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

by Reinaldo Arenas

  ASS-WIGGLING

  Oooh, what sweet ass-wiggling! whispered (and sometimes even screamed) the ass-waggling, hip-wiggling crowd, clutching paper cups filled with beer. And yet from time to time the dancers would set their cups filled with the precious liquid down on the Malecón and in groups of three, or twenty, or sometimes a hundred, dive into the water, gnaw awhile on the Island’s foundation, and then return to the Carnival, where they would go on dancing and drinking. Policemen, too, would leave their helmets on the seawall and dive down to gnaw at the Island’s foundation. Rumba-dancing black women would disappear from their floats for a few moments, dive in, gnaw awhile, and return to join the dance; army cadets, sailors off the Gulf Fleet (who were therefore expert in aquatic maneuvers), brigade leaders, army officers, and members of the Party would dive down, gnaw, come up again, and then even more enthusiastically applaud the glorious parade. Fabulous trapeze artists would make their way along the center of the avenue that ran beside the Malecón, do an incredible somersault, plunge into the sea, gnaw at the Island’s moorings, and somersault back up into the center of the parade, making deep bows to the globe in which Fifo was riding. Behind the acrobats came Halisia Jalonzo, who was dancing the Black Swan while Coco Salas filled the air with mosquitoes; some of the supporting dancers, in a single jeté, would dive into the water, gnaw, and return to the corps de ballet. (One can’t say that Halisia turned a blind eye to this behavior because the truth is, she didn’t have any choice which eye to turn—they were both blind, and besides, she was exhausted, my dear, from having taken part in the act of repudiation that had been held not far from where she was now dancing.)

  Behind Halisia came Pablito Malés and Salvia Rodríguez, who were singing (or howling, really) “They’re even killing themselves for love”—and weaving in and out between their legs were the terrified she-cats belonging to Karilda Olivar Lubricious, who had disappeared into the crowd. Now thousands of painters were making their way past; perched on a gigantic easel, or dangling from ropes, they were wielding their brushes on a canvas as big as a billboard—and on the canvas there began to emerge a gigantic portrait of Fifo. Then came hundreds of musical groups of every kind—symphony orchestras, bands, conga players—and then all the official limousines with Fifo’s VIP guests. (Fifo himself, of course, in his red balloon, was up front leading the parade.) Among the guests, we might make special mention of the Condesa de Merlín in her elegant gig, with her huge fake hairdress and her incredible fan and a midget in blackface sitting on her lap (and sometimes under it). The Condesa was tossing colored streamers into the crowd. So thrilled was the Condesa with the spectacle, and especially with the streamers (the reverse side of which bore a long diatribe against Fifo), that she didn’t realize when SuperSatanic, sitting beside her in the gig, jabbed her with the fatal needle (following orders from Miss Chelo). The Condesa, thinking it was an affectionate pinch, thanked SuperSatanic and expelled her from her carriage with a soft kick. . . . As the parade continued, Skunk in a Funk was now searching ever more frantically for Tatica, who had stolen her first pair of swim fins. Although Tatica had disappeared into the crowd of thugs from Arroyo Arenas, Skunk in a Funk continued with her search, for the quest had become a question of honor. Clara Mortera was exhibiting her collection of forbidden costumes—a work that was truly unique and that was the dernieríssimo cri in both Carnival and street attire. And yet . . . somehow, she was outdone by Evattt, the Black Widow (which was the name she’d been known by for many, many years), who won the People’s Palm for her monumental mourning gown crocheted from black silk and spangled with crosses confected of barbed wire. Hundreds of poets paraded by, reciting a hymn composed in honor of Fifo. And now the journalists were passing, an army of them, taking photos right and left and especially trying to get a picture of Fifo’s balloon. Suddenly—breaking up the parade, the wild throng of drums, the ass-swinging and backside-shaking—from out of the crowd rose Raúl Kastro, swathed in a huge mosquito net and wearing a ponytail and a crown of laurel. Sighing piteous and mournful sighs, he pushed his way through the crowd, stood for a moment on the Malecón, and in a final act of protest against Fifo, who had refused to transfer absolute power to him, leaped into the ocean. When the old soldier swathed in mosquito netting fell into the sea like some weird interplanetary parachutist, Fifo, up in his balloon, gave a huge howl of laughter that was echoed by the crowd, who continued dancing wildly. And in the midst of all this hurly-burly, hubbub, and hullabaloo, Delfín Proust announced that the moment had come for the Elevation of the Holy Hammer.

