by Carlos Eire
Too close to home for Fidel. Too prophetic.
No. Too simple. Too obvious.
Was it the giant squid? Was it the seal? Was it Peter Lorre and his frog eyes? Was it Kirk Douglas and his constant desire to get off the Nautilus and escape from the clutches of Captain Nemo?
No, it couldn’t have been any of these things. The only scenario I can come up with for what went on inside Fidel’s mind is not very pretty. So brace yourself. I am about to think like Fidel—to think as if the head transplant he tried to give me had been completed.
I had no way of knowing this at the time, but Kirk played a gay man in that film. As gay as they come. There he was, Kirk/Ned, strumming his handmade turtle-shell ukelele in his small cabin aboard the Nautilus, flirting with a seal. Flirting with a fish-swallowing pinniped, kissing it, even. Could any straight macho man ever do that? Make a musical instrument from a turtle shell and then serenade a seal while wearing a shirt so tight that you wondered why it didn’t burst at the biceps?
Never. Forget about it.
Walt Disney was gay, you know. Just take a look at 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea if you have a chance. Disney was an evil genius, and gay.
If you doubt this, just take a closer look at Peter Pan. Gay. As gay as they come. Just look at his costume. Forget all this deception with Wendy. He had no real interest in her. The real reason Tinker Bell was so pissed at Peter was that she knew he was gay and could never be hers. All those Lost Boys…forget it. And Captain Hook? Take a close look at Hook and that pirate crew, especially his personal assistant, the limp-wristed guy with the striped shirt and the sandals. Good God. They call this a children’s movie?
And why was Pinocchio’s maker, Geppetto, that old man who lived alone, so interested in having a little boy in his house? Think about it.
Holy Moses. Jesus H. Straight-talking Christ.
I was oblivious to all this as a child. Of course, 20,000 Leagues and Peter Pan were two of my favorite movies, and so was Pinocchio. I must have seen each at least seven times.
I was especially fond of Peter Pan because of Tinker Bell. She was my first love, really, long before I knew what love was, or began to like films with kissing scenes, or Marilyn Monroe and Kim Novak. How I loved that bitch Tinker Bell. And what a shrew she was. As bad as they come. But I loved her. She slew me, cut me to the quick, without my knowing why.
Anyway, there we were in Havana, all of us kids, before Fidel, watching gay films, oblivious to the fact that insidious Disney, that closet queen, lured us all to perversion so slyly. Those of us who were genuine macho men in the making, lusting after Tinker Bell and even Snow White, could have been subliminally corrupted by Disney if Saint Fidel had not come to the rescue. He rescued us all from gayness. Rescued us before we would lose our boy lust for Tinker Bell and be drawn hypnotically to Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Hook, and all his gay pirates instead. Maricones.
Fidel saw so clearly the danger that lurked in the brains of the youngest generation of Cubans. He saw his island nation and his Revolution poised on the brink of sliding into gayness within one generation and raised an iron barrier as soon as he could.
That’s what Fidel must have been thinking when he barred us from seeing the Nautilus. He hated gays with a passion, and still does. Fidel didn’t want to perform the usual head transplant on gays. No, he despised gays so much, he would have much preferred to see them all drowned in the turquoise sea. They didn’t necessarily plant bombs, but they definitely didn’t conform to his image of what a genuine Cuban should be. They insisted on exercising their own will, and being different, and following their own impulses.
Which is the last thing one is supposed to do in Fidel’s eternal Revolution.
Anyway, I woke up to the fact that something had gone awfully wrong with the world that day. We stood there for a while, all of us, asking questions, complaining. Incredulous, our gang of five: Manuel, Rafael, Eugenio, my brother, and I. It was the sheer shock of encountering a stupid rule that kept us there, loitering under the marquee. We couldn’t bring ourselves to go home. We looked at one another in disbelief, feeling an extra tug from the earth’s gravity. But eventually the awful truth sank in, despite the tug of the earth’s pull. We weren’t going to get in. We were screwed. Crushed under a giant thumb.
