‘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. Lucumí! Palmito! Our guest has arrived. Take a seat, señor.’ 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 hello,’ 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, señor,’ the old man said, ‘are you a believer?’
‘You mean do I believe in God?’
‘Not necessarily, but let us start there.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And why not, if I may ask?’
‘Because if there were a God, 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 God 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 God?’
‘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 God, 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 bumped 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, Lucumí 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 Velázquez, 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 dicks da
ngled 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 massive rebellion led by José 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 Hernán Cortés. Others claim they are the spawn 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 mamá, 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 Lucumí, 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.
‘Señor! 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 Lucumí. 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. Lucumí 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,’ Lucumí added, ‘I’d like to see Clemente give those sons of bitches a good beating.’
I asked who this Commissioner Clemente was.
‘The Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in Cuba, the most powerful man in this area, the man who maintains order in Pata de Puerco.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Really. Those he takes away rarely return,’ said Palmito and explained that this was the war of the mute, of those without a voice.
‘The war of the mute?’ I said.
‘The war of the oppressed,’ said Palmito. ‘The Nicotinas oppress the Korticos and the Ku Klux Klan oppresses everyone.’
‘But no Cuban has ever belonged to the Ku Klux Klan,’ I said. ‘Nothing like that has ever existed in Cuba.’
‘That’s what they want us to believe,’ said Palmito. ‘In fact, the Klan is everywhere. In Oriente, in Havana, in Pinar del Río. Artemisa is full of Klan leaders.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
Palmito named three officials in the Politburo, and two directors of Televisión Cubana.
‘You’re telling me the head of Cuban television is a member of the KKK?’
‘Of course. Have you ever seen a black person on television?’
‘Not many.’
‘And the few black people you do see are only on TV because racism and segregation are supposedly banned in Cuba,’ said Palmito.
Looking down at Atanasio’s body I asked if it was true that Korticos could foretell the future. Palmito explained that they could not see their destinies, but knew only the day when they would die. It appeared to them in a dream, he explained, hazy at first and shrou
ded in mist, but over time it took on colour and form like a photograph and they understood that they were seeing their own death.
‘What does it feel like, to know when you’re going to die?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Lucumí. ‘You have a better life, you’re not afraid of lightning or diseases.’
‘What will you do with his body?’ I said, looking at Lucumí who told me they would hold a wake and then burn the body according to Atanasio’s wishes. In the meantime, Palmito said, people he called the Allies were coming to meet me.
‘To meet me, or to pay their respects?’
‘Both. But mostly to meet you,’ said Palmito. ‘We all knew that our brother would die today, so we have long been preparing for this moment.’
I told him I found it strange they did not grieve for their brother, that his death did not make them sad. Of course he would miss Atanasio, Lucumí said, especially his terrible farts. And then he laughed. I don’t know why, but he reminded me of Judío Alemán.
‘Don’t pay my brother any mind, he’s not as insensitive as he likes to make out,’ said Palmito. ‘The thing is when you have lived your whole life embracing the prospect of death, you learn to accept its nature, and in time you feel no fear.’
I thought about the time I had climbed to the top of the FOCSA Building and not had the guts to jump. I had accepted the idea of death, but I had never been able to rid myself of the fear.
The three of us carried Atanasio’s body into the house, into a narrow living room furnished with smooth rocks in place of chairs and a beer crate for a table. On the walls were animal figures cut from sackcloth and two crossed machetes. The only light came from lanterns filled with fireflies. The dank smell of mud crept across the wooden floor and mingled with the smell of mould. Surprisingly, the house was clean, but it was a spartan cleanliness that lacked the feminine touch, a sterility that evoked a monk’s cell.
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