Pig's Foot: A Novel Part 16

I looked at the pendant in disgust. The pig's foot was not dried and shrivelled, in fact seemed to be alive; the veins pulsed, the flesh was red and bled constantly. I fetched a damp cloth to wipe up the blood inside the drawer and on the floor then ran back into the kitchen and threw the gruesome amulet in the bin. I went back to bed after drinking a gla.s.s of water with sugar but spent the rest of the night sitting thinking, unable to get to sleep.

At eight o'clock I instinctively rolled over to hug Elena. It was a beautiful day, with the sun bringing out the vivid colours of everything, but all I could think about was some new way to be reunited in death with the rest of my family. As I wandered into the kitchen, I found the bin knocked over and the pig's foot lying bleeding on the floor.

'What the f.u.c.k is this!' I said aloud. I grabbed the amulet and held it up at eye level. I got a cloth and mopped up the blood on the floor and took a damp rag and wiped the pig's foot. Then I took the plunge and fastened the amulet around my neck. Mysteriously, it immediately stopped bleeding and I no longer felt the urge to kill myself. A powerful feeling of adventure overcame me and I felt a strange sensation, as though something were telling me I had to leave Havana for ever, not for Miami, but for Oriente. I tossed some clothes into a backpack, went to the main railway station and caught the first train for Santiago.

As soon as I arrived in Oriente, I headed for El Cobre. I pa.s.sed a dozen parks, neighbourhoods of little shacks with terracotta pots outside and finally I arrived at a little village near the famous church where Bacardi had met my father Melecio almost a century ago. I had no idea who to ask, but this looked nothing like the place my grandfather had described.

On the corner of a little square, I found a pharmacy where I asked: 'Could you tell me the way to Pata de Puerco?' The fat, very black woman on the other side of the counter looked up and shrugged. She had never heard of such a place. 'Pedrito Blanco is that way, down this way is El Polvorin, and that road leads to Santiago. Over in that direction is Cabeza de Carnero, but that's a very different beast.'

I thanked the woman and headed for the various places she had mentioned. I combed every one of them, but no one had heard of Pata de Puerco, nor of anyone called Jose or Oscar or Melecio. 'The only place round here named after an animal is Ram's Head,' everyone told me. 'Cabeza de Carnero.' So I caught a streetcar that dropped me off at a station in the middle of nowhere, then I covered several kilometres on foot, hitched a ride on the back of an oxcart and another on the back of a horse-drawn cart until finally I arrived in a little town set in a valley of red earth but it had paved roads and stone houses. It was a simple place like any country town, and yet everywhere there were signs of civilisation that immediately confirmed to me that this village had nothing to do with the G.o.dforsaken place Grandpa Benicio told me about, with its communal well, its wooden shacks and no electricity. Here there were schools, clinics, hospitals, sports centres, even a nightclub.

'I don't suppose you've ever heard of someone named Jose Mandinga?' I asked a well-dressed, rather professional-looking man of about fifty.

'Jose Mandinga with a d.i.c.k like a finger?'

'No, I'm serious. What about Oscar Kortico?'

'Oscar Kortico, with a p.r.i.c.k like a yo-yo?'

This idiot who thought he was a comedian was busting my b.a.l.l.s, so I had to walk away.

I approached an elegant woman with a long face and a little wispy moustache who was walking along the road and asked if she had heard of Jose Mandinga.

'The only Mandinga I've ever heard of is Melecio Mandinga, the architect who designed Cabeza de Carnero. Have a look at that plaque over there.' The woman pointed to a wall on which was a rectangular plaque sculpted in high-relief depicting a man with short hair and a n.o.ble face; he was smiling.

As I walked over, I felt a shudder run quickly along my spine, up my neck and into my brain. For a split-second, I felt as though I were looking into a mirror. I couldn't have known that I was the spitting image of my father Melecio, no one had ever told me. The plaque read: 'Melecio Mandinga, architect of Cabeza de Carnero, did not live to see his dream become a reality, but his work lives on for ever in our hearts.'

After reading this, I walked around for a long time, a little lost, a little gloomy, mostly exhausted by my geographic and genetic disorientation. I came upon a bus stop and had a daydream, or rather with my eyes open I dreamed that a man with gold teeth and an Armani suit driving a limousine was reaching out to shake my hand, introducing himself as Bacardi. 'My name is Emilio Bacardi,' he said and invited me to climb into the plush car, where my father Melecio was already ensconced. I saw myself roaming the interior of the limousine, a network of corridors that were actually the hallways of a prison; I could see the bug-eyed prisoners, as I walked determinedly through this labyrinth of muttering voices and nightmares, alert to what was happening in each cell. From time to time my father Melecio would wink at me or Don Emilio would wave me onward and I walked on until I came to the brink of an abyss, since in my dream the prison was like a castle built on the edge of a cliff. There, unable to turn back, I lifted up my arms to glorify the heavens; I tried to speak but I realised, or at least I had the fleeting impression, that someone had sewn my lips together. And yet inside my mouth, I could feel something that was not my tongue or my teeth, but a piece of meat that I tried to swallow as with one hand I fumbled to rip the st.i.tches from my lips. Blood ran down my chin. My gums were numb. When at last I could open my mouth, I spat out the piece of flesh and then groped for it in the darkness. Having found it, and turned it over carefully in my fingers, I realised it was the nose and moustache of Commissioner Clemente.

