Pig's Foot

by Carlos Acosta

  ‘At the time the Slaughter of the Santistebans took place, Mangaleno had just turned thirteen. The blockhouse was one of the first places torched by the slaves and in all the chaos and all the shouts of joy and freedom, no one realised that Macuta Dos had deliberately remained inside. But Mangaleno knew she was in there and ran to rescue his mother. He dashed through the flames, oblivious to the pain as they burned his skin, and he searched among the rubble until, beneath a burning beam, he found a bundle that had a human form. His mother lay dying, her frail body half-charred, her head a mass of red and black blisters that spread all over her skin. Mangaleno doused the flames and lifted her up, wrapped her in his shirt, cradled her in his arms and clutched her to his chest as though she were a newborn, then he ran straight at the nearest wall which offered no resistance, it crumbled, and Mangaleno kept on running frantically as far as the river, hoping with every step that he might still save not only his mother’s life, but his own.

  ‘“Don’t leave me, Mamá, don’t leave me alone,” he begged, pressing her to him. “I love you, Oscar,” were the last words Macuta Dos ever spoke as she stared into the eyes of Mangaleno: two dark pools, a vast universe of hatred and bitterness.

  ‘From that day, Mangaleno had only one goal in life: to track down this man he hated more than anyone on the face of the earth, this man who had stolen his mother’s love, who had ruined his life, this man he had never met but whom he dreamed about every day, thought about every minute, this ghost of a man named Oscar. His was a simple life. Other people had to worry about learning to read or write, about being loved or admired, about acquiring a trade or being loyal to their family. Not he. He had been put on earth with the sole purpose of using every ounce of strength to make Oscar suffer.

  ‘But to wound, to wound deeply, one must be patient. This was something Mangaleno understood even as a child. And so he waited until he had grown into a man. In the year 1878 Mangaleno was twenty-five years old and his body was a lethal weapon, not simply because he shared his father’s genes, but because he had spent his every waking hour exercising, carrying logs, cutting cane, dreaming of the day when he would be avenged. It was in that same year that Oscar and José, with their respective wives, settled in Pata de Puerco. Mangaleno was already here, waiting for him. He assumed that since he was hatred incarnate, then Oscar must be his antithesis, meaning someone who felt fulfilled, happy, in other words a romantic, and romantics invariably returned to their birthplace. This was why he had spent years here in a remote shack he had built with his own hands, patiently waiting like an alligator for its prey.

  ‘But Oscar did not come alone. And what is the most effective way to make a man suffer? To hurt that which he most loves. This is what Mangaleno planned to do. He devoted himself to hounding Malena. He found out everything there was to know about her; that she fell ill at least once a month, that she was quiet and reserved, that she often made a pilgrimage to the church at El Cobre. He knew that in the church she prayed for everyone, for her family, for her friends, for strangers and even for a world ravaged by poverty, which proved that Malena had the temperament of a saint; she was a woman who preferred to conceal her pain so as not to hurt others, a woman who had long since learned to suffer in silence.

  ‘The most important fact was that, after she had prayed for the world and its misfortunes, Malena always concluded with a dozen prayers for her soul and that of her husband Oscar, the love of her life, the one man who had taught her how to love. Mangaleno could not believe it could be so easy. He licked his lips, realising that in Malena he had found the perfect means of destroying the life of his mortal enemy.

  ‘On one such afternoon, Mangaleno lay in wait on the Callejón de la Rosa. Malena appeared looking happy, radiant. The sun had set by the time Mangaleno confronted her, grabbing her by the throat as though she were a meek dove. She tried to resist, began to scream only to be silenced by two blows to the face that left her dazed. Mangaleno covered her mouth but he did not cover her eyes so that she would be able to see his spider’s soul and his overflowing hatred. He bit her neck until blood began to spurt from her veins, he covered her breasts with bitemarks, blood-sucking bruises that would never fade. Then he thrust into her, again and again until he saw her eyes well with tears of pain and rage. Having satisfied his ancient and twisted desires, he tossed her into the grass. Then he buttoned his breeches and walked away smiling, leaving Malena’s groans behind, groans that seemed to come from a mouth with no tongue, no lips; it was the sweetest revenge he could have had. “The happiest day of my life,” as he would describe the moment years later.

