The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights

by Reinaldo Arenas

  Only slaves know the value of freedom; that’s why the first thing they do when they achieve it is set up the stocks.

  There is only one strength: the strength of desperation.

  Note: When you wish to really say something terrible about someone, you should always begin with the following words: “He is the vilest person on earth after Gabriel García Markoff.”

  Cervantes was the only Spaniard who didn’t crawl on all fours; he is said to have had only one arm.

  Nothing lasts, not even destiny. That’s why we shouldn’t become too fond of any familiar habit.

  Man’s essence is sinister. Of course, there are exceptions: good men are necessary so that evil can manifest itself in all its glory. Being sinister against something or someone sinister would be, to a certain point, justifiable. Good, then, is a necessary instrument so that evil may reach true fullness of being.

  God is the most irrefutable proof of the existence and power of the devil.

  God, therefore, came to earth to aid the devil.

  Light came in order to blind us, or to make us see that we are blind.

  Good is an instrument of evil, allowing evil to stand out as though against its most becoming background. Ergo, God is the devil’s most perfect creation.

  All great murderers are—and must be—fanatically religious.

  The only thing we never lose is dissatisfaction.

  Every person is a bad person, although some people don’t want to admit it. That is because there are two kinds of bad people: the consciously bad and the unconsciously bad.

  Hell is not other people (as a resentful toad once said); it is ourselves.

  For every moment of true pleasure, we must endure at least twenty years of horror. So a person who lasts for eight years will have lived four minutes.

  It is obvious that we are not from this planet; that is why we want to go to heaven after we’re dead. And to prevent that, we’re buried or cremated when we die. Cemeteries are posthumous prisons.

  Eternity belongs only to the man who has contempt for life.

  The only thing that redeems a man’s life is suicide. Every great work of mankind, therefore, stems from a suicidal inspiration.

  Sex is a source of bitterness. Life and death are two viruses that are transmitted by sexual contact.

  THE SUPER-SKEWER

  Olga Figuerova had journeyed to Cuba with the full intention of being screwed by every fairy on the Island. Although she was a ravishingly beautiful woman, she didn’t like men—or women either, for that matter—she wanted nothing but the most femme fairies. And when she found out that Cuba was full of them—so full that faggots would be thrown out of the country by the million and there’d still be just as many as there had been before—Figuerova packed her bags. On the strength of her Russian-sounding surname she got a visa (issued by Fifo himself), and within a few weeks she had arrived at the shores of Cuba and seen with her own eyes that the Island was, indeed, one gigantic cage aux folles. “Ooh,” she cooed, “I’ve found paradise.” And she was off to realize her dream. The first thing she did was marry a fairy, who agreed to tie the knot in exchange for a cuticle cutter that he’d promised Coco Salas in exchange for a ticket to the ballet. Olga (fag-hag extraordinaire) persuaded her fag-husband to fill the house with fags, promising him nail clippers and cuticle cutters by the thousand, not to mention lipstick, powder, sheer underwear, and even portable radios. At that, the fag started looking for fags to screw his wife. And he performed this task with great efficiency, especially since he himself was unable to carry out his own husbandly duties to the degree that his wife’s erotic needs required—imagine the poor queen’s sacrifice: having to screw a woman day and night! Anyway, there he was, looking for fairies day and night, when he came upon Skunk in a Funk.

  We ourselves don’t fully understand why it was that Olga Figuerova took such a liking to Skunk in a Funk. But she did, and such a liking that she kicked her faggot-husband out of the house and brought Skunk in a Funk in. Skunk in a Funk, for her part, after more than a month of constant come-ons, gave in; he agreed to sleep with Olga in exchange for a pair of swim fins. Olga flew to France and returned with the most wonderful swim fins to be found on the market anywhere in the world. “Now you’ve got to keep your end of the bargain,” she said in perfect Spanish to Skunk in a Funk. “Since the day I met you, I’ve made love to no other faggot—I mean man. I have been waiting just for you. . . . ”

  “Tonight,” promised Skunk in a Funk.

