Pig's Foot

by Carlos Acosta

  ‘They’ve told me everything.’

  Benicio’s relationship with Gertrudis was not news to Melecio, he had been told about José’s paralysis and he knew what Ester had told Benicio about El Mozambique. All these things were trivial, Melecio concluded.

  ‘Is it trivial to be thrown out of your own house?’ asked Benicio.

  ‘Every cause has an effect. You slept with Papá’s golden girl. Besides, he will always think of the two of you as brother and sister. You have to try and see his point of view.’

  ‘And who will try to see mine?’

  Melecio changed the subject and asked why he and Gertrudis had argued.

  ‘I was tired.’

  ‘No one tires of the love of his life.’

  ‘Well I did.’

  ‘I brought you a present.’

  ‘I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Open it. I know you’ll like it.’

  Benicio walked over to Melecio and took the box from him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a toy ram, like the ram you saved when you were a boy, remember? It’s the most noble thing anyone could have done. I always tell people my big brother has the compassion of a god.’

  ‘Well, your toy is no use to me. Your big brother has changed a lot since he discovered his real father.’

  Melecio said that did not mean he had to punish Gertrudis.

  ‘I am not punishing Gertrudis,’ said Benicio. ‘She is punishing herself.’

  Melecio talked about the weather and began comparing it to the other countries he had visited.

  ‘What the hell do I care about the weather?’ said Benicio.

  ‘You should come to my classes, brother,’ said Melecio.

  ‘I’m not one for learning,’ said Benicio. ‘And let that be the last time you call me brother. And next time you see me, don’t come too close or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  ‘Well get used to it, brother. Because that is what you will always be to me.’

  This was the extent of their reunion; there were no hugs, no kisses. The two men stood in silence for a long time and Benicio assumed there was nothing left to say. He turned and went back to digging the ground. It seemed to Melecio that his brother’s every word, uttered through gritted teeth, had nothing but contempt or indifference. Having exhausted all his subterfuges he headed home.

  When he arrived back he gave his parents a modified version of his encounter with his brother. His parents said again that Benicio was irredeemable and advised him to leave his brother in peace.

  ‘He’s lonely,’ said Melecio.

  ‘Some people are happy that way,’ said Betina.

  And that was all he told his parents.

  The full account of the conversation he related only to Gertrudis, who cried when Melecio reached the part where Benicio had said she was punishing herself.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart, Benicio is confused,’ said Melecio. ‘But I’ve got a plan to bring him back to himself. Trust me.’

  Classes started the following day. The Jabaos were the first to arrive at the flame tree, besieging it with the stools and tables they had brought. By the time the Aquelarres, the Cabreras and the Santacruzes arrived there was barely room to sit so they asked Pablo and Niurka to get their family to budge up since otherwise everyone else would have to stand. Eustaquio the machetero was next to show up, and then Epifanio Vilo and his family. Melecio, Gertrudis, Betina and José were the last to appear.

  Melecio set a blackboard against the trunk of the flame tree and then handed out pencils and sheets of blank paper. ‘In today’s class, we will learn about vowels,’ he explained, then wrote out the vowels on the slate and asked the villagers to repeat them aloud with him. He pointed to them in turn and they repeated the sounds Melecio made. So passed two hours. At the end of the class the teacher gave out homework and the patapuercanos did everything that Melecio asked of them. Melecio offered gifts as a reward for paying attention in class or for completing homework.

  The following week they continued with the whole alphabet. By the third week, the patapuercanos had learned to combine vowels and consonants. Mathematics worked in the same way. People learned to count, to add, subtract, multiply and divide. They learned for the first time that the earth was round and that it was divided into seven continents separated by seas and oceans inhabited by giant animals known as whales. They learned of the existence of something called philosophy and ancient, long-dead philosophers named Plato and Aristotle; they learned that there was something else called science which claimed man was descended from apes and had not been created by Changó, or Orula, or Olofi, or even by God; that there were tiny organisms called bacteria and that art was something complex but very beautiful. That centuries ago there had lived a musician named Mozart. They discovered what a violin was. In short, overnight the Festivals of Birth had become Festivals of Knowledge. Gone were the sack races, the tales, the childish games.

