Free Pig's Foot by Carlos Acosta Page B

not his words, the words of an ignorant man, but what was written in books and therefore the best thing to do was believe the great thinkers who asserted that in reality there are no colours: no black, no white, no red, no yellow. That colours exist only in the eyes and are interpreted by the brain.
    ‘That is rank hypocrisy,’ said José. Many white people affirmed such things, he went on, claimed all men were equal, but not one of them would sit down and break bread with a Negro. ‘If I tell you that you are as worthy as I, but brush you aside and live as far from you as possible, am I not a hypocrite? White men are like palm trees; they never bend their trunks to offer you a palm fruit. Not like mango trees that bow down to the ground so you can gather their fruits. White men live their lives looking down from on high and we are the worms wriggling in the mud waiting for some crumb of earth to feed on. They do not share with us, they do not mix with us, they are like damned palm trees, Aureliano. I don’t know about you, but me and my friend Oscar – may he rest in peace – did not fight so that we could go on living in slave quarters or garbage tips. Besides . . .’
    At that moment, José’s dark eyes became two huge, luminous spheres.
    ‘Melecio! Where’s Melecio?’ Melecio had disappeared. They frantically rushed around, looking everywhere for him. ‘Betina, where the devil can that blessed boy be?’
    They divided up into groups. Betina and Benicio headed towards the valley while José and Geru ran back to where they had left the cart. The coachman, seeing the group had dispersed, walked slowly back to his carriage.
    The earth had opened and swallowed up Melecio. No one had seen him, no one had spoken to him, no child had played with him. They wandered far beyond the railing to where the valley began, but there was no sign of him. Back at the church, a voice hailed Betina and Benicio as they were walking towards the cart: ‘Would you perchance be looking for this little man?’ Betina turned and found herself face to face with the white gentleman wearing a black suit and tie and a bowler hat, the very man Melecio had pointed out only minutes ago. His noble, almost aristocratic expression radiated authority.
    ‘Excuse me, señor. Melecio, where did you get to? I told you not to leave my side. What were you doing bothering this gentleman?’
    ‘Not at all, señora. Your son was not bothering me. In fact, he has clearly had a fine education,’ said the gentleman, doffing his hat.
    Betina looked warily at the man. José and Geru rushed up a moment later, pouring with sweat. ‘There he is. Melecio, what did I tell you . . .’ roared José but the other man broke in again. Although he did not know them, he said, from his brief conversation with this young gentleman, Melecio, he was convinced they were people of learning, something rare in these parts. He talked about an elderly Englishman who was convinced that the maxim ‘appearances are deceptive’ was simply a crude aphorism. ‘“Appearances tell us everything, Emilio,” the Englishman used to say, “they are a true reflection of what is within us. A man who looks like a collier has a heart of coal. That is the truth of the matter, everything else is folk tales.” I wonder what he would say if he were to meet Melecio here.’
    José and Betina stared at the man, trying to discern the hidden intentions in his gentle, easy-going face. His manners were too seemly to be genuine. No white man had ever been polite to José and Betina, much less a rich white man.
    ‘I’m grateful to you for finding our Melecio. Now we have to go and find our cart,’ said José.
    ‘I understand. And believe me, the pleasure was all mine,’ said the man and bowed graciously. ‘But before you go, I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity and tell me who educated you in the poetic arts?’
    ‘We cannot read or write, señor. Now, by your leave . . .’
    ‘What do you