Pig's Foot (24 page)

Augusto turned the corner and headed down Calzada Dolores, passed a small park filled with trees and drove through narrow streets and markets. From time to time, they passed city blocks with just a single mansion perched on a hill and, a hundred metres further on, a serried row of tumbledown shacks where Negroes lived. Some of the blocks had ordinary houses, many of them ruined, while other blocks were rows and rows of shacks. What most struck my grandparents was the number of black people everywhere – in colonial times, the whole area had been used to house slaves, later there had been
cabildos
or African guilds, eventually they became tobacco plantations – some people walked around dressed in finery, but very few, most were in rags; they were bootblacks, newspaper sellers and street traders or hawkers as they were called back then. Others sold straw hats or bunches of flowers.

Augusto set down Pilar García outside one of the grand mansions. The boy’s parents looked my parents up and down. They asked Augusto whether he had taken leave of his senses. ‘It’s my life, Itamar,’ said Augusto. ‘You mind your own business.’ Then he set off again through the streets and finally pulled up next to a short driveway that led to a small stone house which, to my grandparents, looked like a palace. Augusto lived all alone in this house which had two large bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom and a courtyard planted with fruit trees.

‘We can stay out here in the courtyard under the avocado tree,’ said my grandfather, ‘or wherever we won’t be any bother.’

‘I won’t hear of it, young man. I have considered you my friends since the moment I gave you a ride and don’t go asking me why, because I don’t understand it myself. Let’s just say that I might not have grey hair, that’s only because I’ve got no hair at all, but I have a lot of experience sizing people up, and you seem like decent folk. Besides, I’ve always got along better with country folk because they tend to be more honourable, and they have dignity. In this city, it’s a long time since anyone has had any dignity. Every last one of them would trample over their own mother for money.’

‘At least let us pay you for the journey,’ said Grandma Gertrudis.

‘Don’t worry, señora, you’ve more than paid your fare simply by listening to me. You’ve no idea how long it’s been since I got to tell the story of Pepe Antonio and all that stuff back there. Living alone has its compensations, but you get used to not talking and little by little you start to forget everything. Let’s get you settled into your room.’

Augusto helped them with their luggage, then showed them the bathroom and the kitchen. Then he excused himself, explaining that he would be right back but first he had to deal with the cart, and he headed outside, whistling a little tune.

‘I can’t believe our luck,’ said Grandma Gertrudis as she stared at a real bathroom for the first time in her life, a genuine bathroom with tiles and a shower, with a mirror and a privy. It was a little early to be celebrating, Grandfather said, because from what they had seen and from the stories Augusto had told them, Havana was a hellhole. By now, night was drawing in. The mango and the avocado trees cast dark shadows over the house, shadows whose tentacles slithered into the rooms. When they were finally tired of exploring, they lay down in their room and made love.

When they woke the following morning, my grandparents found a mouthwatering breakfast waiting on the table: boiled eggs, buttered toast, tropical fruits, orange juice and coffee, all carefully set out on a red tablecloth. In the middle of the table was a jug filled with brilliant flowers. They were so hungry they could have devoured everything in a single mouthful, but instead they called out to Augusto to ask whether he was expecting guests or whether the breakfast was intended for them. Their host was nowhere to be found. So they decided to stroll through the courtyard filled with fruit trees, to wander through the kitchen and the bathroom to check that what they had seen the day before had not simply been a dream. Grandma Gertrudis reached out to touch the bathroom tiles one by one. Then they went back to their bedroom.

Two hours later Augusto arrived back with another man and found the table exactly as he had left it.

‘What . . . what happened . . . ?’ he said, knocking at the door of my grandparents’ room.

‘It’s just . . . we weren’t sure who the food was for,’ said Grandma Gertrudis.

‘For God’s sake, Gertrudis, I don’t want you fading away while you’re living in my house. Now go eat the breakfast before it spoils.’

