Pig's Foot

by Carlos Acosta

  Something else I just realised about my grandparents: they were incurable romantics. Not like me, I’m a cynic about most things in life, though even I have my Mr Darcy moments. The love between my grandparents was one of those glorious lovey-dovey relationships with flowers and fine words and great respect. I never heard them say a harsh word to each other, or even heard them argue the way couples usually do, because there are times when you just want to tell your other half to fuck off. Like I did one day with Elena. She was really lovely, she was funny and all that, but sometimes she’d just push my buttons and I’d wind up exploding. Once she started on at me about how I never held her hand and never kissed her in public, about how a bunch of her girlfriends had said I was boorish, that I had no romance.

  ‘Tell your girlfriends to go fuck themselves and stop messing with my head, Elena, unless you want a kick up the arse,’ I said. I regretted it afterwards. Truth is, I really loved the bitch.

  Anyway, to get back to my grandparents, now they were as sweet as a slab of sticky toffee. That’s why I was surprised when Grandpa Benicio told me all the stuff he told me, all that stuff about Pata de Puerco, about saying that Gertrudis was ridiculous, that she was punishing herself. Grandpa wasn’t like that. In Lawton, everyone knew him as someone who was polite to dogs, even the vicious mutts. So I wasn’t surprised when Grandpa Benicio told me how he proposed to Grandma Gertrudis.

  Augusto had suggested that he hide the ring in one of the sweet buns they sold at the bakery on the Esquina de Toyo, wrap it up in a box and present it to her at El Floridita.

  ‘But what if she swallows it?’ said Grandfather. Then they thought it might be simpler and more sensible to tie the ring to the leg of one of Judío’s carrier pigeons, for example, and release it while Benicio and his future wife were out walking near the Lawton parish church. The dove would come and land on Gertrudis’s shoulder and she would immediately notice the ring attached to the bird’s foot.

  El Judío, for his part, thought this a barbaric idea; if Benicio planned to propose to Gertrudis, he should do so like a Jewish gentleman, save up his money little by little until he had enough to pay José Matamoros and his Band to come and play at the laundry. ‘Pack it in, Judío,’ said Augusto, ‘this is no time for jokes.’

  They considered the idea of a drive into the city to the Bodeguita del Medio so that Benicio could propose either on the Malecón as they walked along the seafront, or on the majestic steps leading up to the University of Habana. Eventually, Grandfather told them not to worry about it, he would think of something.

  A year later, Grandpa had finally saved enough money to buy an eighteen-carat gold ring for my grandmother. That August of 1933, Havana was in the grip of a sweltering heatwave, the sun beat down on the flagstones and by mid-morning clothes were sodden from the humidity. Grandfather asked Augusto if he might have the day off and his friend hugged him hard and wished him luck. ‘Cross and hook, Choco!’ called Judío and my grandfather watched as they left the house and headed for the laundry.

  Gertrudis and Benicio walked along the Calzada Dolores and then turned and headed down the Calzada del Diez de Octubre, stopping to stare in the shop windows. Every time Grandma pointed out something, Grandpa dashed into the shop to buy it for her. ‘You’re going to bankrupt us, mi amor,’ said Gertrudis anxiously, but Benicio simply said it was only for today. After that, Grandma stopped pointing out toys and clothes in the shop windows.

  They ate spaghetti à la Napolitana at a pizzeria near the Esquina de Toyo. Then, since it was Tuesday, the day when women were admitted free to cinemas in Havana, Grandfather took her to the Cine Valentino on the Esquina de Tejas which was showing One Good Turn with Laurel and Hardy. They enjoyed the film. At around five p.m., they began to stroll back up the Calzada del Diez de Octubre.

  Stopping at a florist, Grandfather bought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers and Gertrudis told him they were beautiful and covered him with kisses. Someone in a passing car shouted, ‘Vaya Negro fino!’ while passers-by stopped and applauded, saying, ‘Well done. That’s the way to do it!’ Benicio slipped an arm around Gertrudis’s shoulders and they walked on up the hill. They turned and headed to the Lawton church which was just off the main street.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Benicio?’ In front of the church was a glorious, towering flame tree. ‘I’m taking you to the only flame tree I could find. The only one in the barrio.’ Gertrudis rushed over, hugged the tree and sighed. ‘It’s beautiful. Just like the flame tree in Pata de Puerco, remember? I wonder how everyone is back home? I wonder if . . . ?’

