features.
When Malena and Oscar died, Betina wept continually for three weeks. She lost her appetite, she lost weight, and neglected her appearance more than ever. José too was much affected, but Betina was in such a state that he had to set aside his own grief in order to care for his wife, who was about to give birth. Several times, he tried to persuade her to take a bath, telling her he could not bear for such a beautiful woman to have a forest of hair under her arms, to smell unwashed, to look like a beggar. The Mandingas had always been a proud family. What would the neighbours say, those same people who had always thought of the Mandingas as the guiding force in Pata de Puerco? What sort of example was she setting for Gertrudis, who worshipped her mother? What had become of the radiant woman with whom José had fallen in love?
Betina talked to her husband about a conversation she had had with Juanita, a santera and wise-woman who lived alone and spent her time tending mysterious plants in her garden. Juanita thought of herself as a cynical pessimist, but she had a keen eye capable of diagnosing disease and in Pata de Puerco it was she who tended to the health of the community. More than once she had said that Cuba was a cesspool and she was simply waiting for her plants, her bird-of-paradise flowers and her orchids, to grow so she could die in peace. She invariably wore a housecoat that reeked of alcohol and wandered around with a cigar hanging from her lips.
‘Juanita told me that all this time the truth has been staring us in the face, but we would not see it,’ Betina told her husband. José said she should pay no mind to Juanita whose brain was addled by the strange herbs she smoked, but instead accept things as they are. Death sometimes comes unexpectedly, he said, and once again reminded her how his parents had perished of yellow fever, adding that his twin brothers had died of that terrible disease. ‘You have to remember you are about to give birth.’
This seemed to calm her for a while, but the following day Betina’s head was once again plagued with ghosts and suspicions; Malena had not been herself for a long time, she insisted, her sister had become more withdrawn as though afraid to speak, afraid to look her in the eye. Betina had known something was wrong, but every time she raised the subject her sister said she was imagining things.
‘Malena died in childbirth, mi amor ,’ said José. ‘You know how delicate she was.’ But Betina, with the wilfulness of pregnant women, insisted no one died in childbirth just like that. To calm her, José went to fetch Ester so the midwife could tell her exactly what had happened.
‘I warned Oscar. I told him that Malena needed to eat more red meat,’ said Ester.
‘No one could have eaten more red meat than Malena did,’ said José.
‘In that case, I don’t know what happened,’ said Ester.
Neither the midwife’s statement nor her husband’s comforting could sway Betina. José had no choice but to allow time to do its work. Months passed and slowly Betina began to forget, though every week she made the pilgrimage to El Cobre, bringing sprigs of fresh roses to the church in memory of her beloved Malena and Oscar.
Melecio was born precisely four weeks after Benicio. José and Betina watched over him in the weeks and months that followed, eagerly waiting for his first word. Gertrudis’s first word had been ‘mamá’; Benicio, to be contrary, had said ‘papá’. José and Betina wondered what Melecio’s first word would be; it was a matter they took very seriously.
One day, Melecio looked up into his parents’ eyes and said, ‘Architecture!’
‘Architecture? What do you mean, architecture? What does he mean, Betina?’
Betina folded her arms but could not say anything. A little later, they both came to the conclusion that it could mean only one thing: Melecio was the strangest child in the world.
Physically, the two boys were similar
When Malena and Oscar died, Betina wept continually for three weeks. She lost her appetite, she lost weight, and neglected her appearance more than ever. José too was much affected, but Betina was in such a state that he had to set aside his own grief in order to care for his wife, who was about to give birth. Several times, he tried to persuade her to take a bath, telling her he could not bear for such a beautiful woman to have a forest of hair under her arms, to smell unwashed, to look like a beggar. The Mandingas had always been a proud family. What would the neighbours say, those same people who had always thought of the Mandingas as the guiding force in Pata de Puerco? What sort of example was she setting for Gertrudis, who worshipped her mother? What had become of the radiant woman with whom José had fallen in love?
Betina talked to her husband about a conversation she had had with Juanita, a santera and wise-woman who lived alone and spent her time tending mysterious plants in her garden. Juanita thought of herself as a cynical pessimist, but she had a keen eye capable of diagnosing disease and in Pata de Puerco it was she who tended to the health of the community. More than once she had said that Cuba was a cesspool and she was simply waiting for her plants, her bird-of-paradise flowers and her orchids, to grow so she could die in peace. She invariably wore a housecoat that reeked of alcohol and wandered around with a cigar hanging from her lips.
‘Juanita told me that all this time the truth has been staring us in the face, but we would not see it,’ Betina told her husband. José said she should pay no mind to Juanita whose brain was addled by the strange herbs she smoked, but instead accept things as they are. Death sometimes comes unexpectedly, he said, and once again reminded her how his parents had perished of yellow fever, adding that his twin brothers had died of that terrible disease. ‘You have to remember you are about to give birth.’
This seemed to calm her for a while, but the following day Betina’s head was once again plagued with ghosts and suspicions; Malena had not been herself for a long time, she insisted, her sister had become more withdrawn as though afraid to speak, afraid to look her in the eye. Betina had known something was wrong, but every time she raised the subject her sister said she was imagining things.
‘Malena died in childbirth, mi amor ,’ said José. ‘You know how delicate she was.’ But Betina, with the wilfulness of pregnant women, insisted no one died in childbirth just like that. To calm her, José went to fetch Ester so the midwife could tell her exactly what had happened.
‘I warned Oscar. I told him that Malena needed to eat more red meat,’ said Ester.
‘No one could have eaten more red meat than Malena did,’ said José.
‘In that case, I don’t know what happened,’ said Ester.
Neither the midwife’s statement nor her husband’s comforting could sway Betina. José had no choice but to allow time to do its work. Months passed and slowly Betina began to forget, though every week she made the pilgrimage to El Cobre, bringing sprigs of fresh roses to the church in memory of her beloved Malena and Oscar.
Melecio was born precisely four weeks after Benicio. José and Betina watched over him in the weeks and months that followed, eagerly waiting for his first word. Gertrudis’s first word had been ‘mamá’; Benicio, to be contrary, had said ‘papá’. José and Betina wondered what Melecio’s first word would be; it was a matter they took very seriously.
One day, Melecio looked up into his parents’ eyes and said, ‘Architecture!’
‘Architecture? What do you mean, architecture? What does he mean, Betina?’
Betina folded her arms but could not say anything. A little later, they both came to the conclusion that it could mean only one thing: Melecio was the strangest child in the world.
Physically, the two boys were similar
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