  Skunk in a Funk knew he was going to have some trouble being turned on by a woman (and those who doubt it should read Farewell to the Sea), so that night she hired a big, muscular black man who worked as a stevedore down on the docks, and who happened to be Daniel Sakuntala’s husband of the moment. Skunk in a Funk hid the black man in the closet and when he turned off the lights and was about to mount Olga, the black guy came out of the closet (but I mean literally, honey, not figuratively—figuratively he’d been out for years) and began to have his way with Skunk in a Funk, whose pecker immediately stood at attention so he could begin to penetrate Olga. At that, the black man, excited at seeing a real woman, and one sighing and panting frenziedly, in bed with himself and Skunk in a Funk, got even more turned on. His member grew to fearsome proportions—so fearsome, in fact, that it went almost all the way through Skunk in a Funk and ejaculated inside the queen’s balls. Skunk in a Funk, feeling that supreme pleasure, ejaculated inside Olga, who thus was inseminated by Skunk in a Funk and the black man at the same time. This phenomenon, practiced on the Island by almost all respectable married couples, is what is known as the Super-Skewer. Sometimes a woman will be impregnated by from five to as many as fifteen men, who all (with the exception of the poor guy who’s last in line) are possessed in turn by other men, with respectively longer dongs. The Super-Skewer has given rise (so to speak) to an incredible mixture of races in a single baby. The case of Olga Figuerova, who had a part-black, part-white baby, is a case of simple Super-Skewer. but how about the case of Clara Mortera, my dear, who had a baby with one blue eye and one green one, one Malaysian ear and the other Ranquel Indian, hair that was straight, curly, and woolly and white, blond, and blue-black at the same time? This baby’s skin (Nasser was the little boy’s name, by the way) was black, white, copper, transparent, red, yellow, smooth, creamy, oily, and hairy, all once. There is no doubt that the child was the result of one of the most gigantic Super-Skewers ever to occur in the erotic history of the Island. Clara Mortera was possessed by (I hope I get this right) her husband, who was possessed by a Chinaman, who was possessed by an Indian, who was possessed by a Malaysian, who was possessed by a German, who was possessed by a Swede, who was possessed by a Spaniard, who was possessed by an Eskimo, who was possessed by an Arab, who was possessed by a mulatto, who was possessed by a black man, who was possessed by a monumental Irish guy. Clara thus received, at one and the same time, and through the vas deferens of her husband, that entire gamut of sperm, and thereby conceived one of the most curious examples in the history of genetics.

  This same type of Super-Skewer, or something even Superior, was what Fifo had planned that night for his celebrity guests. It was not just that he was fascinated by races’ cumming together (because of the genetic “stirring of the pot,” so to speak, that resulted); he also wanted to show his guests, and therefore the entire world, that his Island was the birthplace of the Super-Skewer and therefore the indisputable homeland of the New Man, that creature who required collective energies and efforts to be born, a true offspring of Humanity. It was with that patriotic purpose that he had composed a song—titled “It Takes a Village.”

  As for Olga Figuerova, when she found that she’d given birth to a child that was half white and half black, and not knowing the cause of this phenomenon (a “phenomenon” that Skunk in a Funk took advantage of to repudiate her), she gave it up to a foster home, sewed up her cunt, became a world-class judo expert, and dedicated her life to seducing queers. When
she got them into her room she gave them a choice: screw her or she’d strangle them. The other version—don’t interrupt me!—the version that says that Olga retired to a cave in the Pyrenees, is absolutely false.

  THE THREE WEIRD SISTERS,

  PLUS ONE

  Atropos, Lachesis, and Chloe, I mean Clotho, a.k.a. the Fickle Fates, a.k.a. the Three Weird Sisters, were getting ready for their evening walk. Every evening it was their job to knit Skunk in a Funk’s fate, so they always carried gigantic knitting needles and huge skeins of yarn of all different colors with them on their stroll. And as they walked, they knitted. Hiram, La Reine des Araignées, would lead the Three Weird Sisters through the crowds of people on the street—we couldn’t have them bumping into people or breaking their venerable heads against some wall, could we, as they concentrated on their knitting? But then the truth was, somebody always had to go with the Ladies of Luck when they went out on their afternoon strolls, just to protect them, because otherwise hordes of housewives, desperate to have that yarn for themselves (so they could knit their respective husbands nice new pullovers) would mug the poor girls for their knitting. I mean you know how it is, girl—on our dear Island even yarn is rationed, so the Weird Sisters, being who they are, are the only people who can get any, and then only with the special ration card that Fifo personally issued to them and that they have to present every month at the headquarters of the Ministry of Interior Trade.

