King of Cuba

by Cristina Garcia

  The pilot flew low over the countryside, over its helices of palms and crumbling concrete huts that had replaced the sturdy bohíos with their thatched roofs and swept-dirt floors. “¿Todo bien, Jefe?” Captain Nicasio Correa was a stocky, hirsute man whose hairline merged with his wraparound sunglasses.

  Inland, two old sugar mills still stood: the Covadonga, where his father-in-law had worked as a young man before siring the ravishing Delia; and the Australia, converted into his military headquarters during the Bay of Pigs, then reconverted into El Museo de La Comandancia. On this day in history, Yankee imperialism suffered its first great defeat in the Americas! The tyrant had soothed himself to sleep many a night with those words, knowing that if he accomplished nothing else in his life, his place in history was secure. His mother-in-law, who’d lived in the area all her days, could identify every species in the swamp—pygmy owls and herons, water hens, purple gallinules. As a girl, Delia had loved to watch the crabs scuttle onto the roads and beaches during the massive spring mating frenzy. The crabs, she said, had made her horny as hell.

  El Comandante pointed to a spit of land at the edge of the swamp. “Put her down right there, soldier.”

  “But the President said—”

  “I’m in charge here!” he shouted over the noise.

  “Yes, sir.” The pilot landed the helicopter, as if on a bull’s-eye.

  The rotting stench was overpowering. “Over there was where the largest concentration of enemy troops landed,” the tyrant said, indicating a beach across the bay. By the end of that first day, Cuba’s air force had sunk a landing craft and two transport ships, the Río Escondido and the Houston. A freighter owned by that Galician bastard Arturo Herrera was also badly damaged and most of its crew killed. Four mercenary B-26s painted to look like the Revolution’s planes were shot down; two more were crippled.

  El Comandante gazed into the distance, lost in reminiscence. Diversionary tactics had forced him back to Havana in midbattle. Infuriated that he’d been lured away from the action at Playa Girón, he raced back to Pálpite. There he and his men came under artillery fire from the mercenaries’ stronghold in Playa Larga. Although antiaircraft batteries had recently arrived from Russia, nobody knew how to operate them. Their first attempt to take Playa Larga failed. His troops suffered heavy casualties, mostly from among the young recruits of the Militia Leadership School battalion. But the impact of their attack forced the enemy to withdraw at dawn.

  The tyrant was soaked with sweat, and the pilot fought off a cloud of mosquitoes. “With all due respect,” Captain Correa said, “we should push off or we’ll be meat for these pests in no time.”

  El Comandante relived the acid energy of those long ago April days. El Duque, one of his most trusted men from the Sierra Maestra, had raced to the swamp in his Buick, an ancient bazooka in the backseat. Without orders he took charge of the eastern front and managed to recapture a village from the enemy before being captured himself. Brave men like El Duque no longer existed in Cuba. A year later he died of a malignant goiter. When the doctors tried to remove it, the hero’s head came right off with it.

  “Let me help you into the helicopter,” the pilot offered. “They’re waiting for you in Cienfuegos.”

  The tyrant climbed back aboard as the helicopter’s blades stirred a wide circle of cow lily leaves. Fernando had promised him a gaggle of starlets from abroad—Spain, France, Hollywood, all revolution-friendly places. El Comandante enjoyed charming these beauties, even at his age. A moderate dose of Cuban flattery translated to baroque devotion anywhere else. Before long they’d be feeding him chilled oysters from their fragrant fingertips. Yes, he was quite the master of hospitality, but the true geniuses, in his opinion, were the Arabs. Even the lowliest Bedouin in his blinding white burnoose welcomed a stranger to his tent with cardamom coffee and dates.

  At the Cienfuegos airport, a crowd waved more birthday signs: MAY YOU LIVE TO 100! YOUR IMMORTALITY IS OURS! HEROES NEVER DIE! Who the hell came up with this shit? A swarm of elementary school children sang him “Las Mañanitas,” and a pixie with hair-sprayed curls plunked something out on a portable harp. The province’s best marching band followed with a mambo a todo meter. Everything in this godforsaken country turned into a dance party, El Comandante thought glumly. Nobody wanted to buckle down and do the hard, anonymous work of building the Revolution brick by brick. Every last cubano craved the limelight, but there simply wasn’t enough room for eleven million stars. Just one.