  A TONGUE TWISTER (29)

  In the midst of the mellifluous melée, Ye-Ye, Yeyo’s once-male man-child, now the only remaining go-go queen in Cuba, mooned a marvelously endowed camel, who mistook her manifest meaning and, it makes me grimace to say, martyred her.

  To Ye-Ye, a.k.a. PornoPop,

  the Only Remaining Go-Go Fairy Queen in Cuba

  THE ELEVATION OF THE HOLY HAMMER

  Several years ago, or maybe it was several hours—with all these drums banging all over the place my poor queer brain has lost all track of time—Fifo, under the alias De Chico, commissioned Delfín Proust, a.k.a. La Reine des Araignées, to pick out the select group of young stud-muffins who would be invited to his grand Fifofest. From among these, Hiram (or La Reine des Araignées) (or Delfín Proust) also was charged with selecting the twink with the biggest, longest, plumpest, sweetest twinkie and the hunkiest physique, who would be, at the head of all the ephebes and other manly youths (and as their very essence), the He-Male whose presence would illuminate the entire vast catacomb in which the Fifiesta was to take place. After countless measurements, taste-tests, trial runs, and computations, the choice fell upon Lázaro González Carriles, a.k.a. the Key to the Gulf. The Key to the Gulf was selected to be, like Juan Arocha one thousand seven years earlier, the escort and “special friend” to all—and I mean all—the guests at the Fifofest, and to arouse all the prime ministers, presidents, kings, grandes dames, and magnates so that as they were shivered by their orgasmic shudder they would sign not only a trade agreement (favorable to Fifo, of course) but also, if necessary, their own death sentence. The Key to the Gulf, with discretion, gallantry, and great charm, and despite the daggers stared at him by Miss Possessive (Skunk in a Funk to you), carried out his duties with extraordinary ability and success, persuading the president of Argentina to cede to Fifo all of Patagonia and the Prime Ministeress of Canada to sign over the Peninsula of Labrador. . . . And now, with the Carnival in full swing, the divine proportions of the Key to the Gulf’s body—his peerless legs, his muscular arms, his narrow waist, his broad chest, the ringlets of his gleaming hair, and (more than anything) that UNBELIEVABLE horse-cock of his—made him the unanimous choice as the love god who would preside over the ceremony of the Elevation of the Holy Hammer. This ceremony could be held only at a moment such as this—this sacred moment at which Fifo was celebrating the triumphant apotheosis of his fifty years in power.

  The naked youth (or eternal adolescent) was tied to a wooden cross, and since those who were crucifying him could not restrain themselves from caressing his extraordinary member, that rosy phallus grew and GREW and GREW, until it reached truly unparalleled dimensions. Thus, a double erection took place—the young man’s erection, and the erection of the gigantic cross that was raised in the center of the Carnival.

  “The great gods have been reborn!” cried the cunning Mahoma as she gazed upon the beautiful youth in all his arousal (I mean glory) upon the cross.

  Instantly, every person knelt before the theophany.