  Anyway . . .

  The Weird Sisters, seeing-eyed by Delfín/Hiram/La Reine des Araignées (because in addition to all their other problems finding raw materials and all, they were pretty blind), would knit and knit, and then they would unknit it all again—because they could never agree on Skunk in a Funk’s fate. Clotho wanted the poor thing to undergo every known calamity; Lachesis said Skunk in a Funk ought to suffer, no problem with that, but before they crushed her once and for all they ought to at least give her the chance to finish her novel; and Atropos, more charitably still, wanted to extend Skunk in a Funk’s life until she’d published the novel, along with a long explanatory introduction written by the Dowager Duchess de Valero. And there, as you can see, things got even more complicated, because then they had to stretch out not only Skunk in a Funk’s life, but the life of the Dowager Duchess de Valero, too, who was already well over a hundred. . . . So the Weird Sisters, knitting and unknitting, would get all entangled in that wrangling of theirs, which (like the knitting) never seemed to end. I mean, even the name that Skunk in a Funk would be known by was problematic. Clotho thought he ought to be called Skunk in a Funk—“period,” she added, making two or three nervous backstitches. Lachesis said the name that Skunk in a Funk ought to have was Reinaldo, which was how he signed his novels. But Atropos, holding her knitting needle aloft in an imperious gesture, declared that Skunk in a Funk’s real name was the name his mother had given him at birth—Gabriel—and was therefore the name he ought to die with.

  This particular day, as the argument grew more and more heated, La Reine des Araignées was spreading her arms wide in every direction, skipping about, whirling a hundred and eighty degrees, cocking her head and bestowing a watchful smile on the three weird old sisters, and then springing ahead of them once more, her arms always flinging open expansively—a tic that never left her for a moment but that fortunately helped to make a way for the old girls. And so, with the way open, Moira I, Moira II, and Moira III (as they were also known) could go on knitting and unknitting the fate of Skunk in a Funk. “Every conceivable disaster,” shouted Clotho, “that’s what that horrid Skunk deserves.” “I think seventy percent is about right,” replied Lachesis, holding up the piece she’d just knitted. “There’s no need to be so hard on the poor queen,” clucked Atropos, holding up her own handiwork and unknitting Clotho’s piece, Clotho meanwhile tugging on Atropos’ and spoiling all her hard work. And when Lachesis started to intervene in the dispute, the other two sisters yanked on her ball of thread and ruined all her work, too.

  And so they walked along, knitting and unraveling and squabbling incessantly. When they came to the corner of Prado and San Rafael, Hiram opened her arms with such force that one of his hands smacked into the groin of a gigantic black man who was standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. This monster of a man (none other than the chairman of the Communist Party of Matanzas Province) glared at the four queens (and even more furiously because of the liberty taken with his person in precisely the most sacred region of his body) and jumped on them like a black tornado. Delfín Proust, seeing that gigantic black cloud advancing on him, managed to get out of the way, but the Three Weird Sisters (and they were really weird that day), who went on knitting, oblivious to everything but the unrolling fate of Skunk in a Funk, received such a pummeling from the Black Avenger that they fell to the asphalt completely unstrung, and tangled inextricably in their many-colored skeins. The black man, evidencing great satisfaction at the moral lesson he’d delivered (which all the passers-by—including Delfín, the rat—applauded), went on his way. So then La Reine des Araignées went over to the Weird Sisters and helped them to their feet (not without some huffing and puffing) and on the march again. But the Three Weird Sisters, infuriated by that totally undeserved assault, had come to an agreement on Skunk in a Funk’s fate: it would, they all agreed, be the worst. And immediately they started to knit it. Delfín, a.k.a. La Reine des Araignées, smiling with satisfaction at that decision that they’d made in large part thanks to him, continued down the street, opening his arms expansively and repeating under his breath: They may be the big bad Fates, but I am definitely the baddest fate around.