  ‘Forget all that, Gertrudis,’ said Grandfather. They stood in silence. Grandma Gertrudis asked what was going on. Grandpa sat down on a bench next to the flame tree and buried his head in his hands, as though he were tired or feeling ill. An old woman coming out of the confessional stopped and stared at the two strangers as a younger woman went in to confess her sins.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Benicio?’

  ‘Listen, Gertrudis,’ my grandfather was trembling, ‘I brought you here to say that I can’t compose poetry like Melecio. I don’t know how to read or write. But there is one thing I do know, something I knew from the day I first opened my eyes: that you are the love of my life, Gertrudis. I would like to marry you. Would you do me that honour?’

  Grandmother was pale. Grandfather slipped a hand into his pocket, went down on one knee and, still staring at the ground, he held up the ring. Gertrudis lunged for it and the ring flew into the air, then rolled down the street. They raced after it, finally catching up just as it was about to fall down a drain. Grandma gave a little laugh and then slipped the ring on to her finger.

  ‘Why are you shaking?’ said Gertrudis. ‘Your hands are all sweaty. Don’t tell me you were nervous.’

  ‘I was scared,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘You’re such a fool, Benicio. Were you really afraid I would say no?’

  ‘No. I was afraid that having blown all my savings, the cursed ring was going to roll down the drain.’

  They laughed again. Then they kissed beneath the flame tree that brought back so many happy memories. The faint glow of the gathering dusk illuminated them. Suddenly, a soft breeze blew up and they felt a wave of joy surge through them. And that was all. No carrier pigeons, no sweet buns, no Matamoros and his Band. Not everyone realises that magic lies in simplicity. It’s something I have come to know only too well.

  A moment later, they heard the celebrations. People came pouring into the streets with passionate excitement, singing, screaming, turning their music up full blast. From where my grandparents stood, they heard something like the sound of a baseball bat hitting a column. It could easily be somebody’s spinal column, my grandparents thought, or the six-foot column of a house. And then more screams. When they asked people in the street what the celebrations were about, they were told Machado had been toppled. He had fled the country for Nassau.

  The festivities continued with their friends back at the laundry until the small hours. My grandparents’ engagement and the fall of Machado, two good reasons to celebrate. My grandparents were married a month later at Lawton church in the presence of their loyal friends Augusto García and Judío Alemán. The laundry didn’t close that night either.

  The Homecoming

  Time, as it does, went on passing. By now Machado was dead and the Jackal of Oriente had hanged the forty-four peasants in Santiago. The Pentarchy of 1933 had been dissolved, Batista had mounted the coup d’état that overthrew Grau San Martín and construction of the art deco López Serrano Building had been completed. The Hotel Riviera had crowned itself the first hotel in the world with centralised air conditioning and work had begun on the FOCSA Building which, for a time, would be the tallest reinforced-concrete building in the world.

  I know I’ve just leapfrogged the rest of the 1930s, the whole of the 1940s and landed slap bang in the middle of the 1950s, but to be honest nothing that happened during that period is relevant to
the story. Besides, I’m the narrator and I don’t feel like talking about it, and anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off. Fuck 1940 and its ‘progressive constitution’. I don’t want to argue about whether chicharrones are meat or espadrilles are shoes. I’m sorry? Did you say something? I already told you, I don’t want to talk about Carlos Mendieta, Miguel Mariano and that bunch of old duffers, so stop being such a drag or I’ll kick your ass out of here too.

  Bueno, we’ve just skipped from the part where Ernesto Lecuona was nominated for an Oscar, to Pérez Prado’s song ‘Patricia’ topping the American hit parade for fifteen consecutive weeks, a record unmatched even by Elvis Presley or The Beatles. All that stuff had happened when my grandparents decided to go see a doctor to find out why Grandma Gertrudis couldn’t get pregnant. They had been trying for a baby for a while by then. They tried during fertile periods when Grandma was ovulating, they tried at the full moon, but nothing worked. There came a moment when Benicio began to think it was his fault.