  ‘Yet still he continued to spy on her, slipping among the trees, and did the same to Oscar as he worked in his vegetable garden; he even followed him when he went to Chinaman Li’s store. He quickly realised that Oscar knew nothing of what had happened, that Malena had buried her secret even as her belly was already beginning to swell with the fruit of lovelessness and hatred.

  ‘“He who does not see, does not know. He who does not know, does not suffer.” Oscar was not suffering. Mangaleno realised that Oscar was living his life as through nothing had happened and that was something he could not allow. He writhed to think that the man he most loathed was living a life without pain. He spent a long time looking for some way of hurting him more effectively. He tried to discredit him with the other macheteros, hacking off the leg of their mare, but nothing worked. Oscar carried on with his life, his idyllic life with Malena, as though nothing had happened, while Mangaleno carried on raging that he could not find a means to bury him.

  ‘When he heard gossip that Malena was pregnant, he went to check. He hid behind some trees and watched the couple argue. Oscar could not understand how his wife could have become pregnant. He gesticulated wildly, and the more he waved his hands, the more Mangaleno licked his lips. This, he saw, was his sweet revenge, something that would make his half-brother writhe in pain and remorse, a pain that would dog him like a shadow to the end of his days. Mangaleno had only to wait for the child to be born. Nine months later, you were born. What happened next, you already know.’

  Grandpa Benicio sat, slack-jawed, confused, pressing the amulet to his chest, not knowing what to do, what to say.

  ‘But . . . but what does it all mean?’

  ‘It means that Mangaleno raped your mother,’ the midwife said simply.

  ‘But . . .’

  At that moment the door flew open. Benicio and Ester leapt to their feet.

  ‘Mangaleno!’ cried Ester, her voice tremulous with fear.

  Turning his head, Benicio found himself face to face with El Mozambique.

  ‘Thank you, Ester. Now go into the kitchen, my son and I need to talk.’

  ‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ said Benicio.

  ‘What would you like me to call you? Don’t be stupid, Benicio. Did you really think a four-foot pygmy could have given you that body of yours? Don’t make me laugh.’

  Benicio did not say anything, he could not understand anything. He glared at El Mozambique, eyes blazing, then looked to Ester as though waiting for her to say that it had all been a joke.

  ‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. Check for yourself. Ester, fetch the tin,’ ordered El Mozambique. Ester went into the kitchen and brought back a sheet of nickel-plated tin like a mirror. She handed it to El Mozambique who stepped closer to Benicio, smiling viciously, and pressed his face against the boy’s.

  ‘Tell me then, what do you see?’

  Benicio stared at the two faces. He saw the same thick veins in the neck, the same square jaw, the same flat nose. His lips were slightly thinner and his cheekbones slightly less pronounced, but Benicio still had a lot of growing to do.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you say, you’re not my father. I’m not your son, and I never will be.’

  ‘This isn’t about what you want and what you don’t want,’ said El Mozambique, handing the tin plate back to Ester. ‘My blood runs through your veins. I’m sure y
ou’re thinking, “Carajo, first I was told my father is José, then I was told it’s Oscar and now it turns out to be neither of them but the man despised by everyone.” I know what that’s like, and I don’t expect you to accept me right away: I am the living face of hatred in this village. But as I told you once, hatred is not so bad. After all, it was hatred that conceived you. I don’t think anyone can understand you as I do; I know what it is like to live with no one for company, to be spurned like a plague while having the person you most loved in all the world taken from you, as has happened to you, now you’ve been thrown out of your home and robbed of Geru simply because you feel for her something more than a brother’s love.’

  ‘Who the hell are you to talk about love?’ said Benicio, and for the first time his eyes paled, like El Mozambique’s.

