Colorful colonial mansions, flaunted arches, verandas, and balustrades. Abandoned houses bombarded by time. Impervious concrete blocks. Buses crammed full of people. Tall, strong, agile bodies and heavy, slow, flaccid ones, all waiting for the carriage of history that had already passed. Cars straight out of museums propelled by magic and miracles of maintenance. Marxist cars devoid of charm and efficiency. Cavalcades of bicycles making their way silently up long avenues. Hot wind. Waves breaking against the sea wall. Eyes lost in watching the horizon.
Chess players in the square absorbed in abstract reasoning. Arguments about pelota “tiene lógica.” The guarapo vendor massacring the sugarcane to extract the juice that looked like dirty dishwater. Cockroaches crawling and cockroaches flying. Cockroach carcasses on the sidewalk. Lethal gas to kill them with. Pharmacies empty of medicines, attesting to exemplary levels of public health. The heat of the sun transformed into musical notes. uninterrupted dance. Cheap rooms to let. Tropical sex. Sexual tourism. Sweat. Tremendous electric storms. Flooding. Swimming cockroaches. Tired lamps going out one by one. Optimistic television news. Clandestine restaurants. Swordfish steaks with black beans. Mojitos and daiquiris. Public praise and private insults. Security guards keeping watch. unspeakable escape plans. An old soldier sitting forgotten in a doorway, eying the tourists sowing banknotes. Searing passions. unknown languages. Piles of rare books for sale, all on the same subject. Children in white and red uniforms, guaranteeing the future of the revolution.
The meeting of the Central Committee was about to start. The room was tense with expectations about what Fidel Castro would say. This time it was not so much the length of the speech that was feared as its content, because, as rumor had it, it was going to be different from usual. A final war against the nation of JFK was imminent, and everyone feared a new invasion attempt, a new blockade, or—worse—a ceasefire declaration from the enemy, a request for peace. “Then who would we blame for our troubles?” people muttered darkly under their breath. The situation was dramatic. Fidel had already survived near-fatal crises and had escaped from the tightest spots. But this time he was facing the biggest threat to the revolution since he had driven out the former dictator.
Sitting at the center of the table in a haze of aromatic smoke, he was nostalgically recalling the days immediately after he had seized power—his dramatic descent from the mountains, mass support of the peasants, the dictator’s forces effortlessly overcome, his triumphant entry into the capital like an envoy from the heavens (indeed, many had seen him as such), delirious crowds, improvised rallies, a dove perched on his shoulder, revolutionary euphoria sweeping across the whole island. Everything had been possible back then and everything seemed like it was going to get done: the reconstruction of a country by the practical application of a utopian ideology; the nationalization of lands, houses, and businesses; agrarian reform; literacy and health campaigns; the founding of schools and hospitals; the promotion of sport; a ban on gambling and prostitution; settling of accounts; persecutions, trials, and convictions; el paredón. His life was drawing to an end, and the film of all those important events was constantly running in his mind.
So much done, yet so much left to do.
Fidel had closely monitored all the stages of the revolution, each project started and each project abandoned, showing the way along a road that he himself had constructed and destroyed. This had once been a great highway that had aroused the admiration of other builders and travelers, but today it was a dirt track full of potholes that petered out on the brink of the abyss. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—he had isolated himself more and more as time went by, discovering that the pleasures and frustrations of power are something best savored alone, like a puro. That vice had grown uncontrollable.
Cooled by a giant fan hanging over his head with blades like the sword of Damocles, ready to decapitate him at one false word, the Central Committee’s rapporteur began reading data on the state of the nation.
“This year, like last year, our performance has been magnificent, and our rigorous and accurate planning has brought great development. The figures are not really important. What interests us is the people’s commitment and the amazing results achieved through their enthusiastic efforts. They have once more demonstrated their unconditional support for the revolution. Having no profit is the most emphatic way of rejecting Capitalism. The bourgeois property owners dream of amassing wealth, but we revolutionaries will not tire until we have destroyed it.”