The scene shifted into another dream in which once again I was strangling the d.a.m.ned cat. I watched the head roll away. I kicked the remains of the body into the bin and then the head suddenly opened its eyes and said: 'Careful of the consequences, Oscar.' I woke up with a start. A few kids were playing in the street. They were laughing and playing. From time to time a horse-drawn cart drove by, like the one that had brought me here. I couldn't stay a moment longer. Night would soon be drawing in.

In the distance I could see the mountains of the Sierra Maestra. I walked in that direction. I walked for miles, until suddenly the paved roads petered out leaving only dirt tracks, which gradually disappeared into a tangle of trees and brambles where the heat was suffocating. I walked without stopping, heading nowhere in particular, but as far as possible from mankind, from the misery of the city, from the memories of those I loved now dead. Night fell, the darkness was eerie, the mountain gradually grew steeper. A dense thicket of sicklebush blocked my path. There was no way forward. I thought about going back to my old life, but that only made me walk on doggedly, ignoring the thorns long as bayonets ripping at my clothes, burying themselves in my flesh, oblivious to the blood and the pain. On the far side of the sicklebush grove, when I realised that I had left the bustle of the city behind, I lay down on the ground, aching and exhausted. And fell asleep.

Atanasio's Story.

The first thing I noticed was that the pig's-foot amulet was no longer around my neck. Then I realised that I was lying in a circular clearing the size of an empty football pitch ringed by tall sicklebush like the walls of a fortress, keeping it beyond the reach of men, preserving its mystery. In the middle of the circle it looked as though it had just rained. Clouds were gathered just above the clearing and a fine mist hung in the air, which gave the place a pleasing temperature while beyond the walls of sicklebush the sun still split the stones, the earth was cracked and parched.

The grey sky did not seem to be lit by the sun's rays, as though day was about to dawn or night about to draw in. At first I thought a tropical storm was brewing but, looking more carefully, I realised that there was something ghostly about this place that had nothing to do with the weather.

'I must be dreaming,' I thought as I stared at the throng of animals gathered in the centre of the clearing: wild boar, hutias, deer, crocodiles, all happily sharing the thick black mud rising to cover trees and plants and creepers. Mud coated everything, every animal and tree the only flash of green came from the feathers of birds as they flitted from branch to branch like lights.

The animals were not startled by my sudden appearance. The crocodiles watched, jaws wide, still as statues; the deer carried on wallowing in the mud as though I were not a man but simply another animal come to shelter from the heat. A pall of thick black smoke hung in the air as if by magic. Looking closely, I saw it came from a shack built of timber and royal palm with a roof of thatched palm leaves, invisible against the mud. On the porch of the house were four stools and a table carefully laid with a chicken stockpot, bread and two bottles of homemade rum, though there was not a soul in sight.

'Anyone there?' I shouted at the top of my voice. The cry reverberated among the trees, sending back an echo of my voice. 'Anyone there?' I called again, and was about to knock on the door when an elderly man no more than four feet tall threw it open and introduced himself as Atanasio Kortico. Around his throat I saw an amulet similar to mine, with a shrivelled pig's foot.

'At last!' he said. His skin was a black so intense it was bluish, the deep wrinkles around his eyes fanned out across his face like a river's tributaries. His hands were large, entirely disproportionate to the size of his small body. His hair and beard were completely white, and his eyes, half-grey, half-yellow, seemed to divine my thoughts. He hugged me with the same enthusiasm he might a long-lost relative which led me to think that no one had visited this part of the world for a long time.

'Your amulet looks a lot like mine,' I said, staring at the old man's chest.

'Ah, your amulet. We'll talk about that in a moment. Luc.u.mi! Palmito! Our guest has arrived. Take a seat, senor.' The old man clapped twice and instantly two men appeared, no taller than him and with the same blue-black complexion. The men looked about fifty, and both wore pig's-foot amulets. They hugged me with the same effusiveness as Atanasio and we all sat down at the table.

'As you can see, we all have pig's feet. This is your necklet.' The little man gave me back my collar which I immediately fastened around my throat. 'You brought the missing pig's foot, something precious and much coveted in these parts, which is why we took it and put it in our house for safekeeping; we wouldn't want . . . well, I'm sorry, but the pig's feet must be protected. After all they are our salvation.'

