‘Fifteen minutes later, a traveller arrived. The weir was right next to the road that runs between Baracoa and Santiago. Usually, travellers on their way to Santiago would stop and drink a little water before continuing their journey.
‘“Champion, Lion, you know what you have to do,” Mangaleno whispered to his dogs. There were more than eight of them, all with vicious faces and sharp teeth. He let them off their leash. The dogs crept up silently so as not to frighten the horse and when they were within fifteen feet of the man, they bounded towards him. The man had no time to draw his machete. All he could do was leap into the water and swim as far away as possible from the vicious beasts threatening to eat him alive. Meanwhile, Mangaleno unsheathed his sharply pointed machete.
‘“Stay here and leave me to work,” he said to me and then crept carefully over to the horse. He grabbed the reins, stroked its mane three times and then slit its throat from ear to ear with the machete. The horse kicked and whinny in pain. It tried to run, but Mangaleno had a tight grip on the reins and went on sawing at the animal’s jugular until finally the poor beast, resigned to its fate, collapsed on the bank by the reservoir which by now was a thick pool of blood flecked here and there with gobbets of flesh. I stood, staring at what was happening, my hand clapped over my mouth, cringing in disgust as Mangaleno hacked away, squirming as the poor horse whinnied in pain. All this Mangaleno did with an indifference that did not smack of pride but of a feeling of superiority.
‘But worst of all, I had fallen in love with him and he knew it. You all know that when it comes to the whims of love there is nothing to be done and so I learned to endure in the hope that he might one day change and become a good man. I knew that life had not been kind to him and that, like me, he carried with him the pain he had inherited, though more, perhaps much more than me. Every afternoon he would come to eat the food I prepared for him. We sat at the table and ate in silence. He did not like to talk. He had spent so many years in silence. On the rare occasions when he spoke to me it was to ask for water or food, but never again did he tell me I had a beautiful body.
‘One morning, I threw up. I felt nauseous and depressed. But in spite of everything, I was happy for though I had no experience of such things, I knew that I was pregnant. That afternoon I waited for Mangaleno, as usual, to give him the news. When he arrived, I told him. That was the first time he whipped me. He grabbed an old whip he always carried and flayed my back red raw. He had me writhing on the floor in pain. I screamed and screamed, but pity was something alien to Mangaleno. He went on whipping until he was unable and I was unconscious. That same night the baby came. It was the most terrible day of my life. I huddled alone in a corner, cradling that bloody bundle, rocking it as though it had eyes, as though it had a mouth, as though it had life. It was the most terrible day of my life but there would be more, many more. More beatings, more miscarriages, more misery and pain.
‘Then he told me I had to come with him to a place called Pata de Puerco where his brother lived, the man he most despised in all the world. He told me he had a score to settle with him. He did not ask me, did not give me time to think, to make up my mind. He tossed my clothes into a cart and dragged me like a dog on a leash until we arrived here. Back then, no one lived in the village. José and Oscar had just started building their shacks. The solitude was such that for a while I felt as though I were living in a jungle full of natives wearing loincloths. Full of wild beasts the like of which I had never seen. A place too beautiful to be believed, but after a while I saw other people come with their carts and their carriages, then more and more until Pata de Puerco was no longer a jungle peopled by natives but the thriving village it is today.
‘Mangaleno’s plan was simple. He wanted to fashion a sackcloth of dust and ashes for his brother Oscar, meaning he wanted to cause him suffering that would stay with him for ever. These, then were Mangaleno’s talents: he caused unending pain, just as he had done to me. One afternoon I asked what his brother had done to deserve such suffering. He first told me that his brother had taken from him the only love he had ever known, his mother’s love; then he split my lip and whipped me again. In that moment I understood that, though slavery might have ended, it had not ended for me. The worst thing was that I could find no way to break free of him. I was still in love, I tried to justify his actions. I told myself he was to be pitied, that he had never had anyone, hoping against hope that one day I might see in his face something of the good in him. But there was no good in him. Yet still I was in love, as though someone had put a curse upon my heart, and I don’t know why, but that somehow made it worse.