As the rapporteur read, Fidel listened with apprehension, anticipating the grating sound each phrase would produce in his ears. It generated a muffled rattle in the slow-moving carousel in his head. Only the sound of his own voice could bring him silence. “It is for all of us a great joy to see how the revolution is progressing and to learn of our people’s ever-growing commitment to this ongoing enterprise. For although there have been attempts at sabotage and terrorist attacks by our many enemies, although we have few resources available and nature has been hard on us, our great work remains alive, setting a unique example for the oppressed peoples of the world.” The audience prepared for the first of many rounds of applause that would rhythmically punctuate Fidel’s speech. Then, suddenly overcoming the more objectionable fantasies, he changed direction. Abandoning the triumphant tone, he admitted that not all was well. “While all this is scientific fact, it is nevertheless necessary to point out that our economy has a few problems that we have been unable to solve. The traditional methods have proved ineffective. It has therefore become imperative to find new ways of confronting JFK.”
At this point, there was a visible contraction inside the room, as if the company, like a group of terrified apprentices afraid of being interrogated by their implacable master, was trying to shield itself from hard questions by forming a solid mass. Fidel shot them with his eyes till they dropped dead from sheer fear. Finally, having aimed at everyone present, he fired again. This time, he launched a more powerful and deadly weapon, prohibited by international revolutionary conventions. “We have only one alternative left. And though this might seem at first sight like a betrayal of the revolution, a capitulation to the laws of Capitalism, the denial of everything that has been done till now, in fact it is only a temporary measure, a small matter of dialectical fine-tuning. From now on, I declare the island open to international tourism!”
To say that a lightning bolt hit the Central Committee room would be an understatement. The delegates (with the thunderbolt still in their heads) stared at Fidel Castro, outraged. Accustomed to the world’s criticism, hardened by taunts and gibes, Fidel shrugged this off and calmly lit another cigar, Cohiba Siglo XXI. With the first puff, he sent out a cloud of smoke that obfuscated the tenuous luminosity of those that had tried to censure him. Not content with this, he fired a second gas attack, which provoked fits of coughing and caused eyes to become itchy and red, as red as the revolution was rapidly ceasing to be.
Once order had been restored to the room (in truth, it had never really left), Fidel again asserted: “The island is now open to international tourism.” This time he even managed to drag some nods and forced smiles from those present, who were confused, like someone watching the optical illusion of a rotating wheel and wondering how an apparently backward movement could generate forward motion. But as always happens when a dogma is broken, emptiness and anguish began to lodge themselves in the hearts of the faithful. And although something new had appeared to replace it, some distrusted it and resisted. After all, they were not in the Roman Empire, where emperors would switch religion as easily as they changed their clothes until they finally got it right. In these parts, things were taken to heart, and faith was considered to be infinitely superior.
“Counterrevolutionaries and agitators will enter our country!” someone protested. Fidel didn’t need to reply. His most faithful comrades, having sensed the way the wind was blowing, raised their sails, using El Comandante’s ideas for support. “Let them come. They will certainly join us, amazed at what we have achieved!”
“And how will we explain this to the people, after so many years trying to convince them that tourism is a futile bourgeois activity?”
“Let us trust in human nature, in its tendency to refuse to see what is obvious. Some will close their eyes to the matter as if nothing has happened. Others will get used to it in the end and shrug it off, as they’ve done up until now.”
“And what will we give them to eat? One of the bases of Capitalism is gluttony, as we all know.” The debate specialists fell mute, taken aback by the subtle question.
Fidel intervened: “There will be enough food for everyone. We will counteract the excesses and obesity of the Capitalists by imposing a new diet on our people that will give them the trimmest figures ever seen.”
Not satisfied with this, the skeptical launched a new wave of impertinent questions, frothing with doubts. “And what will they say about the run-down state of our architectural heritage?”
“Don’t you know that all ancient monuments are ruins? The more decayed they are, the better.”
“And will we have to work out tourist routes, allow the multinationals to build hotels on revolutionary soil?”
“The best way of defeating our enemies is to infiltrate them.”
“What if the foreigners decide to take our women away with them?”
“Well, first of all, we’ve got plenty. Second, that would solve the problem of the imbalance between the population and available resources.”
“What if some of them want to settle here?”
“That would be definitive proof that Capitalism is now in its final phase.”