  Silvio and Rachel Aquelarre were surprised when their daughter Anastasia won a competition that entailed reading The Odyssey and answering questions set by Melecio. She beat Ignacio el Jabao, who did not mind losing because, according to him, Odysseus was a homosexual. Everyone was surprised, not so much by his suggestion but because for the first time in his life Ignacio did not use the word ‘faggot’.

  ‘I tell you, señores, Odysseus was a coprophagic homosexual. What other explanation can there be for him leaving Calypso to return to Ithaca after seven years in that fabulous grotto where he could have sexual intercourse as often as he wished with two or even three women at a time? I sincerely doubt Penelope was prettier than Calypso, who was a demigod. Consequently I can see no other possible explanation for his behaviour. Odysseus turned fagg . . . I mean Odysseus decided he was homosexual. This is why I stopped reading the damn book, because every time I thought about it, I felt an ineffable heat surge through my spinal column all the way to my pituitary gland.’

  Everyone was astonished by Ignacio’s orotund manner of expressing himself. But Pablo and Niurka, who could not bear to lose anything, not even a spitting contest, were furious about the result of the competition. However, their anger did not last long, since the poetry competition was won by their older son Juan Carlos with his poem ‘Girls’:

  What exactly are girls?

  A rainbow that feeds roses,

  A soft breeze that blows

  With a sweet scent of jasmine.

  What are girls? Let me say

  They are whorls of bright coral,

  A leaf of swamp laurel

  And the perfume of youth.

  And if pressed I would say

  They suffuse every season

  With love and with reasons

  That make life worthwhile.

  And this poem is to say

  In my faltering way

  How girls make me feel

  And what makes me smile.

  Pablo and Niurka rushed over and covered their son with kisses. The rest of the Jabaos leapt to their feet, excitedly celebrating this victory as though Juan Carlos had just won the Olympics.

  ‘Well, well. Your poem is better than the ones that I recite,’ said Melecio happily. He looked around him and saw how things had changed. There were children wearing white shirts, women sharing out food, men chatting so quietly they were barely audible, people laughing joyfully, a scene that he had pictured in his dreams and which, now it was real, was all the more moving. Everyone was discussing weighty matters, using words that until recently not one of them had ever heard, casting off the chains that had shackled them for years, the chains of ignorance. ‘This is good,’ thought Melecio. Still he sat perched on his stool, engrossed by his work, present in every article of clothing, every pair of shoes, every new word learned.

  Never before had he so powerfully experienced the happy satisfaction that is the fruit of one’s efforts; it was something akin to the love he felt for María and for his family. But very quickly he realised that
something was amiss. Melecio scanned the happy faces of the Jabaos, the groups of people chatting, others practising their handwriting, and noticed that none of his family were present. He went home. Opening the door, he found José in one corner of the room, Betina in another and Gertrudis sitting on the floor. All of them were staring at the ground. He did not need to ask them what had happened. The answer was written in the stooped shoulders of José and Betina, in the misted, half-closed eyes of Gertrudis. In that moment he realised that he could never be satisfied by the fruit of his efforts, because in a broken family there could be no happiness. This is what Melecio thought, and José was the living confirmation of it. His father did not move, did not blink, as though he were inwardly appraising himself and realising that behind his stubbornness, his bitterness, his incomprehension, what weighed most heavily were his regrets. ‘I have to solve this problem,’ thought Melecio. By now everyone in the village knew how to read and write. It was time for him to deal with things at home. To set things right.

  He went to see Benicio again.

  ‘I didn’t see you at any of the classes,’ he said.

  ‘I told you, I’m not interested in your classes. Education is for faggots.’

  ‘That’s not what Gertrudis thinks.’

  ‘Who is Gertrudis?’

  ‘She’s the love of your life.’

  ‘Gertrudis always was a fool.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t miss your family.’