‘It was he who hacked the leg off the mare you bought with Oscar, José. He also cut the leg off Evaristo’s mare that time he followed you to El Cobre. And still he was not satisfied. One afternoon he turned up here smiling and told me he had raped Malena, that he had finally settled his score with his brother Oscar. That day we celebrated, feasting on horsemeat, drinking rice wine. He ended up delirious with joy, and I delirious with jealousy of Malena. How could I not? The jealousy grew in me when I discovered that Malena was carrying in her belly something that belonged, of old, to me. That child should have been mine. After my years of suffering, I deserved it. That’s why when Mangaleno asked me to poison her, I did not hesitate; I said yes.
‘The day she went into labour, I sent Oscar to get water from the well. While he was gone, I had Malena drink the potion of cassava poison I had prepared. She looked at me with those big eyes as though she sensed what it was I had just done. Oscar did not notice anything amiss. Everything was normal by the time he got back. But a few minutes later, Malena was dead and Oscar fell on his knees. He threw me out of the house telling me that he would take care of everything. Fifteen minutes later the floor of the shack was a sea of blood and Oscar and Malena lay dead just as his brother Mangaleno had planned.
‘Even then, it was not enough. His hatred was like a sickness that would not stop until it had consumed everything. He had avenged himself, but it was not enough. The Festivals of Birth brought joy and happiness to everyone but to an embittered man that was unbearable. Mangaleno came up with another plan. God knows I fought with every fibre of my being when he asked me to poison Evaristo. A thousand times I refused, but the beatings were too much and I had no choice but to send the kite-maker to heaven. That’s why I must die, why I deserve to die. I realised that, having spent so long with him, I too have become an animal; it is as though Mangaleno has passed his evil to me. A person is known by the company he keeps; no proverb was ever truer. My only hope is that, having heard all this, you will have the decency to kill me, so that once and for all I may be rid of these sins that will not let me sleep. I cannot bear to hear Malena’s voice again telling me avenging past wrongs brings only present suffering. I cannot bear to hear her voice again. I cannot go on with the lying, the beatings; let Satan take me now so that I may finally be free.’
When Ester finished her confession, no one moved to kill her. Betina was weeping, but she did not move, nor did José. The neighbours stared at her but not in anger, more with surprise and pity. Juanita the wise-woman held her hand as the midwife sobbed.
‘Kill me, kill me, José,’ Ester begged.
‘No one here will lay a finger on you,’ said José and turned to look at the crowd. ‘Everyone stay here.’
‘No. Don’t go, José. Stay,’ said Juanita the wise-woman, taking his arm. ‘Stay. I know what I’m asking of you.’
José would not listen. ‘Melecio, make sure that Ester has everything she needs,’ he said and, drawing his machete, he set off for the house of El Mozambique. Everyone ignored his order. Hardly had José stepped through the door than the whole neighbourhood followed him like a herd of mustang.
The Long-awaited Confrontation
As José arrived at the baleful shack of timber and palm fronds, he looked around and noticed that the dogs were chained up. And Benicio did not seem to be around, which made him think El Mozambique w
as expecting him. With the agility of a sixteen-year-old boy, he vaulted the fence, and gave the door a kick that took it off its hinges.
‘That’s what I like to see. Someone with balls coming to take me on,’ said El Mozambique, getting up from his chair to face him down. José did not let him finish, but leaped at him swinging his machete. The giant stopped him in his tracks, grabbed the arm holding the machete with one hand and with the other dealt a vicious blow to the Mandinga. José staggered back and crashed against the wall.
‘Kill him, José! Kill that son of a bitch!’ shouted Epifanio Vilo and his family, the fifteen Jabaos and the Santacruzes, in chorus.