Sharing disbelief is quite an experience, and so is sharing a sense of doom. Though we had all been friends forever, we had never been so close, I fear.
No 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea that night. No Ned, no Captain Nemo. No Nautilus plowing through the turquoise sea to ram helpless clipper ships. No men in diving suits collecting sponges on the sandy sea floor. Worst of all, no giant squid.
What was so bad about a giant squid?
We piled back in the car, crestfallen, rubbing our necks, all with the same look in our eyes.
“Come on, kids, let’s go to Tropicream,” said Louis XVI. “Let’s go for a milk shake.”
Those tropical shakes were out of this world, and they were about to disappear along with so many other things that could make a day special. So many different flavors that even I, Mr. Memory, can only remember a handful of names. Ciruela. Frutabomba. Guanábana. Guayaba. Naranja. Piña. Plátano. Mango. Mamey. I always went for the mamey, despite the fact that the name frutabomba—bomb fruit—was so appealing, so explosive. The color and taste of mamey were sublime. Some kind of bright red with an infusion of crazy pink that I have never seen duplicated in nature, except for a few tropical flowers. I won’t even attempt to describe the taste: it would be as hard as trying to explain color to someone blind from birth. But now that I think about it, what drew me to those shakes must have been the hallucinogenic substance that is supposedly hidden deep within the mamey pits.
I think they used the pits in the mamey shakes at Tropicream. Those shakes always made me feel smarter. After one of them, I could fuse with almost any paradox, and I felt a special oneness with nature—all of it, except for lizards, of course.
But after my mamey shake that night I didn’t feel any closer to understanding the riddle of Fidel, Ned, Nemo, Nautilus, and the giant squid. What had just happened? What had gone wrong? And am I any closer to an answer, so many years later?
Oh, for a mamey shake! Even better, a mamey pit! After a taste of mamey essence, I bet I’d be a lot closer to the truth.
To understand Fidel you have to be out of your mind. To live with the memories, too, it helps to have lucid moments that others mistake for delusions.
So, someone, please, get me a mamey with a big pit inside. One of those lustrous dark pits, as dark as the dots on dice, as dark as a stain on a pristine soul, almond shaped, about the size of a little boy’s fist. Get me that pit. I need it. Badly.
And get me some mamey blossoms too: single blooms held between Tinker Bell’s lips; bouquets pressed against the breasts of flamenco dancers; basketfuls, whole fleets of trucks, stadiums full of them, handled by laughing acolytes in turquoise vestments; and meteor craters, canyons, volcanoes, Great Lakes, deserts, oceans, continents, moons, and planets, and rings around planets, too, brimming over. All of Venus overflowing with mamey flowers.
But I suspect that just a single petal would be a gift beyond measure, and eternal, evanescent though its presence would be. Ridiculous the waste sad time before and after.
Yes, please. Here, now; quick, now. Evermore. I envy the rays of light that shine on these flowers, the insects that swill their nectar or doze on them, and the winds that make them flutter and waver. I envy the lizards that breathe on them, even.
I have no idea what they look like, mamey blossoms, or how they smell, or feel, or taste. Fidel drove me out of Eden before I could find out, and he stands there still, clutching a fiery sword, to keep me from reclaiming the knowledge that should be mine.
If you ever do get your hands on a mamey pit, or anything else like it, rush out immediately to any theater and watch any film your heart desires, and steel yourself for the awakening.
You’ll see
for yourself.
Stand in line for a ride at any Disney paradise, too, if you can. The long lines, the expense, and the sheer idiocy of the place will irk you to no end. But you will have entered into that vapid world of your own volition, without anyone standing in your way.
And maybe, as you stand in line, you will catch a whiff of Cuban cigar smoke, wafting at you from a faraway island where mamey plants are ever in bloom; a lizard-shaped isle where no one gets to choose freely and the only idiocy allowed is that which is sanctioned by Fidel.
26
Veintiseis
Seven guys in the car, plus you at the wheel. Damn it, it’s so crowded in there that you can hardly steer the car or shift gears. It’s not a luxury car, you know.