  That naked, aroused young man tied up there on that cross was so amazing! The crowd could simply not take their eyes off him. Or rather, off it. For there it hovered, vibrating in the air, like the sword of Damocles, victorious and unconquerable—the most extraordinary phallus that had ever been. And the longer the crowd looked at it, the bigger it got. Hundreds of the faithful bore the cross along, holding it (the cross) aloft. But s
ometimes they would stop and allow some uncontrollable worshiper to climb up the wooden shaft and before the eyes of the multitude suck that other, fleshy, yet still more glorious shaft—a living shaft which, when it received these worshipful attentions, would throb and grow yet longer and thicker and bestow a slap of affection upon the cheek of the desperate shaft-swallower. The beating of the drums grew more and more feverish. Suddenly it was not a solitary faggot or macho man or even woman who wanted to worship the Holy Hammer, but the entire nation, my dear. Despite her years, Karilda climbed up on the cross and sucked, and she was followed by her she-cats, who sucked as they clawed in fury at Karilda—with this morsel in front of them, they couldn’t bear the sight of her anymore. Even the diligent midgets responsible for keeping order climbed the cross like starving squirrels and sucked. . . . Oh, my dear, remarkable things have happened, and will continue to happen, in this world, but the sight of that cross making its way through the multitude with a fully aroused naked man on it, getting his dick sucked by kings, bishops, work-ingmen, soldiers, Young Communists, young terrorists, cloistered nuns, virginal young ladies, midgets, housewives, and screaming queens—that, darling, is a thing unparalleled in the history of things that have stirred, or will stir, this globe. Neither the execution of Marie Antoinette nor the orgies of Catherine the Great nor the apparition of the Virgin Mary to Pope Pius XII nor the sinking of the Titanic nor the sudden and most unexpected pregnancy of the King of Sweden nor the death by firing squad of Elena Ceauşescu nor the discovery (which will take place in fifteen years) that the Chief Rabbi of Israel is a woman nor the strange and inexplicable fall of a live whale into the Plaza de España in Madrid (an event which will occur six months from now) nor the fact that the island of Jamaica woke up one morning covered with snow (as happened just last year) nor the electrocution of Ethel Rosenberg nor the storming of the Bastille (which will take place in about ten years) nor the fall of the Berlin Wall nor the revelation (in 1998) that Greta Garbo was a man nor the mysterious disappearance of Australia nor the news (in 1996) that all of Dalí’s paintings were painted by José Gómez Sicre nor the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (which will take place three months from now) nor the fall of Fifo (which will take place thirty-five minutes from now) nor the marriage of Prince Pan Carlos to Miss Chelo (which will take place next year) nor the terrible explosion of the Asteria volcano in the Place de Concorde in Paris caused—or will cause, as the case may be—as much amazement and confusion or as much international tail-wagging as the Procession of the Erection. And as the cross-bearers continued to bear the Key to the Gulf through the transfixed and desperate crowd, and as the Key to the Gulf’s member was licked or sucked by the licker or sucker of the moment, that member grew ever pinker, ever rosier, and ever more delectably engorged—it was so gorgeous that it even made the Three Weird Sisters shiver with delight.

  Meanwhile, inside his balloon, Fifo had turned out the light again and was jerking off. The Condesa de Merlín had ordered her black-painted midget to get underneath her skirt and ravish her while she, apparently impassively, went on waving to the crowd.

  Despite his obesity, Teodoro Tampon climbed up onto the cross and attached himself to the Key to the Gulf’s phallus with such suction that it took two hundred jealous miscreants and a platoon of militiamen to pry him away from that Divine Lollipop. Expert trapeze artists, ballet stars, and members of the clergy would launch themselves into the air, do an airborne pirouette, drop their trousers, and fall ass-first onto the Holy Hammer, which after hammering them would throb so lustily that they would be tossed like flecks of foam into the crowd that was waiting below to climb the cross and enjoy the next Flying Fuck.

  Suddenly, out of the midst of the hammering and thumping, a figure emerged—Skunk in a Funk, possessed by jealousy (because she loved the Key to the Gulf) and carrying a step stool, with which she ascended the cross. But instead of falling upon the magnificent stud-sword like everybody else, the evil, resentful creature placed her lips to one of the Key to the Gulf’s ears and whispered the following words: “They just opened the Bulgarian embassy. Anybody who can get there can seek asylum. Fifo withdrew his guards.”