El Mozambique lumbered towards José to finish him off, but the Mandinga kicked him in the belly making the giant double over briefly. José made the most of this to pick up the machete he had dropped. He swung viciously, attempting to cut off his rival’s head, but El Mozambique ducked and slammed him against the table which immediately collapsed, sending the Mandinga crashing to the floor and driving into his back a long iron nail from one of countless santería cauldrons lying around. José started to bleed. ‘Come on, José, don’t toy with me,’ roared El Mozambique. ‘Get up and stop being such a pussy.’ This silenced the cheering of those on the far side of the fence.
At that moment, Melecio arrived.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he cried, and ran to help José. El Mozambique blocked his path, smashing an elbow into Malecio’s face that knocked him unconscious. Then he grabbed one of his machetes, the one he used to cut the throats of horses, and stepped towards José who was howling with pain and bleeding like a stuck pig. El Mozambique lifted him off the floor, looked him in the eye and gave a twisted smile.
‘Now do you understand what life is, José? Who would have thought that these very hands would be the ones to end yours? Nothing is written. There is no justice, none at all. Everything is a lie.’
‘That’s what you say,’ said José. ‘But I’m sure your death will be much worse.’
El Mozambique’s smile faded. For a moment, everything was stilled: the roar of the villagers, the wails of the women, the barking of the dogs. There was only the quiet buzz of flies and the echo of an agonising silence that sent a shudder rippling through everyone. In that moment, El Mozambique swung his machete, aiming to cleave José’s head from his body. He did not succeed: his arm was blocked, something held him back, a strength greater than his own. When he turned, he found himself face to face with Grandpa Benicio.
‘What . . . What are you doing? Let go the machete, Benicio.’
‘No. Your journey ends here.’ This was all Grandfather said. Lifting El Mozambique by the throat, he slammed him with all his strength against the floor. The giant hit his head and passed out. Then everything happened quickly. In a split second, the thirty people who had witnessed what was happening rushed into the garden, some smashed windows the better to see, others peered through cracks between the timbers waiting for the fatal blow that would satisfy once and for all their thirst for blood.
‘Kill him, Benicio! Kill him now!’
Grandpa Benicio pinned El Mozambique to the ground. Reaching down, he picked up the giant’s machete and held it aloft. ‘Kill him, damn it! Kill him now, Benicio!’ He looked first at José who lay sprawled on the floor nodding his head in agreement. Then he looked round for Melecio, but his brother still lay unconscious on the ground. Scanning the faces outside he saw Betina and she, too, nodded. Lastly, he looked for Gertrudis who was standing in the midst of the mob, tears in her eyes, her hand over her mouth. Then he brought down the machete and embedded it in the floor next to El Mozambique’s head.
‘This ends here,’ he roared.
‘What do you mean, it ends here?’ roared the crowd. ‘Kill that son of a bitch!’ Benicio did not listen. He got up off the floor and ordered everyone to go home, saying that though El Mozambique might be a monster, that was no reason for anyone else to become one. ‘This ends here,’ he repeated.
For a while, the crowd went on protesting, waving their arms, shouting, cursing the Blessed Virgin and all the saints. Then gradually the flame inside them guttered out and slowly they began to trudge home.
Benicio picked up José and sat him on one of the chairs that was still in one piece. Betina and Gertrudis kneeled next to Melecio, who had come round. Grandfather brought water from the kitchen for the wounded.
‘Water is not going to help me,’ said José. Then they noticed that the nail, a long spike used to secure railway sleepers, was deeply embedded in his back. There was little anyone could do. Still, Benicio refused to admit defeat. ‘It’s all over now, Papá José,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’ Everyone, including José, turned to Benicio in surprise. His eyes were different, filled with tears and remorse. Benicio explained that he had arrived back from the river famished to find a cake sitting on the table. He ate a slice of the exquisite delicacy and then found Ester on her bed sobbing uncontrollably and Juanita trying to comfort her. The santera told him what had happened and the news was like a body blow. The cake had a curious effect on him: suddenly his head was filled with all the terrible things he had done, with how he had torn his family apart. In his mind he saw the face of everyone he had ever hit, among them the twisted rictus on José’s face; he wept to think about how heartless he had been to Melecio, to Betina, and especially to Gertrudis. Juanita shook him hard and told him this was no time to cry, that José was in danger, that saving him would be his own salvation.