As no one dared ask any more questions, even though the explanations had been unconvincing, Fidel spoke again. “‘Our beaches and our tropical sun are the future foundations of the revolution.’ The person who said that was a great Communist writer persecuted by the bourgeoisie, who predicted the solution to our problems while also pointing out the unsolvable failures of the Capitalist system.” Fidel picked up an old book with a yellowed cover and began to read aloud some passages, skipping lines when it suited him.
“‘The countryside and the beach, the mountain air and the sea air, are effectively a universal panacea for the great afflictions endemic to large cities . . . for the patients of all abuses of work and pleasure . . . the absorbing concerns . . . of money, ambition, glory . . . all this together, let me tell you, slowly eats away at the foundations of the human organism, gradually corroding it and causing it to become unbalanced and degenerate.’”
This time, although the delegates silently continued to think up curses and insults against tourism and against Fidel himself, they felt themselves being transcended by something. Some, impressed by the commandant’s shrewdness and the words of the Communist prophet, realized their own shortsightedness and were overcome with an intense feeling of shame. They had never heard those words, nor of the author, another significant flaw to confess at the next criticism and self-criticism session. Feeling humbled and small, they again cast their eyes to the ground, abashed. Fidel did not have to use his weapons on them again.
Worthy of a final judgment, this collective repentance session indicated a drawn-out purgatory. If they were not materialist atheists, the delegates would perhaps be on their knees praying to a redemptive divinity, intoning psalms, and chastising themselves. That was easier than I thought, Fidel reflected. None of these idiots could ever replace me, that’s for sure!
Then, to redeem the penitents, or perhaps just to get the matter over and done with, he brought the meeting to a conclusion. “With the introduction of tourism, we will solve three serious problems in one fell swoop. Foreign currency will flow into our coffers, which will allow us to confront JFK, and perhaps most important of all, we will set a trap for Capitalism. End of session!”
Fidel left the meeting feeling more worried than satisfied. He knew the fatal blow had been struck. His inexhaustible capacity to transform defeats into victories allowed him to play impossible tricks on the other artistes operating in the field. However, this time, the contortions had been excessive and his backbone was injured. And as there was no cure, even in this wonderland of medicine, all he could do was try to limit the severity and extent of the damage. Would he ever walk upright again? That was a question he’d still not had the courage to ask himself. Right now, he was trying to assess the real consequences of tourists on the island. What will they think of our society? he wondered gloomily. What image of us will they transmit to the rest of the world? How will our people react? Meanwhile, the car with darkened windows transported him swiftly to one of his secret residences.
Fidel might also have thought, without straying very far from the truth, that it was the revolution itself that traveled inside that car, concealing itself in shame at having done something disgraceful. This was a dishonored revolution that was trying to escape the opprobrium it deserved, the flight from infamy dragging guilt in its wake or perhaps the guilt impelling the flight.
These ruminations might have acquired an unequivocal touch of realism had the car swerved off the road into a deep ravine or been involved in a head-on collision, though in reality, nothing like this occurred.
Escaping the mesh of shantytowns surrounding the capital, the car slid rapidly toward the fields in the interior of the island, where men armed with swords battled like gladiators against unarmed sugar-canes. Exhausted, Fidel was already in the antechamber of sleep, and the film was beginning over again, the endless replay of fragments of his life that wrested him from the here-and-now and transported him into dimensions that existed only in his memory. This time he and his brother were preparing the attack to the Moncada Barracks. In the sky, a cloud was torn into tatters. The sun shone over the whole island, but its inhabitants preferred to hide in the shade.
João Cerqueira has a PhD in History of Art from the University of Oporto. He is the author of seven books, including Blame It On Too Much Freedom, The Tragedy of Fidel Castro, Devil’s Observations, Maria Pia: Queen and Woman, and José de Guimarães. His work can be found in Toad Suck Review, Danse Macabre, Contemporary Literary Review India, The Liberator Magazine, All Right Magazine, South Asia Mail, Sundayat6mag, and Literary Lunes. The Tragedy of Fidel Castro, published by River Grove Books, won the USA Best Book Awards for Multicultural Fiction in 2013, is nominated for the Montaigne Medal Awards 2014, and was considered by Foreword Reviews the third best translation published in 2012 in the United States. Visit him at joaocerqueira.com.