  ‘Me? No one. But if you think I don’t know what it is, you are making a terrible mistake. Love is something that cannot be forgotten. This is why I raped Malena. An eye for an eye, I told myself. I could not bear the thought that the man who robbed me of what I most loved should go on living, feeding his soul with the hope of life eternal. All I wanted was the one thing I had never had because of that bastard Oscar. This is why I raped Malena, why I beat her, I did it to teach him about the pain he never knew.’

  ‘You’re a murderer, that’s what you are.’

  ‘A murderer? Let me think . . . It’s true that I hacked the leg off Oscar’s mare, and Evaristo’s horse. But for all that, if we compare, I still come off the worse.’

  Benicio fell silent. For an instant it seemed to him that the faces of Ester and El Mozambique belonged to a different species.

  ‘Well, now you know. You are my son, whether you like it or not. My door is always open to you. But take your time. In the meantime, you can stay here with Ester. Besides my hounds will take time to get used to you.’

  With that, El Mozambique set off back down the path. Benicio felt the air grow heavy, an air that did not smell of the countryside, did not smell of anything in nature. It was a rainstorm so heavy he could not breathe and for a moment he thought he might drown. Watching the figure of El Mozambique disappear into the distance, he thought this was the end. He was wrong. In fact, it was the beginning of a new life under his true identity.

  Further News of Melecio

  Gertrudis was the only one in the family who knew what had happened. When Benicio explained that Ester had told him El Mozambique was his real father, Geru told him not to listen, that Ester was half-mad; besides he knew who his father was. The argument was always the same.

  ‘It’s like Papá José told you: your parents are not those who gave birth to you, but those who raised you.’

  ‘Parents don’t throw their children out of the house,’ said Benicio.

  They would always make peace, with Benicio telling a joke or performing some trick with his hands that ended up with Gertrudis rolling on top of him and sending unforgettable feelings thrilling through him.

  José and Betina knew nothing of this, but the other villagers quickly began to talk. Some said they had seen Benicio by the river with a heavyset man who looked a lot like El Mozambique. Others were not sure whether it really was Benicio or some relative of El Mozambique, since the resemblance between the two men was astounding. Still others went round to José and Betina to tell them rumours circulating about their son. Before long word spread that José had thrown his son out of the house, a story confirmed by the fact that Benicio and El Mozambique were often seen together.

  The Santacruzes and the Aquelarres felt that even if Benicio was no longer the boy everyone had loved, it was their responsibility to watch over him and muttered darkly that his association with El Mozambique would have irreparable consequences for his education. The Jabaos for their part said that they had long since seen this catastrophe coming, that they knew better than anyone how much the boy had changed, but they agreed with Silvio and Rachel Aquelarre: Benicio should not be left to himself.

  ‘Since you care so much about the boy, why don’t you take him in?’ said José simply. He wanted nothing to do with Grandfather. Benicio, he said, was a grown man who knew what he was doing and he was not about to give himself another stroke attempting to reason with him. Life in Pata de Puerco, had become a living hell, a theatre of furtive glances, glowering faces and awkward silences. For a long time, Benicio and Gertrudis felt their souls were unquiet, as though night would not come and bring them rest. Their sole consolation was the love that bound them and even this they had to temper so as not to grieve their parents even more.

  Every morning, Gertrudis set off early to fetch Benicio from Ester’s house and together they would head down to the river so that, when Betina rose to make breakfast, she did not have to deal with the awkwardness of finding her daughter at home. There in the dark waters beneath the sheltering canopy of green, they sought solace. Often they made love and the more they did so, the deeper grew this passion that left them gasping for breath, as though someone had poured a pitcher of water into their lungs. When they returned late at night they would sometimes see José sitting on the porch, his lips twisted in a grim rictus, a terrifying expression on his face. He would stare out at the horizon, gazing past them as though they were not people but merely dark shapes or shadows moving along the path.

  Grandfather would turn on his heel and go back to Ester’s house. So the days passed, and even when José’s twisted grimace had been healed by Betina massaging his face daily, still he sat with that terrible look of disbelief, a look that it seemed might always be there.