  Star

  I’m not beautiful, but I have what everyone wants: chispa. And talent. The ability to make you feel like you’re the only person in the room. To the writers, I ask: Don’t you have a little monologue for me? This isn’t an act, though I’m an actress. I’m pushing forty, but I’m still in demand for the romantic roles. My body has the curves, but it’s more than that. It’s something that comes from inside, something that you can’t fake. I’m lucky to be optimistic. You need optimism here. There’s so much that crushes artists.

  Years ago, I fell savagely in love with a Chilean poet and moved to Valparaíso. That’s the prologue. Act One: He was very poor. Act Two: We had a daughter. Act Three: I returned home. I could’ve married a rich man but I fell in love. Why live if you can’t follow your heart? Everyone in Havana gossips about me because I’m a single mother and successful. Women envy me; men want to sleep with me. Now and then I let myself go, but I choose carefully with whom. Ay, that evening I sang atop the piano at Simón and Naty’s house was sublime! That sexy British actor was at the party. Gorgeous models orbited him, but it was me he wanted. And so we left together. The rest of the night—¡mi madre!—was beautiful.

  —Olga Lobaina, actress

  * * *

  1. Basso Profundo. He says only one word to the ladies, one word that emerges from his endlessly seductive throat, a sound they can squeeze with their pussies. It’s a form of hypnosis, his voice, rumbling toward them like temptation itself, catching them for an hour, or an afternoon.

  2. Trabajito. To catch a big fish, it takes a few fishhooks, not to mention other key ingredients I’m not at liberty to discuss. The target of my efforts has gotten too audacious, too arrogant. He makes fishhook paintings that sell for obscene thousands abroad. If you live by fishhooks, I say, then you die by fishhooks.

  —Anonymous

  3. Towels are the biggest scam going in Cuba. I took a group of American students to Trinidad for a week, and on our last morning there, just as our bus was getting ready to leave, the hotel manager came running out to tell us that there were three towels missing from our rooms. “Go back and double-check the number,” I yelled at him. When he disappeared into the lobby, I turned to our driver. “¡Arranca y vámonos!” We spat gravel all the way back to Havana.

  —Dr. Linda Howe, Spanish literature professor

  4. Ese tonto has been around since el año de la nana. I can say this much for him: he’s consistent. If you expect the exact opposite of what he says, you’ll be okay.

  —Basilio Machín, tobacco farmer

  13.

  The Swamp

  Cienfuegos

  Leave it to Fernando to suction all the fun out of a place. At the tiny Cienfuegos airport he strode up to the helicopter and made a show of stiffly embracing his brother. Then he whispered the lineup of interviews scheduled for the afternoon: The New York Times, Agence France-Presse, El País, Der Spiegel, CNN, Associated Press. The reporters had gone on a tour of Museo Girón, where key mementos of the Bay of Pigs—photos, film footage, weapons, tanks, even some airplane wreckage—were on display. Now they were eager to speak with the tyrant himself.

  “No fucking way,” El Comandante interrupted with a forced grin. “It’s a press conference or nothing.”

  “Don’t embarrass me, hermano. This took weeks to plan.” Fernando glared at him but scurried off to arrange the press conference.

  The heat was unbearable, three-dimensional. The tyrant stood alone on the scorching tarmac, acceptin
g floral bouquets from one pretty schoolgirl after another, each reciting a well-rehearsed speech he ignored. All he wished was to go inside, where it was cool and he could have a drink. El Conejo appeared out of nowhere (a rabbit out of a hat, como siempre) and escorted his boss into the terminal. Soon he was seated comfortably at the evacuated bar with a scotch on the rocks. Nothing escaped his twisted little adviser’s attention. In five minutes, El Conejo filled him in on everything he needed to know for the visit. He’d also dispatched an undercover agent to infiltrate the Bay of Pigs musical. The agent, a veteran of Angola, had been cast as a snapping turtle.

  “A what?”