My grandparents went into the living room and saw Augusto’s friend, who immediately doffed his Bolshevik hat and introduced himself as El Judío – the Jew. He was as pale and bald as Augusto, but shorter than their host and had a large aquiline nose which permanently propped up a pair of spectacles; he had a curious manner of walking on tiptoe, his heels hardly touching the ground, which made it seem as though he moved on springs. He was about forty years old, the same age as his friend.

El Judío shook Grandmother’s hand, bowing deeply and complimenting her appearance which he described as beautiful. Grandmother smiled shyly. Then he shook Grandfather’s hands and carefully studied them as though they were bedecked with jewels.

‘You see what I mean?’ said Augusto, clapping his friend on the back.

Grandfather asked if there was something wrong with his hands and El Judío replied that they were magnificent and that, at first glance, they signalled a great future. Benicio looked at Gertrudis. Then he said that he had something he needed to confess; Augusto had been more than generous to them, he said, and he felt they could not lie or keep secrets from him. The truth, he admitted, was that these supposedly magnificent hands had never touched a bar of soap; his hands had never laundered so much as a pair of underpants.

Augusto and El Judío burst out laughing.

‘Nor have mine,’ said Augusto, and once again he bid them go and eat the food, he told them to take their time but that he would be waiting for them outside with the cart so that they could all go to the laundry which was only a few blocks from here. My grandparents waited until Augusto had stepped out into the hallway, and El Judío had bounded after him, then they fell upon the food like animals. They did not leave so much as a crumb of bread behind.

They drove down the Calle Armas. The day was sunny and the gentle breeze cooled their skin, a blissful relief from the sweltering heat. Along the way, my grandparents noticed that the throngs of people were even more numerous than they had been the night before. Morning is when one can really see people go about their business in Barrio Lawton. Hundreds and hundreds of people walking up and down the street, stopping off at baker’s and butcher’s, children heading to school, hawkers dragging carts behind them, men weaving straw hats. The neighbourhood teemed with life and my grandparents could see little difference between Barrio Lawton and the centre of Havana other than that there were fewer imposing buildings and fewer people dressed in finery passing in expensive cars.

Something else they noticed was the level of deference and respect, as though, in spite of the obvious divisions between social classes, everyone was keenly aware of the position of everyone else. Respect was something my grandparents were always talking about, lamenting the fact that all the magic words and the courteous phrases of yesteryear had long since disappeared. They were very critical of the modern world. For example, they used to tell me that in the old days, in spite of their poverty, paupers would say ‘good day’ and ‘thank you’ and use words like ‘please’ and phrases like ‘if you would be so kind’, and they doffed their hats to women. There was a pleasing harmony about things, though this was superficial since the reality, as I’m sure you know, is that back then the effects of slavery, and all the suffering it caused, were still keenly felt. Even so, a certain respect prevailed between people. My grandparents were quietly drinking in all these new sights when suddenly they heard something surprising.

‘Did you know that the first European to set foot on Cuban soil was a Jew?’ asked El Judío, turning in his seat to look at my grandparents.

‘Oh, no,’ said Augusto, raising his eyes to heaven. ‘Here we go again.’

‘There’s no “Here we go again” about it, Augusto. They need to know these things. It is part of every Cuban’s education,’ said the man and lit a fat cigar.

My grandparents looked at him, puzzled. A cloud of smoke billowed towards them. They did their best to waft it away, but the little man went on puffing and blowing smoke as though he had not noticed.

‘This is the story. The first person to set foot on Cuban soil was a man named Luis de Torres, a converted Jew, what are commonly called
Marranos
. Luis de Torres was sent as an interpreter to accompany Christopher Columbus. He spoke four languages including Spanish which is why Columbus asked him to go ashore when he was exploring, looking for the Cuban king. Obviously, what they found were Indians. They also found something else. Can you guess what it was?’

‘Come now, that’s enough. Leave them alone, I’m sure Benicio and Gertrudis don’t even know what a Jew is.’

El Judío’s face took on a look of shock as though he had just seen a green cat jump on to the cart, as though the sky had suddenly fallen in.