  ‘My milk is no good,’ he said sadly.

  The blood that flowed through his veins, the blood of his father, was a curse, he said. My grandma said that if anyone was to blame it was her, that every time after they had sex, she would go to the bathroom to pee to stop Benicio’s sperm getting any farther. Benicio said she was crazy, insisting that he was to blame. Grandma insisted that she was. So they concluded there was only one way to find out.

  The doctor first examined Benicio. He told him to masturbate and ejaculate into a little cup. Then he examined Gertrudis, touching and palpating her, something that infuriated Benicio who waved his arms, demanding to know what the hell he was doing; Gertrudis was his wife.

  ‘And I am her doctor, so if you could stand aside and let me do my job.’

  Gertrudis begged Benicio to calm down and stop being so jealous.

  Two weeks later, my grandparents received the sad news: they could never have children. Grandma Gertrudis had an obstruction in her Fallopian tubes, there was nothing to be done. This was followed by long weeks of grief and tears when Grandma locked herself in the bathroom and would not open the door, not even to God Himself. Benicio talked to his friends about his wife’s condition, about how worried he was. He asked their advice.

  ‘Love and affection,’ Augusto recommended. ‘Be loving and affectionate towards her, Benicio.’

  But all his love, all his affection, were not enough to comfort my grandmother. Gertrudis felt that it was not worth carrying on. Her reason for living had died the moment the doctor gave his diagnosis. Her appetite and her sex drive dwindled. She forgot how to eat and how to fuck. For my grandparents, food and sex became something else, something unattainable, ineffable, something beyond action, beyond words. Simply undressing to put on fresh clothes was like flaying my grandmother alive. Grandma Gertrudis was really ill.

  In the morning, she would refuse to go to work at the laundry. She would drink her coffee then lock herself in the bathroom. Benicio had run out of ideas. Then El Judío said, ‘Leave it to me,’ and he too disappeared from the laundry for several weeks. Augusto and Benicio now began to worry about the Jew as well. Nobody had heard from him. Nobody had seen him leave his apartment. One day, my grandfather went to his house. He lived in a rented apartment on the Calle Armas, in a dilapidated, ramshackle building. Grandfather peered through a chink in the blinds. El Judío was performing some sort of ritual. It was not exactly santería, though in the middle of the room there was an Elegúa altar on which lay the bloody carcass of a chicken; strewn on the floor and in the shrine were candles and sweets. There was also a large, thick tome lying in a corner of the room with the inscription embossed in gilt on the cover. El Judío, dressed in black and white, was holding a candelabra.

  He did not look like El Judío, but like some demon.

  ‘The devil has taken possession of El Judío,’ thought Grandpa and ran to tell Augusto. El Judío never meddled in such things, Augusto said; in all the years they had known each other, this was the first time he had performed a Jodío-Cubano ritual.

  ‘Jodío-Cubano?’ asked Benicio.

  This, Augusto explained, was the correct term for a freakish fucked-up cod-Jewish part-Cuban ritual but asked Benicio not to use the phrase since it would only anger El Judío.

  ‘He is doing it because he loves you both. Even though we all know that a dead chicken and a few prayers from some old book will not change anything.’

  Grandfather stared at the ground. Augusto came over and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Chin up,’ he said, and offered the sage opinion that life is shit. Then he turned back to his work.

  A month later El Judío reappeared at the laundry. Grandpa Benicio and Augusto hugged him and told him he looked terrible. He had lost a lot of weight, his sleepless nights had left him with dark circles around his eyes which were further magnified by his spectacles. El Judío said that he had done all he could and that there was nothing to do now but wait.

  ‘Wait for what?’ asked Benicio.

  ‘For a sign,’ said El Judío.

  A month passed.

  ‘Is Gertrudis pregnant yet?’ asked El Judío.

  ‘No,’ said my grandfather.

  A second month passed.

  ‘Still nothing, Benicio?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said El Judío.