  El Conejo assured him that nothing seemed amiss except for a certain extravagance of bad taste.

  “Gracias, hombre.” El Comandante chased his scotch with a swig of cough suppressant.

  His adviser was rarely granted any direct expression of appreciation, and he flushed with pleasure. “A sus órdenes, Jefe,” he whispered before vanishing as inexplicably as he’d appeared.

  Fernando redirected the press to the Palacio de Valle, where the tyrant’s birthday reception would be held later in the day. The palace was a garish mixture of Gothic, Venetian, and neo-Moorish architecture built by a local sugar baron in the early 1900s. Its sole redeeming feature was a stunning balcony overlooking the sea. El Comandante took one look at the place and decided to move the conference to the Castillo de Jagua instead. By the time Fernando and the sweaty, disheveled band of journalists found their way there, the mood was ugly.

  El Comandante had been displeased with the international press coverage of him lately. This was his opportunity to remind these loser reporters who ruled around here. Last spring he’d stonewalled Le Monde’s political correspondent after he’d referred to the Revolution in a prominent Sunday feature as “an exercise in irrationality.” It unhinged reporters to be denied access to power and made them lose credibility with their editors. The tyrant called on the irascible Associated Press correspondent first.

  “Excuse me, but why the hell have we been moved here?”

  El Comandante beheld the man for a moment before answering: “This castle was built nearly three hundred years ago to protect the bay from pirates. I thought it the most appropriate venue to host our friends in the press.”

  The room erupted with laughter, breaking the tension. The tyrant knew how much journalists hated leaders who took themselves too seriously. Essentially, the whole lot of them were cynics, relegated to the sidelines of history, never making news themselves unless they happened to be killed in the line of duty, after which they became footnotes to their own headlines. This inconsequentiality led to chronic bitterness and no small amount of Schadenfreude in their ranks.

  “How many more birthdays do you plan on celebrating?” joked the sideburned correspondent from Corriere della Sera.

  “Another three Popes’ worth,” El Comandante retorted to more laughter.

  “It’s said that despite your brother’s official position as head of state, you continue to be in charge. Is that true?”

  In the bright lights, the tyrant couldn’t tell who’d asked the question. He spied the querulous Fernando standing against the far wall, balancing on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Waiting, always waiting.

  “I give him my full support as commander in chief, and I believe he’s doing a good job on multiple fronts.”

  Fernando’s grievous face brightened.

  El Comandante then leaned mischievously into the microphone. “But I can still kick his ass.”

  “Tell us what we can expect at tonight’s performance.” This came from a Peruvian reporter, an old newshound whose few strands of hair were unattractively plastered to his forehead.

  El Líder shrugged. “That, ladies and gentlemen of the press, will be my brother’s surprise birthday gift to me.”

  “They say this citadel is haunted. What can you tell us about it?” asked the feisty bureau chief from Madrid’s largest daily newspaper. Years ago El Comandante had tried, unsuccessfully, to bed her.

  “Bueno, legend has it that a mysterious lady in blue—very much like yourself, Señorita Díaz”—an outburst of wolf whistles here—“roamed the rooms and corridors of the castle, frightening the security guards. One morning a guard was found at the edge of the moat in a state of shock, twisting a swatch of blue cloth and babbling nonsense.” The tyrant rolled his eyes heavenward. “Ay, the torments of a beautiful woman . . .”

  Laughter and hooting all around.

  “Many say that the Cuban people are starving, that they are resorting to prostitution again to survive—”

  The tyrant turned to his brother. “Who the hell is he?”

  The reporter, a hulking redhead with a jutting chin, persisted. “The country’s rations are lower than during the Special Period and they last for only six days out of—”

  “You are misinformed!” El Comandante roared. “You should get your facts straight before embarrassing yourself and your publication. What is the name of your rag?”

  “Harper’s,” he said, and the journalists tittered.

  “Since the triumph of the Revolution, our people have never gone hungry,” the tyrant boomed, jabbing the air with his forefinger. “Nor have they gone without medical attention, or a world-class education. These privileges cost your people untold billions every year and the quality is substandard. Starving? What rubbish! If anything, we need to go on a campaign to lose weight . . .”