  THE GUEST IN DISTRESS

  After burning Mayoya at the stake, the immense crowd of Disinvited Nobodies continued to mill about at the edge of the ocean, not far from the entrance of Fifo’s palace. From time to time several of the Dissed & Pissed, as they had begun to call themselves, would dive down into the water, gnaw at the Island’s platform for a while, and reemerge, tanned by the ocean breezes and the beams of the artificial-tropical sun.

  There they were, forming a large human landfill beside the sea (a king, several bishops, former Miss Universes, internationally renowned landscape artists, prizewinning actors and actresses, the leaders of peace movements, generals, well-known celebrities from all walks of life, and thousands of whores—all university graduates—plus the usual bunch of S&M queens, among them Odoriferous Gunk), when they saw Karilda Olivar Lubricious running toward them along the beach, pursued pellmell by her husband, who was brandishing a sword in the most alarming way and screaming that he was going to cut off her head. Hot on the heels of Karilda came the Dowager Duchess de Valero, with a huge pair of binoculars hanging around her naked, wrinkled neck. And as though all that weren’t enough, the fleeing women were accompanied by an army of she-cats, mewling fiercely.

  Faced with that astounding spectacle (which was now passing directly before them, leaving a wake of sea foam, flying sand, and pulverized stones and sea urchins), the Dissed & Miffed rose to their feet as one and stood upon the rocks.

  “What, Oh Lord, is the cause of this latest commotion?” asked Bishop O’Condom, raising his hands and rosary toward heaven.

  Well, Miss Pisshog, I mean bishop, If you’ll just keep your pants on I will tell you.

  Ahem. For many years, too many to mention, Karilda Olivar Lubricious, followed around by her she-cats and the Dowager Duchess de Valero, had spent her days wandering through the parks of the province of Matanzas, shaking the coconut trees in the hope that a black man would fall out of one of them and screw her and her entourage—including, naturally, the she-cats. When one or another black man, terrified at that visitation, would hang on for dear life to the reeling and quaking palm fronds, Karilda’s sweet she-cats would climb up the coconut tree and bite, scratch, and meow at the poor man until he finally gave up and shinnied down.

  Naturally, this flight of every black man in Matanzas to the treetops had occurred in the first place because of
the ever more demanding come-ons to which they were subjected by Karilda and the Dowager Duchess. But they could not find shelter even in the highest branches of the coconut trees, because no matter how they tried to hide, the Dowager Duchess de Valero and her binoculars could ferret them out, and the black men had no choice but to fall (legs and arms akimbo) from the treetops and service those merciless creatures.

  And of course word of these events got around. Throughout Matanzas, all you could see was coconut trees (shaken by Karilda and the Dowager Duchess de Valero) raining down coconuts and black men who had to turn sexual athlete on the spot. The news of all this finally reached Karilda’s young husband, a man who was completely bonkers and therefore madly in love with his senile, lecherous poetess. Karilda’s husband was an opera singer, and therefore an expert sword fighter—that was why he always wore an enormous nineteenth-century sword as part of his daily (though outlandish) costume. On hearing the news of his wife’s promiscuity, the great sword fighter and opera singer ran (with his sword) to Central Park in Matanzas, where he caught her in flagrante delicto—his beloved wife and the Dowager Duchess de Valero were busily shaking a coconut tree, hoping that a heavenly black stud would fall out. The aggrieved husband, giving a war cry more typical of a samurai than a baritone, charged—saber aloft—at the grove of coconut trees. All the black men ran for the trees again, but Karilda and the Dowager Duchess had no choice but to run for it, period, and so, followed by their faithful retinue of she-cats and that enraged, bloodthirsty man, they hightailed it along the coast—Karilda, the Dowager Duchess, the she-cats, and the young but crazed husband, down the Havana shoreline, passing the crowd that now called itself the Dissed & Miffed, or Dissed & Pissed, I’m not sure which. . . . Anyway, before she got to the huge armored-steel Fifonian gate, Karilda started screaming so loudly that her screams penetrated the huge salons of the palace and even reached the ears of Fifo himself. (Karilda was one of the official invitees.)