  ‘Ester and El Mozambique are all the family I need. They don’t throw me out, they accept me for who I am.’

  ‘This is not who you are, brother. Don’t shut yourself away.’

  ‘If you call me brother again, I’ll split your skull.’

  Melecio swallowed hard. He went back to discussing the weather.

  ‘If you’ve got nothing else to say, then fuck off, but don’t come talking to me about the weather,’ said Benicio.

  ‘What did you do with the toy ram I gave you?’ asked Melecio.

  ‘I burned it.’

  Benicio turned away and went back to digging. Melecio stared at him, stifling the urge to weep.

  ‘You know something, broth—’

  Benicio did not let him finish. He picked up a rock and hurled it and, had Melecio not ducked, it would have split his skull exactly as his brother had foretold. Once again, Melecio trudged home.

  The following day, he gave the villagers a whole week’s study matter and, leaving Anastasia Aquelarre in charge, excused himself saying he needed time to think. He did as he always did: he locked himself in his room, but this time he took spices, eggs, sugar, spoons and saucepans. When Gertrudis asked what he was doing, he asked her to give him a little time, that what he was doing was necessary and she would find out soon. And so Melecio resumed the role of chef, something he had not done since he was a boy. He spent two days cooking in secret. On the morning of the third day, Señora Santacruz knocked at the door and haltingly told José that Ester the midwife was locked in her house screaming like a madwoman, pounding on the walls and yelling that if anyone other than José came in she would drive a stake through their skull. From his bedroom, Melecio overheard what was said; still he did not come out.

  ‘You stay here,’ said José and went outside.

  It was a chill morning, the sky was leaden and the wind bit hard. José hobbled past the houses of the Aquelarres and the Jabaos, ignoring the looks and the sibilant whispers from the dark interiors that smelled of kerosene and coal. As he reached the fence around Ester’s shack, he could feel the roars, the howls of remorse sprouting from his body, displacing every organ inside his ribcage. José crept towards the door and glanced around. There was no sign of Benicio or El Mozambique.

  ‘Can I help you with something?’ asked Epifanio Vilo.

  ‘Go fetch Juanita the wise-woman and tell her to come here straight away,’ said José. ‘Run.’

  ‘It sounds to me like someone possessed. José, wouldn’t it be better to send for a babalao or a santero?’

  ‘No, Juanita will know what to do.’

  When Juanita and Epifanio arrived back at Ester’s house, they found the whole neighbourhood gathered, faces gaunt with fear. José was cradling Ester in his arms in one corner of the room; she was naked, sobbing and shaking with fear. The house was in ruins, the walls stained with excrement. Juanita quickly analysed the situation and with a wave she signalled to José to lay Ester on the bed. A moment later, Melecio arrived carrying the cake he had just made. He set it down on the table, the only piece of furniture that had remained intact, and rushed to help carry the stout body of Ester, who was writhing and wailing as though a piranha were devouring her insides.

  ‘My God, what’s wrong with Ester? What happened?’ said Silvia Santacruz, standing in the doorway shaking her head. Without a word, Juanita checked Ester’s pupils, took her pulse and began to prepare a herbal remedy.

  ‘This will make her sleep,’ she said.

  José opened Ester’s mouth to make her drink the dark, foul-smelling brew. The midwife’s body convulsed, but a moment later her eyes misted over and she fell back on the bed.

  ‘She’s sleeping now,’ said Juanita, examining the deep scars crisscrossing Ester’s fat body. ‘Whoever did this thing is a beast,’ she muttered, shaking her head.

  ‘What made those scars?’ asked José.

  Juanita did not look up. Still shaking her head, she pulled a sheet up to cover Ester’s body.

  ‘They are whip marks. This woman has spent her life lashing herself for failing to keep her promises, or someone else has been torturing her.’

  Ester slept for several hours. At about two in the afternoon, she woke up and could remember nothing except that she had heard Benicio say he was going down to the river and she talked about a dream she had had the night before. Having considered the matter for a few moments, she changed her mind: what she thought had been a dream was not a dream at all, she said, she deserved to die.