  Hearing those words (which, needless to say, were false), the Key to the Gulf did what almost anybody who lived on the Island would do—he determined to get there any way he could. So he untied himself from the cross and leaped through the crowd from head to head until he could reach the ground and run as hard as he could toward the Bulgarian embassy, in search of political asylum. And immediately the worshipers of the Holy Hammer (who included almost everybody at the Carnival) took off after the young man—who, now leaping along on his prick like some super-hung kangaroo or bright pink pogo stick, continued on toward the embassy.

  Girl, you had to see it to believe it! I mean pandemonium broke out. Everybody took off in hot pursuit of the holy prepuce—even flies. The musicians tootled, the midgets scootled, the policemen-centaurs on their horses stampeded (and their pricks stood stiff ) on the trail of the sacrificial young love god. Why, even Halisia was groping her way after him—but maybe she was following the scent with that big nose of hers. So then Skunk in a Funk, knowing that this trick hadn’t worked to pry her man loose from the raving, screaming crowd, used her stepladder to climb up on the shoulders of the cunning Mahoma and with big tears in her eyes make the following pronouncement:

  “I just heard the news! A procession’s on the way to the cemetery to bury Virgilio Piñera!”

  THE BURIAL OF VIRGILIO PIÑERA

  Quicker than you could say Jack Robin, or is it Jack Rabbit?—I’ve never been very good at zoology—the crowd froze.

  “Yes!” cried Skunk in a Funk, “Virgilio has been murdered and they’re taking the body off to bury it. And there’s not a single fairy riding on top of the coffin to sprinkle fairy dust . . .”

  “Now that is inconceivable!” bellowed Mahoma, raising his voice till it cracked, as though she were Skunk in a Funk (who now was only doing lip-synch). “The greatest man—I mean queen—in Cuba has been murdered and they’re carrying her off to bury her in the middle of the night so nobody will attend the funeral, and us standing here dancing and chasing a disgusting AC-DC! It’s our duty to get over to Virgilio’s burial as quick as we can and pay him our last respects—show our gratitude to the man, I mean queen, who sacrificed everything for us girls. Come on, you ingrates! Let’s get a wiggle on!”

  The news of Virgilio’s murder and clandestine burial ran like wildfire through the crowd. The whole country did an about-face and began making its way by any means it could find toward Colón Cemetery—the same cemetery toward which a black hearse was even now racing at full speed with the mortal remains of the author of Electra Garrigó. Soon the crowd caught sight of the funeral car—which was not so much racing as flying, girl, down Calle Línea—and the chase was on! Thousands of people started running as fast as they could. Hundreds of queens hopped into cabs at Fifo’s taxi stands, while others commandeered buses and some were reduced to scooters (you know, those kids’ scooters you haven’t seen since the fifties). Teenagers hopped on their bicycles.

  The most alert members of Fifo’s political police force joined the procession bearing large wreaths and sprays of roses among which they’d concealed tape recorders with supersensitive microphones that could pick up the slightest remark, complaint, weeping, lament, sigh, sniffle, or other expression of emotion. Also swelling the procession were thousands of people who knew Virgilio Piñera only by name, or not even that, but who considered it their duty (or an act of protest against Fifo) to accompany him on his last journey. There were also, of course, thousands of midgets and other agents of public order. In a word, for whatever reason, the Carnival crowd swung around and headed at full speed for the Colón Cemetery, where the burial of the great poet was to take place.

  Since he couldn’t control the crowd, Fifo decided to join it, so he ordered his diligent midgets to blow his balloon as hard as they could toward the cemet
ery. Immediately he got on his walkie-talkie and told Paula Amanda to prepare a eulogy. Behind Fifo streamed all of his VIP guests. The Condesa de Merlín hung a mourning ribbon on her gig and began to pray a prayer in French—doubtless something from Bossuet. The fact was, virtually everyone was sincerely moved. Even Karilda Olivar Lubricious, once more hotly pursued by her indefatigable husband, stopped in the middle of the crowd, turned to him, and held her arms skyward and cried: “Go ahead, kill me if you must, but let’s not go on with this scene at such a tragic moment!” The wannabe murderer dropped his saber, lowered his eyes, and took Karilda by the hand, while the she-cats, softened by grief, mewled in mourning at the couple’s feet.