  Fernando approached the podium. The dictator rattled off a stream of facts: the caloric discrepancies between rich and developing nations, the nutritional value of yams, the unrivaled purity of island sugar. Once he got going, he could talk for four, eight, twelve hours, his hacking cough notwithstanding. For once, Fernando wished he could just tell his brother to shut the fuck up.

  “Perdóname, Jefe, but we need to continue this conversation at another time.” Fernando placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, then turned to the reporters. “We look forward to seeing you at tonight’s performance of Bay of Pigs: The Musical!, and to your positive coverage of this historic event.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” the tyrant growled, close enough to the microphone for everyone to hear. How dare Fernando humiliate him in front of these vermin? If he didn’t control himself, decades of revolutionary history would boil down to this: a Shakespearean tragedy between two brothers. El Comandante looked out at the sea of scribbling hyenas. “If you thought that was good,” he teased, “just wait until you see the play.”

  Bilingual Specials from the Best Paladar in the Capital

  Croquetas de pescado / Fish croquettes

  Frituras de malanga / Fried taro root

  Cherna frita / Fried grouper

  Arroz con frijoles / Rice with black beans

  Plátanos maduros / Fried sweet plantains

  Pastel de limón / Lemon pie

  Shortly before dusk, the whole world was on the balcony of the Palacio de Valle. Waiters circulated with mojitos and tropical drinks, and the thirty-foot-long buffet offered up the island’s finest: fresh grilled lobsters, calamari, garlic shrimp, deep-fried snapper, roasted pork, baked plantains, marinated hearts of palm salad, coconut flan . . . The despot was still incensed over the press conference. The insolence of those questions! As if he were ruling over a Haiti or a Sudan, not the most enduring revolution on the planet. Despite the food shortages, nobody went hungry in Cuba. Only the goddamn dissidents were starving—and that was by choice. Even those hard-core Damas de Blanco were a portly lot. In any case, why the hell should the Revolution supply food for thirty days a month when citizens stole enough for twenty? Furiously, he ferreted out pecans from a bowl of roasted nuts.

  A conjunto from Santiago was playing a traditional son.1 Its singer had won a nationwide Beny Moré impersonator contest last year. If the tyrant closed his eyes, he could imagine himself in a nightclub circa 1950, listening to the velvety crooner. The singer was a dead ringer
for Beny, too: the same slicked-back hair and soulful eyes; the same smooth moves. El Comandante had known the real Beny but quickly discovered that the singer had been infinitely more interested in rum than in politics.

  The aging president of Zimbabwe greeted El Líder with an entourage of stunning consorts. The two statesmen compared notes on folk remedies for insomnia and virility—not that we would ever need it, ha! The tyrant offered the Zimbabwean a Cohiba and promised him a tête-á-tête in the morning. The Nigerian leader joined them, and the talk turned to the superlative skills of their respective drug-busting airport dogs: Rottweilers in Lagos, heattolerant Chihuahuas on the island. If only they could sniff out their enemies as easily, they joked. “Most of my friends are my enemies,” the Nigerian added, and everyone laughed.

  Thunderclouds darkened the skies. The rumbling drowned out the conversation, and the first drops of rain drove the guests inside. Lightning struck a nearby royal palm, torching its fronds into a fiery headdress. “Changó is with us this evening,” the Nigerian said with a nod. As the rain came down hard, the crowd fought its way into the ballroom, which grew insufferably close from the sudden body heat of a thousand guests. The waiters did their best to continue serving drinks, but the commotion impeded their efforts. The atmosphere grew anxious without the music and nerves-soothing rum. To make matters worse, the air-conditioning died with a deafening clank, replaced by the drone of mosquitoes carelessly let in by the stampede.

  El Comandante held up an arm to quiet the crowd. “Distinguished guests,” he began. “I am grateful that you’ve come to share in the triumph of our revolution this evening. No minor storm engineered by the CIA”—a surge of appreciative laughter—“will interfere with our celebrations.” He signaled the reassembled musicians, who struck up “El Cuarto de Tula,” a hit from the film that had traveled the world in the nineties.