I did not feel like discussing how a pig's foot could offer salvation; instead I apologised for my appearance, explaining that the mud and the sicklebush had done their work. Atanasio Kortico told me not to worry; mud, he said, was not as bad as people thought. I looked at the three little men warily, but I was too hungry to ask about this muddy kingdom, about the animals, the four amulets, the desolation of this lifeless place.

I glanced down worriedly at the crocodiles crawling around the table.

'They've only come over to say h.e.l.lo,' the old man explained. 'They want to be a part of this momentous occasion. Just eat up.'

'Occasion? What occasion?'

'Your arrival in our village,' said the three men in concert.

'You call a place with three inhabitants a village?'

The three men looked bewildered and began to whisper among themselves: 'You mean he can only see us? You mean he can't hear the bells from the Casa de la Letra?' 'Exactly. You have to remember his mind is still filled with the sounds and voices of the city.'

I went on eating. What was this talk of bells; were they the only ones who could see them? I looked around, but all I could see were doves fluttering against the grey sky; no houses, no rooftops, no children playing, the place was utterly lifeless.

'Tell me, senor,' the old man said, 'are you a believer?'

'You mean do I believe in G.o.d?'

'Not necessarily, but let us start there.'

'Absolutely not.'

'And why not, if I may ask?'

'Because if there were a G.o.d, my life or at least my death would have been a lot easier.'

'Would you credit it . . . ? That's exactly what I said to the reverend years ago. All this business about G.o.d and virgins and saints just confuses things. As if we didn't have problems enough in the real world. So, as far as you are concerned, there is no G.o.d?'

'No. Or if there is, he obviously doesn't like me much.'

Atanasio winked his yellow-grey eye, and his brothers got to their feet, cleared the table and disappeared into the house.

'Tell me and I apologise for prying but do you believe in anything?' enquired the old man.

'Yes. I believe that I am sitting here with you. I believe in the plate of chicken I've just eaten.'

'Perfect!' said Atanasio. 'And what if I were to tell you that our meeting was predestined?'

'I'd say it corresponds to the doctrine that everything is willed by G.o.d, meaning that human beings have no control over their actions, that what happens depends on outside forces.'

'Then . . . you are a man of science.'

'No, I wouldn't say that.'

'So you believe in chance and coincidence, which means you are an atheist in the broadest sense of the word.'

'Exactly, I'm an atheist.'

The brothers came back with coffee, handed me a small tin cup and another to the old man and sat down again. I thanked them and said: 'If you'll excuse me, I have to go.'

'Go where?' chorused the three men, leaping to their feet.

I said I didn't know, that I had felt a sudden impulse to come to Santiago but now that I was here I didn't know what to do or where to go. I picked up my backpack. As I was about to leave, the old man caught my arm.

'I'm sorry, but since it seems likely we won't see each other again, I'd like to ask you one last question.'

'Sure, go ahead. Ask away.'

'Let's say . . .' the old man began, 'let's say that for no particular reason your grandmother had a laughing fit and her heart inexplicably burst. That your dog died unexpectedly and a little later your grandfather had a heart attack. Let's say your girlfriend takes off for another country, leaving you completely alone. Like anyone in such a position, you try to commit suicide, but in this you fail because even death carefully chooses its quarry and decides your time had not yet come. Let's say that one day you open your eyes and find yourself sitting opposite an old man in a strange place. Do you really believe all this is the result of coincidence?'

I started back and b.u.mped into the table.

'How do you know all this?'

'Know what?' said Atanasio, pretending to be puzzled.

'Everything. About my grandfather, my dog. Are you with the police? What is this place?'

My body was rigid; I felt a sudden, violent urge to be sick. I stumbled over the animals lying around the table, doubled up like an accordion and fell to my knees in the mud. The old man helped me to my feet and led me to the centre of the clearing where the mud was thickest. Palmito, Luc.u.mi and the animals followed, keeping their distance.

'There, between the mangroves . . .' said Atanasio, pointing. 'Can you see?'

'You mean the mud trees?'

'Try to see beyond what the eye can see.'

Try as I might all I could see was an empty expanse ringed by trees and the high wall of sicklebush and the blanket of clouds above sheltering us from the sun.

'I don't understand what you're talking about.'

'That's precisely what I mean. You cannot see anything. The good news is that can be fixed.'

Still feeling slightly queasy, I stared into the old man's yellow-grey eyes and asked him what exactly was this place.

'It's a long story, and one I barely have the strength to tell, but if you agree to stay for a little while, I will tell it to you. I promise that by the time I am done, you will see everything more clearly. Is it a deal?'

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 Velazquez, 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 d.i.c.ks 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 ma.s.sive rebellion led by Jose 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 Hernan Cortes. Others claim they are the sp.a.w.n 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 mama, 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 Luc.u.mi, 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.

'Senor! 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 Luc.u.mi. 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. Luc.u.mi 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,' Luc.u.mi added, 'I'd like to see Clemente give those sons of b.i.t.c.hes a good beating.'

I asked who this Commissioner Clemente was.