Pig's Foot (33 page)

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of someone named José Mandinga?’ I asked a well-dressed, rather professional-looking man of about fifty.

‘José Mandinga with a dick like a finger?’

‘No, I’m serious. What about Oscar Kortico?’

‘Oscar Kortico, with a prick like a yo-yo?’

This idiot who thought he was a comedian was busting my balls, so I had to walk away.

I approached an elegant woman with a long face and a little wispy moustache who was walking along the road and asked if she had heard of José Mandinga.

‘The only Mandinga I’ve ever heard of is Melecio Mandinga, the architect who designed Cabeza de Carnero. Have a look at that plaque over there.’ The woman pointed to a wall on which was a rectangular plaque sculpted in high-relief depicting a man with short hair and a noble face; he was smiling.

As I walked over, I felt a shudder run quickly along my spine, up my neck and into my brain. For a split-second, I felt as though I were looking into a mirror. I couldn’t have known that I was the spitting image of my father Melecio, no one had ever told me. The plaque read: ‘
Melecio Mandinga, architect of Cabeza de Carnero, did not live to see his dream become a reality, but his work lives on for ever in our hearts.
’

After reading this, I walked around for a long time, a little lost, a little gloomy, mostly exhausted by my geographic and genetic disorientation. I came upon a bus stop and had a daydream, or rather with my eyes open I dreamed that a man with gold teeth and an Armani suit driving a limousine was reaching out to shake my hand, introducing himself as Bacardí. ‘My name is Emilio Bacardí,’ he said and invited me to climb into the plush car, where my father Melecio was already ensconced. I saw myself roaming the interior of the limousine, a network of corridors that were actually the hallways of a prison; I could see the bug-eyed prisoners, as I walked determinedly through this labyrinth of muttering voices and nightmares, alert to what was happening in each cell. From time to time my father Melecio would wink at me or Don Emilio would wave me onward and I walked on until I came to the brink of an abyss, since in my dream the prison was like a castle built on the edge of a cliff. There, unable to turn back, I lifted up my arms to glorify the heavens; I tried to speak but I realised, or at least I had the fleeting impression, that someone had sewn my lips together. And yet inside my mouth, I could feel something that was not my tongue or my teeth, but a piece of meat that I tried to swallow as with one hand I fumbled to rip the stitches from my lips. Blood ran down my chin. My gums were numb. When at last I could open my mouth, I spat out the piece of flesh and then groped for it in the darkness. Having found it, and turned it over carefully in my fingers, I realised it was the nose and moustache of Commissioner Clemente.

The scene shifted into another dream in which once again I was strangling the damned cat. I watched the head roll away. I kicked the remains of the body into the bin and then the head suddenly opened its eyes and said: ‘Careful of the consequences, Oscar.’ I woke up with a start. A few kids were playing in the street. They were laughing and playing. From time to time a horse-drawn cart drove by, like the one that had brought me here. I couldn’t stay a moment longer. Night would soon be drawing in.

In the distance I could see the mountains of the Sierra Maestra. I walked in that direction. I walked for miles, until suddenly the paved roads petered out leaving only dirt tracks, which gradually disappeared into a tangle of trees and brambles where the heat was suffocating. I walked without stopping, heading nowhere in particular, but as far as possible from mankind, from the misery of the city, from the memories of those I loved now dead. Night fell, the darkness was eerie, the mountain gradually grew steeper. A dense thicket of sicklebush blocked my path. There was no way forward. I thought about going back to my old life, but that only made me walk on doggedly, ignoring the thorns long as bayonets ripping at my clothes, burying themselves in my flesh, oblivious to the blood and the pain. On the far side of the sicklebush grove, when I realised that I had left the bustle of the city behind, I lay down on the ground, aching and exhausted. And fell asleep.

Atanasio's Story

The first thing I noticed was that the pig's-foot amulet was no longer around my neck. Then I realised that I was lying in a circular clearing the size of an empty football pitch ringed by tall sicklebush like the walls of a fortress, keeping it beyond the reach of men, preserving its mystery. In the middle of the circle it looked as though it had just rained. Clouds were gathered just above the clearing and a fine mist hung in the air, which gave the place a pleasing temperature while beyond the walls of sicklebush the sun still split the stones, the earth was cracked and parched.

The grey sky did not seem to be lit by the sun's rays, as though day was about to dawn or night about to draw in. At first I thought a tropical storm was brewing but, looking more carefully, I realised that there was something ghostly about this place that had nothing to do with the weather.

‘I must be dreaming,' I thought as I stared at the throng of animals gathered in the centre of the clearing: wild boar, hutias, deer, crocodiles, all happily sharing the thick black mud rising to cover trees and plants and creepers. Mud coated everything, every animal and tree – the only flash of green came from the feathers of birds as they flitted from branch to branch like lights.

The animals were not startled by my sudden appearance. The crocodiles watched, jaws wide, still as statues; the deer carried on wallowing in the mud as though I were not a man but simply another animal come to shelter from the heat. A pall of thick black smoke hung in the air as if by magic. Looking closely, I saw it came from a shack built of timber and royal palm with a roof of thatched palm leaves, invisible against the mud. On the porch of the house were four stools and a table carefully laid with a chicken stockpot, bread and two bottles of homemade rum, though there was not a soul in sight.

‘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?'