  The truth was that neither my grandfather nor Augusto took El Judío seriously, and they were certainly not waiting for a sign or indeed anything to come as a result of his cunning ritual.

  And yet, in the third month, something did happen. For years my grandparents had been sending letters to Pata de Puerco telling Betina about their new life. They had never had a reply. Nor did they expect one. And so they were extremely surprised when one morning a telegram arrived.

  ‘Come quickly,’ was Betina’s message. ‘I don’t have much time.’ My grandparents packed up a few things and caught the first train heading for Santiago.

  When they arrived in Pata de Puerco, the village was exactly as they had left it, with the same communal well, the same flame tree, the same cemetery – though this last had increased in size to cope with the small thicket of wooden crosses planted in the earth. Having lived so long in the greyness of Lawton, the green of the trees seemed deeper, more intense. More than ever, the sun seemed to hurl its golden daggers. The sky was a dazzling, almost metallic blue, but for the most part little had changed since they left, except that now there was not a single familiar face.

  To my grandparents’ surprise, people came out to greet them as though meeting with a living legend. At first no one recognised them. The villagers assumed they were travellers who had lost their way. Then someone shouted, ‘It’s Benicio – Benicio and Gertrudis!’ and suddenly children and adults began to pour from the houses and the shacks that still smelled of coal and kerosene. The villagers hugged them warmly, as though they were long-lost friends. Some were so moved, they had tears in their eyes.

  ‘Where is Ester the midwife?’ asked Benicio.

  ‘She died years ago,’ they told him.

  ‘And Juanita?’

  ‘Dead too.’

  The Santacruzes, the Aquelarres, Señor and Señora Jabao, Eustaquio the machetero. They had all been cured of life and now rested in peace, lying face up in the cemetery.

  They stepped inside the little shack where they had spent their childhood years. Memories were everywhere: in the wooden table bleached by time, in the bedrooms with no doors, in the chinks and holes in the walls through which my grandparents had peered as children. Benicio rushed to kneel by Betina’s bed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mami?’ he said, taking her hand.

  ‘Nothing, hijo. I’m dying, that’s all.’ Betina hugged her children. Then she told them that before Juanita died, she consulted her cauldron and told Betina that she would die on February the fifth.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Betina had asked.

  ‘Because you are going t
o die,’ said the santera and explained that Betina needed to make plans so that her children could be with her. Betina had asked how she would die and Juanita told her that first her heart would receive a terrible shock, something Juanita felt it better not to reveal to her in advance. Then, in the early hours of February the fifth, she would die of nothing specific, that eventually the hour comes for all of us, and this would be Betina’s hour.

  Having said this, the wise-woman stepped outside to gaze one last time at the collection of beautiful African orchids planted in her garden.

  ‘Say my goodbyes to the village. Thank them for sharing with me the good times and the bad times of old age and tell them I will wait for them on the other side.’

  The following morning, the body of Juanita was laid to rest beneath one of the forest of crosses in the cemetery.

  Juanita had made a mistake, Benicio cried frantically, everyone was wrong; Betina was coming back with them to Lawton. Betina replied that the wise-woman had always had a talent for predictions and she had never been wrong before.

  ‘Where’s Melecio?’ asked Gertrudis.

  ‘Ah, now that’s another story. Go warm up the coffee, Geru, and pull up a chair, because the tale I have to tell is a long one so it’s better that you make yourself comfortable.’

  Gertrudis warmed the dark brew and took a seat as her mother had asked.

  ‘You both know that Melecio is not like other people, it’s hardly a secret here in the village,’ said Betina, sipping the coffee. ‘Well, after José died and you left Pata de Puerco, Melecio got it into his head to turn the village into a town with paved streets and schools and hospitals. Your brother always was a dreamer, as you know. So he picked out a small group of promising pupils – Anastasia Aquelarre, Ignacio and Juan Carlos el Jabao – in order to teach them what they would need to know. It would be a difficult task, he explained, but a necessary one, and if they should fail it didn’t matter because he knew that in the future others would carry on their work.

  ‘After a while Melecio’s pupils became experts in law and politics, even in architecture, and learned to express themselves like attorneys.