And the trunk. My God. The trunk.
And the clock, the clock. Ticking away. What if the G2, Fidel’s secret police, pull up the street as you’re backing out of the driveway?
Good. Thank God. You made it to the corner. Now you can turn onto the wide boulevard and fly. And if the G2 crosses your path, no big deal. They won’t know who’s in the car or what’s in the trunk.
Two blocks. Five blocks. Good. But such a long way to go till you reach the next safe house, where you’ll unload your cargo. Ten blocks. Great! But will you look suspicious to the police if they see your car with eight guys in it, packed tight like sardines? Hope not. Better not. No way in hell, dear God. No.
You’re nervous. And you have every right to be. The trunk of your car is full of weapons, ammunition, and explosives.
Damn it all to hell. The traffic light is all you can focus on for the moment. No, please, don’t let that light turn red. Not now. Every second counts.
The light turns yellow while you’re still a few yards from the intersection. You think you can make it, so you step on the accelerator and shift into fourth gear. Your friends shout at you.
“Go for it, Fernando. Go!”
“We can’t afford to sit still at this intersection.”
“Still too close to the house we left. Hit it, bud!”
“Hit it!” Dale, coño! Anda!
Vrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!
Coño! Qué mierda! Shit. Damn it. Won’t make it. No.
Quickly, in one awful split second, the light goes red, just as the car’s windshield hits the intersection. Bright, shining red.
Nooooooooo! No! God damn it all to hell. No! How you hope that no one saw you and your car full of men and munitions. There had better not be any cops close to that intersection.
No!
Hell! No! Hell! No! Sweet God in heaven! No! God damn it! No!
A cop car in the rearview mirror, with its red light flashing. No! Well, not cops, really. Militiamen. But they’re the same thing. No! And the siren switches on, too. No! Cubans love to turn foul words into epic poetry when things go wrong, but in this case all that comes out of your mouth is a simple prayer: “Dios mío, ayúdanos!”
My God, help us!
If the trunk of your car is full of weapons, ammunition, and explosives, and your car is painted bright purple and lacks a muffler, and there are seven other grown men crammed into it, never, ever run a red traffic light. Especially not in a place where only the police and the militia are allowed to bear arms. And especially not in a place where the penalty for owning or transporting arms is death by firing squad.
It nearly cost Fernando his life to run that red light. He was lucky to walk away with a mere thirty-year sentence, and even luckier not to serve the whole three decades. God knows how many mistakes he’d made before that fateful instant when he decided not to stop for the traffic light. God knows how much he’d gotten away with. This time he didn’t get away with anything.
I’ve often wondered how many times he must have replayed that moment in his mind as he sat in his cell and watched the days turn into months and the months into years and the years into decades, as his teeth dropped out of his gums like overripe breadfruit from a tree. Someday I should ask him. But he doesn’t ever want to talk about it. No. He knows it was the biggest mistake he’s ever made.
Does anyone ever really like to talk about their biggest mistake, even if it’s just having worn bell-bottom pants, or having taken too many sedatives before one’s own wedding?
He ran the red light, and the only reason the militia cops noticed, they told him later, was the roar made by his car. Vrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!
Fernando had failed to see that patrol car down the street he was crossing, past the red light. He didn’t see it before he stepped on the gas pedal. No.
The militiamen weren’t even looking at the intersection or the traffic light. But who would fail to notice a bright purple speeding car, especially one without a muffler, and jam-packed with men? It was so easy to spot Fernando and chase him down. It was almost as if he’d shouted out through a loudspeaker: “Here I am, come get me, I’m breeeeaaaaking the law!”
When the militia cops stopped him, the other guys quickly bolted, like clowns from a tiny car at the circus, spreading out in different directions.
“Gotta go, Fernando. Gotta make it to the wedding on time…hasta luego. See you later, buddy.” “Hey, buddy, hang tough…bye!” “Oye, chico, tú sabes…tenemos que echar un pie.” “Hey, buddy, you know, we’ve gotta run…Don’t worry, we’ll help you pay the fine.”