‘You don’t know what a Jew is?’

‘Of course they don’t know,’ said Augusto. ‘No one in Cuba knows.’

‘What are you saying, Augusto? This is sacrilege. There are more than eight thousand Jews in Cuba, we have synagogues and even our own cemetery. A Cuban who does not know the meaning of the word Jew is a heretic.’ As he said this, El Judío blessed himself three times.

‘And what exactly is a Jew, señor?’ asked Gertrudis, frowning. ‘We thought Judío was your name.’

‘It is my name. Judío Alemán is my name – it means German Jew. And it so happens I am a German Jew.’

‘What you are is a German-Jewish pain in the ass,’ roared Augusto and my grandparents laughed.

‘That’s not funny, Augusto. Every Cuban should know the history of the Jews, especially you since you are my friend. It’s not just the story of Luis de Torres; through history many Jews have contributed to the wealth of our country.’

‘Explain it to us, then,’ and he jerked the horse’s reins, bringing the cart to a juddering halt.

‘Explain what?’

‘What exactly is a Jew?’

My grandparents looked at the short, hook-nosed man curiously.

‘Very well,’ said El Judío. He adjusted his spectacles and cracked his knuckles as though about to undertake a task that required great strength. ‘Well, in the first place, a Jew is a person, or rather it refers to a group of people; well actually they are a nation from far away on a different continent where they don’t have buttered toast for breakfast, instead they have
shakshouka
which is eggs poached in lots of spicy tomato sauce. Jews don’t care much for exploitation because they have been exploited throughout history. The Jew is an honest and intelligent man who likes to pray, but he does not pray to Changó or to Jesus Christ or to any of the gods people believe in here in Cuba, but to a different god, and above all, Jews like success . . .’

Judío Alemán concluded his explanation and inhaled a deep puff of smoke, smiling all the while, satisfied with his line of reasoning. Grandma Gertrudis knitted her brows again and Grandpa Benicio glanced at Augusto, who, he realised, had also not understood a word of this explanation.

‘Is that it? Is that what Jew means?’

‘That’s what it means,’ said his friend.

Augusto exclaimed that this was the most preposterous twaddle he had heard in all his life. Everyone prayed, everyone liked success and no one liked exploitation, which, by his friend’s description, would mean that the whole world was Jewish. He pulled a face and explained to my grandparents that his friend liked to play the fine gentleman in front of guests when in fact at home he had an Eleguá altar with a dead chicken and believed in Changó and all the African gods that real Jews deny. His friend was angered by these comments and brusquely stubbed out his cigar.

The first thing they saw when they got to the laundry was a large sign with the words ‘
El Buen Vivir
’ – The Good Life in red and green letters above a large metal shutter which protected the premises at night against thieves. Augusto took a key from his pocket and opened the padlock, then gave a sharp tug and the metal shutter coiled up inside the top shell as though it were a snail.

Inside, there was a wooden counter set against a black wall which Grandma Gertrudis thought looked very depressing. On the wall hung a blackboard on which was written: ‘The Good Life begins and ends here. It can be yours for just a few
reales
.’

Grandfather helped to unload the soap powder and the various chemicals used for washing, and stepped into the back of the shop only to realise it was a dingy little room measuring barely eighteen feet by twenty full of sacks of laundry, sacks of coal, blocks of wood and, right in the middle, a huge machine that looked like a concrete mixer you see everywhere these days. The room gave on to a courtyard where a dozen ropes and wires suspended at different heights were simply washing lines on which to dry the clothes.

After they had inspected the brown-tiled floor and yellow-stained walls and after they had brought in all the laundry, my grandparents asked Augusto where the wash trough was. It was right in front of them, he said, pointing to the concrete mixer in the middle of the room. The rickety appliance consisted of a cylindrical steel drum mounted on a rectangular frame, also made of steel, which was set over a pit in which was a water heater: a coal fire. The drum had a window through which one pushed the clothes and once this was closed you only had to crank the handle in order to turn the drum.