Every Cuban should know the history of the Jews, especially you since you are my friend. It's not just the story of Luis de Torres; through history many Jews have contributed to the wealth of our country.'

'Explain it to us, then,' and he jerked the horse's reins, bringing the cart to a juddering halt.

'Explain what?'

'What exactly is a Jew?'

My grandparents looked at the short, hook-nosed man curiously.

'Very well,' said El Judio. He adjusted his spectacles and cracked his knuckles as though about to undertake a task that required great strength. 'Well, in the first place, a Jew is a person, or rather it refers to a group of people; well actually they are a nation from far away on a different continent where they don't have b.u.t.tered toast for breakfast, instead they have shakshouka which is eggs poached in lots of spicy tomato sauce. Jews don't care much for exploitation because they have been exploited throughout history. The Jew is an honest and intelligent man who likes to pray, but he does not pray to Chango or to Jesus Christ or to any of the G.o.ds people believe in here in Cuba, but to a different G.o.d, and above all, Jews like success . . .'

Judio Aleman concluded his explanation and inhaled a deep puff of smoke, smiling all the while, satisfied with his line of reasoning. Grandma Gertrudis knitted her brows again and Grandpa Benicio glanced at Augusto, who, he realised, had also not understood a word of this explanation.

'Is that it? Is that what Jew means?'

'That's what it means,' said his friend.

Augusto exclaimed that this was the most preposterous twaddle he had heard in all his life. Everyone prayed, everyone liked success and no one liked exploitation, which, by his friend's description, would mean that the whole world was Jewish. He pulled a face and explained to my grandparents that his friend liked to play the fine gentleman in front of guests when in fact at home he had an Elegua altar with a dead chicken and believed in Chango and all the African G.o.ds that real Jews deny. His friend was angered by these comments and brusquely stubbed out his cigar.

The first thing they saw when they got to the laundry was a large sign with the words 'El Buen Vivir' The Good Life in red and green letters above a large metal shutter which protected the premises at night against thieves. Augusto took a key from his pocket and opened the padlock, then gave a sharp tug and the metal shutter coiled up inside the top sh.e.l.l as though it were a snail.

Inside, there was a wooden counter set against a black wall which Grandma Gertrudis thought looked very depressing. On the wall hung a blackboard on which was written: 'The Good Life begins and ends here. It can be yours for just a few reales.'

Grandfather helped to unload the soap powder and the various chemicals used for washing, and stepped into the back of the shop only to realise it was a dingy little room measuring barely eighteen feet by twenty full of sacks of laundry, sacks of coal, blocks of wood and, right in the middle, a huge machine that looked like a concrete mixer you see everywhere these days. The room gave on to a courtyard where a dozen ropes and wires suspended at different heights were simply washing lines on which to dry the clothes.

After they had inspected the brown-tiled floor and yellow-stained walls and after they had brought in all the laundry, my grandparents asked Augusto where the wash trough was. It was right in front of them, he said, pointing to the concrete mixer in the middle of the room. The rickety appliance consisted of a cylindrical steel drum mounted on a rectangular frame, also made of steel, which was set over a pit in which was a water heater: a coal fire. The drum had a window through which one pushed the clothes and once this was closed you only had to crank the handle in order to turn the drum.

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 Judio, but n.o.body 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 Judio 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 Judio and my grandparents were like a family.

How People Marry.

One day, some weeks after my grandparents' arrival in Havana, El Judio 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 t.i.ts.'

Benicio burst out laughing. El Judio adjusted his spectacles and kept a straight face.

'The smell is coming from that sack there. Could you pa.s.s it over to me?'

Grandfather walked over and brought the sack to El Judio who rummaged through the clothes until he found a huge orange bra. He pressed his nose into the cups of the bra.s.siere and began to inhale. As he did this, he rolled his eyes back until they were white. These were the t.i.ts of Marta the Jew, he explained, and the smell of them drove him wild.

'd.a.m.n it, Judio, 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 b.u.t.t and cried: 'This!'

According to El Judio, 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 Judio lit the cigar b.u.t.t 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 Malecon. When they arrived, Augusto asked for someone named Pincho Gutierrez. Ten minutes later, a man who introduced himself as Jesus Losada appeared and led them down a narrow corridor to the ring where the boxers were sparring and warming up. Pincho Gutierrez came over to them, looking worried.

'What's going on?' asked Augusto.

'Our sparring partner hasn't shown up,' said Pincho Gutierrez. 'The Kid has got no one to warm up with.'

Augusto introduced the man to his friends. Gutierrez bowed to Gertrudis, shook hands with El Judio 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. Gutierrez 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 Judio kept punching Benicio on the arm and nodding.

'I'm sure that someone would have some use for ten pesos,' added Gutierrez.

'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 Gutierrez 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 Gutierrez, looking horrified and open-mouthed, rushed to the ringside with Augusto and El Judio.

'h.e.l.l, Benicio, you KO'd him!' roared Pincho Gutierrez, 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 Gutierrez 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 Judio 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 f.u.c.ked up these days. Still, my grandparents insisted that things were even more f.u.c.ked up back then, that Machado was a son of a b.i.t.c.h just like Commissioner Clemente.

I agree with what Bacardi 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 inst.i.tuted a ma.s.sive 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 wh.o.r.es 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.