And so on.
Many of those guys would be dead in a few months, killed during the Bay of Pigs invasion. But at the time all they knew was that they had to scram as fast as possible, before the militiamen asked Fernando to open the trunk. They knew what was coming, and how much they’d be needed. They were all working closely with the CIA and the exiles in Florida, trying to distribute weapons throughout Havana so that when the exiles landed, a mass uprising against Fidel could take place.
Fernando had been quietly summoned that day to a house full of guns, ammunition, and explosives that had to be moved somewhere else in a hurry. The message came in person. You never used the phone. Rumor had it that Fidel’s secret police, the G2, had been tipped off by a traitorous informant, and that they were on the way to raid the house. So Fernando drove there as fast as possible, helped them load his car, and all eight of them headed for another house in another neighborhood.
Fernando’s trunk wasn’t all that large, so we’re not talking about a huge stash of armaments. No. Just one trunkful. But all it took to earn the death sentence was possession of a single weapon. One.
“Open up the trunk, now.”
“Hey, guys, come on. There’s nothing in there.”
“Open it. Now!”
“Hey, guys, how about just giving me a ticket for the red light? Deal? Huh? We were all late for a wedding, and I couldn’t let all of us be late. One guy was the best man…”
“Then how come your friends all went in different directions just now?”
“Well, you know…weddings make us guys nervous and addled, don’t they? Kind of like a death sentence, isn’t it? Kind of like watching your friends being executed, one by one? No?…Either one of you guys married yet?”
Fernando delayed as much as possible so the other guys could get away. He marveled at the cops being so dumb as to let the other guys run. If they were dumb enough to let his friends get away, Fernando thought, maybe they could also be talked out of searching the trunk.
“Enough bullshit. Open the trunk!”
“I told you, there’s nothing in there. I don’t even have a spare tire.”
He was telling the truth there. You don’t think anyone who willfully removes his car’s muffler, just for the sound effects, would carry a spare tire, do you?
“Open it. Now!”
Making sure that the last of his friends was out of sight, Fernando finally complied.
“Qué mierda! Me cago en diez! Those bastards, those sons of whores! Look what they put in here! And they didn’t even tell me! Damn all of their mothers’ wombs! Cabrones. Hijos de puta! How could they do th
is to me and not tell me?”
Fernando tried to blame it on his friends, who were now out of sight, but the cops didn’t buy it. They took him immediately to G2 headquarters, where he was horribly tortured for days on end. And he never gave them any information.
They combed Havana for his friends but failed to find a single one. At least for a while. They’d find many of them later, and kill them, when they tried to start the uprising that never happened.
Fernando won’t show you the scars or talk about what they did to him at G2 headquarters. All he’ll say is that he thought he had died and gone to hell.
The headquarters for the G2 police was in a mansion on Fifth Avenue, not far from our house. It was a beautiful house with a lovely garden. We drove by often, to see if Fernando’s car was still parked outside. It was there for several weeks, his purple car, outside that pretty house, parked in the shade, under a big tree, and then one day it was gone.
Gone. Who knew where? That beautiful, deadly car, gone. And Fernando gone, too. We were all sure he’d be executed.
But he was saved by a fluke. Or call it Divine Providence. Fernando hadn’t been born in Cuba, but in Seville, Spain, while his father, my uncle Filo, was stationed there at the Cuban consulate in the early 1930s. This meant that he was legally a foreigner. And since his father was a career diplomat, he knew who could help him at the Spanish embassy in Havana. He went to work on this as furiously as any father would, and the Spanish embassy staff ended up saving Fernando’s life.
At his trial, the fact that Fernando wasn’t born in Cuba, coupled with pressure from the Spanish government, earned him a lesser sentence than what the law required: thirty years in prison.
That’s not to say that Fernando was spared from the firing squad, once he was jailed. No. Prisoners such as Fernando were often prepared for execution, led to the paredón, and shot at. Prior warnings were not considered necessary. Too formal.