‘But there is nothing to be done now, my son,’ said José. Betina, Melecio and Gertrudis watched as Benicio began to weep. José asked him why he had not killed El Mozambique. He dried his eyes and turned to look at his family, then turned and looked at José as though he did not understand the question. ‘He is my blood father, Papá José. Besides, if I had killed him, I would have become a murderer like him.’
Melecio finished his glass of water and said that Benicio had done the right thing and that El Mozambique could not have been other than he was. ‘What can you expect of a man who has never known a friend, a mother, a father; who has never known the love of a woman? Can you imagine the hatred he must feel? Knowing only hatred, anyone might become a killer.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ came a booming voice. ‘Hatred is not so bad.’
Betina was the first to scream, then everyone turned to face the fearsome figure of El Mozambique who was now standing, laughing, brushing dirt and blood from his hands.
‘What did you think? That a little knock on the head would kill me? Did you really think it would be so easy? And you . . .’ He pointed at Benicio. ‘Expect no mercy from me, do you hear? You will pay dearly for what you’ve done.’
El Mozambique launched himself at Benicio and grabbed him by the throat. The villagers reappeared and once again took up their posts, peering through windows and cracks in the boards, hurling insults and obscenities as though watching gladiators in the arena. José sat in his chair, unable to do anything.
‘Get ready to join that bastard Oscar!’ roared El Mozambique. He began to throttle Grandfather with both hands. ‘The monster,’ yelled the crowd, ‘he’s going to kill the boy!’
Grandfather was on the point of being strangled when the back door of the shack was thrown open and, like a thunderbolt, Ester suddenly appeared in the room. ‘Let him go, Mangaleno!’ screamed Ester.
‘You? You fucking whore, what are you doing here? Get out and go home, you wh—’
Ester did not allow him to finish. From the folds of her skirts, she took an axe and with a single blow sliced Mangaleno’s head clean from his shoulders. The hulking body crumpled. The head rolled out of the door, past the neighbours. Epifanio Vilo picked it up and spat at it several times. Someone else punched it. They were about to toss it into the swamp when Melecio came outside and reminded them of Benicio’s words earlier: they were not brute beasts but human beings.
Melecio and Ester rushed back to where José was sitting. Benicio was
already by his father’s side. The moment his real father had been felled, he had not wasted a second. Betina ran, Gertrudis ran and lastly Juanita the wise-woman who had just arrived. Through the shattered windows and the cracks in the boards, the neighbours stared at the bloody body of the Mandinga. There was so much blood, seeping through his clothes, pooling on the floor, that it seemed hardly possible he could have any left.
‘Do you know what your first word was?’ said José, squeezing Benicio’s hand. ‘Tell him, Betina.’
‘Papá,’ said Betina, drying her tears.
‘One day you just looked me right in the eye and said “Papá”,’ José went on, squeezing Benicio’s hand, struggling to breathe. ‘I wanted to cover you in kisses.’
‘Forgive me, Papá,’ said Benicio.
‘There is nothing to forgive. I am the one who should be asking for forgiveness, son. Now I realise that Juanita was right when she told me you were different. And you are, Benicio. You are different for the simple reason that you are better. We all wanted blood, and what did you do? You stood up for something none of us cared about. Loyalty, Benicio. That is something truly important. To be loyal to those who gave you life, to your sons, to your family, however bad they may be. It was something I did not think about when I threw you out. That’s why, for all your faults, you are a better man than I.’
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