  Neighbours visited him, brought him gifts in the hope of lifting his spirits. José would thank them, nodding his head and withdrawing to his room where he could be alone.

  ‘He is still not himself,’ Betina would explain, and those who came to visit would nod. She would show them to the door and the following day the scene was played out again – gifts were brought, José nodded his thanks and Betina watched the neighbours leave: it was a ritual. It was thanks to these gifts that the Mandinga family managed to survive these difficult times.

  Aureliano the coachman was the only person with whom José spent time, the only one to whom he would listen. Aureliano still visited regularly, bringing news of recent events across the country.

  ‘Good afternoon, Aureliano. It is a pleasure to have you in our house again,’ Gertrudis greeted the coachman on one of his visits.

  ‘Our house! This is my house,’ spluttered José, spraying spittle. ‘I built it.’

  The coachman noticed the tension in the air. Betina looked at him and then scowled at José.

  ‘The thing about you, José, is there’s no stopping you,’ said Aureliano. ‘Anyone else might have become bitter at being paralysed, but not you. You’ve still got your sense of humour. You’re always teasing the children, always joking. You haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘And how is Melecio?’ asked Gertrudis.

  ‘The young man is doing splendidly. María has taken him in hand, but that is a good thing. The other day he seized me by the arm and confessed that he is in love. Can you imagine? As though love were something he had just invented. I told him I was happy he had finally realised something the rest of us have known for an age. He asked whether it was really so obvious and I said that lovestruck man always has puppy-dog eyes – you know what I mean, those pleading, soulful eyes. “So I’ve turned into a dog,” he said miserably. “Indeed you have, some time ago,” I told him. Now let me just be clear, I think María has been the making of him; before she came along Melecio scarcely knew how to wash his own balls – if you’ll excuse my language. These days he’s always clean, his hair is combed, and I don’t mean that tousled mop that looked like a bird’s nest. I tell you, women truly are men’s salvation! Am I right, José?’

  ‘Or their damnation,’ said José, glaring at Gertrudis.

  ‘Exactly. One or the other. But in Melecio’s case, as indeed in mine and in yours – because your wife here is truly an angel�
��’ the coachman gestured to Betina who smiled, ‘they are the best thing that could ever have happened.’

  ‘The same is true for me,’ said Gertrudis. Betina and José stared at her coldly.

  ‘For you?’ said the coachman. ‘We were talking about women. Surely you’re not saying that . . .’

  ‘No. I am talking about a man. A man with many flaws, but his love for me is not among them.’

  José got up from his chair. ‘I’ve told you, out there the two of you can do what the hell you like. But this is my house and I make the rules here.’

  ‘Ah! So little Gertrudis is in love!’ said Aureliano. ‘Why did no one tell me? Come now, José, it had to happen some time. I’m sure the boy is not so bad. Besides, as Señorita Gertrudis says, nobody’s perfect. Don Emilio maintains that man is made up of mind, body, imperfections and extremities, and I believe he’s right. And what is this about this being your house, José? Don’t make me laugh. It belongs to Gertrudis too, and to Benicio. Where is young Benicio, by the way?’

  ‘Benicio is no longer welcome in my house,’ roared José.

  Aureliano looked at Betina’s face and saw Gertrudis begin to cry. Betina scolded José for treating his daughter in such a manner in front of Aureliano.

  ‘Now I understand,’ said the coachman, ‘This is what brought on the paralysis. But you’re wrong, José, not to accept your children for who they are. We cannot crawl inside our children’s minds and force them to think as we do. They’re in love? So what? In my family brothers marry sisters, cousins marry cousins, there’s nothing wrong with that. I tell you I wouldn’t be shocked if men married goats. If someone came to me and told me he was in love with a gorilla, I would say, “My best wishes to Señora Gorilla, I hope you have many baby gorillas; after all, deep down man is just another animal.”’

  ‘Whether deep down, in the middle or on the surface, I will not tolerate it. Is that understood?’