  ‘What are these marks?’ asked José.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We have all the time in the world,’ said José. ‘This is Pata de Puerco, the one place in creation where time stands still.’

  The neighbours settled themselves and Ester began to tell the tale of Oscar’s mother and the Santisteban sugar plantation.

  ‘Yes, Ester, but we already know all that.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you what happened?’

  ‘No,’ said José. ‘We want you to tell us everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything.’

  The midwife asked if someone could fetch her some water. She drank it. She settled herself back against a cushion, tilted her head to one side as a dog might. She took a deep breath that seemed to suck all of the air out of the shack. Finally, she said, ‘All right, José. All right. I’ll tell you everything.’

  Ester’s Confession

  ‘I was a girl, barely sixteen, when I met Mangaleno – El Mozambique as you call him. My parents had died. Both of them had been killed in the war. I had no one in the whole world, all I had were my hope and my innocence. In the hills of Mayarí where I lived, solitude is something that weighs heavily, time crawls. I could not bear the thought of living the life my parents had, a life of grief and pain. Of course, back then I did not know that pain is inherited, that parents hand it on to their children like a suit of clothes that no longer fits. So I did everything I could to block out the pain I had inherited and kept my head above water. From an early age, I learned to take care of a house. I was preparing for the day when the man of my life would appear. I spent a lot of time practising kissing banana trees. I would make a little hole in the trunk and slip my tongue inside; I didn’t care that the sap from the trees used to leave my lips and my tongue red raw, like the skin of a dog with mange. I was careful not to let my hands become calloused so that my caresses would be soft as cotton. I did all this and much more waiting for the day when my man would knock at th
e door and take me away from that godforsaken place.

  ‘And then one day a man did knock at the door. Hatred was ingrained in his very pores and his body struck fear in me. He asked for a glass of water. He asked if I lived alone. Alone, I said. He smiled and thanked me and went on his way. The next day, he came back and asked for a glass of water. This time he talked to me about horses. He told me they were useful beasts. Those were his words. I found it curious, him talking about horses that way, but I said nothing. Then he said I had a beautiful body and asked if anyone had ever told me that before. I told him no.

  ‘“Well it’s true, you have a beautiful body.”

  ‘Then he thanked me and went on his way. So it carried on for a long time. He would always arrive early with a sprig of flowers and he would flatter my body. There came a time, having spent days listening to his compliments, when I began to miss him. Out of caresses tenderness is born, as they say in these parts, and I learned that this is true. I began to miss his company, his manner filled with mystery and silence. One morning I woke up and I felt something in me was lacking. It was then I knew I had fallen in love, that I wanted to do with Mangaleno what I had been practising on the banana trees. But Mangaleno never laid a finger on me. Still he came and asked for water, flattered my breasts, my complexion, even my hair which is the ugliest thing I got from my parents.

  ‘The waiting seemed to go on for ever. Every night, I dreamed about what my first time would be like. I dreamed of Mangaleno laying me on a bed, gently caressing my body and then tenderly making love to me. I wept with pleasure at the thought of what was to come. But when it finally happened I wept with anger and with pain. One afternoon, Mangaleno knocked on the door. When I opened it, he punched me twice leaving me dazed. He picked me up and slammed me against the wall. No caresses, no tenderness. He made me bleed. He made me weep. Then he tossed me on the ground and left.

  ‘He appeared at three o’clock the next morning to apologise. He brought me a sprig of flowers. He told me he had had a bad day and had needed to vent his rage on someone. I could not utter a word. My face was swollen where he had beaten me. He asked me if I liked meat. He had a cart with him piled high with sacks filled with metal tools, and several dogs that looked savage. I had forgotten what meat tasted like, it had been so long since I had eaten it. So we walked down to the river, taking the opposite direction from El Cobre, then he took a little path over a hill dotted with royal palms and came to a weir. We hid the cart among some shrubs and waited. The night was black as a wolf’s maw. There were no stars, no moon, no crickets chirruping, nothing but the dew and the muggy air of dawn.