Amid the confusion that reigns in Key West, Raúl Kastro, sent as a spy, is swishing around disguised as Olga Guillot.
RAÚL KASTRO: (looking hungrily at the American sailors)
What hullabaloo!
What a racket!
I’ll tell you, with all this whoop-de-doo,
I’ll never find a man to string my racket!
Raúl Kastro strips off the Olga Guillot drag, asks to borrow the wings from H. Puntilla (who is delighted to hand them over), and flies off toward the Malecón in Havana. But he doesn’t find his longed-for buttstuffer there, either. Enraged, he calls Abrantes, the Minister of the Interior, and sentences him to death for dereliction of duty. “You let the man of my dreams escape!” he shoutsas he pummels the minister. Abrantes, along with other high-ranking military officers, is led away by an escort of midgets. We hear a volley of shots off to one side of La Cabaña Prison.
FIFO: (enraged)
What are you doing, you halfwit pansy!
Did you forget the silencer?!
RAÚL:
Don’t worry, the Carnival has started—
People will think it’s a skyrocket.
FIFO: (irate)
I told you there’ll be no Carnival, you twit,
till we bring back that Avellaneda bitch.
So out with it—tell me what you spotted, eh?
up there in Key West, Florid-ay.
RAÚL:
Oh, it was terrible—my stomach almost turned!
The island is covered with filthy Cuban worms,
all waiting to welcome her with open arms—
like she was some kind of heroine! The gall!
I’ll tell you, bro, it was enough to make your skin crawl.
FIFO:
We mustn’t allow her to reach Key West!
Did you see my other spies, by any chance?
RAÚL:
Sure. I even saw the president.
Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . (winks lasciviously again)
FIFO:
Hold on. I’m working on a plan.
At a gesture from Fifo, the “spontaneous” demonstrations against Avellaneda continue. The orchestra, conducted by Manuel Gracia Markoff, plays a guaracha. While everyone dances, Silvo Rodríguez sings “They’re Even Being Killed for Love.”
FIFO:
Strangle that man this instant!
Shut him up any way you can—
I have to get my thoughts together,
and besides, I prefer “Stormy Weather.”
(To Raúl)
Is it true that Puntilla swiped those wings of yours
and headed north?
RAÚL:
’Fraid so. Although for what it’s worth
I don’t think he’ll stay.
FIFO:
Oh, he’ll be back—and this time he’ll really pay!
Suddenly a huge zeppelin, sent by the BBC in London, appears above the ocean. A voice from the blimp announces that it is over international waters and that its purpose is to broadcast impartially to the world at large. The Cuban community in exile has invoked the “equal time” doctrine, and so there is to be a mano-a-mano between the poets of KEY WESTand those on the MALECÓNin HAVANA.
The spotlights in KEY WESTcome on with a boom. The poet Fernando González Esteva appears, wearing a guayabera and carrying a pair of maracas. (From this point on, the program can be seen on television, so I challenge you to keep reading.)
GONZÁLEZ ESTEVA:
She threw herself
on the mercy of the seas
in a leaky ship;
as old as she is,
and frail as can be,
it’s a wonder she didn’t break her hip!
But with Gertrudis’ grand arrival
Poetry incarnate will grace our proud nation
I’ve come all the way from Calle Ocho
to express to the poetess our deep admiration.
KEY WEST CHORUS:
Come, Avellaneda, come on, dear—
there are ever so many nice things here,
things you’ve never seen before,
like traffic jams, and Disneyworld,
mamey milkshakes, the Internet,
and thousands of kick-boxing poets.
Acting out the words of the Chorus, thousands of poets (and poetesses, naturally) begin to kick at each other. While this is going on, Olga Guillot sings “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” KEY WESTgoes dark. Now it’s the MALECÓN’s turn. From the zeppelin, a voice announces: “Now we will hear from an old horse thief and chameleon—can anybody guess who that might be? It’s none other than—José Zacarias Talet!” José Zacarias Talet, who has just turned a hundred and one, climbs laboriously up onto the Malecón wall. The cheeryvoice of the color announcer is heard: “This old fellow, who’s still so full of spirit, has just received the José Martí Order of Merit.” The lights in KEY WESTcome up. José Martí is waving his hand, trying to say Oh, please—leave my name out of it! KEY WESTgoes dark and the MALECÓNcomes up.
JOSÉ ZACARIAS TALET:
Heavens, Tula, is this some kind of joke?
Turn your boat around and come back home!
You big overgrown goateed old biddy,
can’t you just once show some pity?
Don’t turn a deaf ear, or pretend you’re blind—
have you no feeling for us who’ve stayed behind?
Why, for you I feel nothing but tremendous love
(though not unmixed with lingering remorse)—
I wish I’d shown you this before—
Look at this prick,
look how it’s still kickin’.
I might be a hundred and seven,
but this takes a licking and keeps on ticking!
When he finishes his speech, Talet stumbles and falls flat on his back on the Malecón, allowing us to see that he is sporting a monster erection. We hear his raspy voice shouting “Nobody can take it all!” But two militia recruits carry him off on a stretcher.
CHORUS OF REHABILITATED PROSTITUTES: (wriggling and writhing as they look out at the sea)
Avellaneda, go away,
and don’t come back another day.
If you do, we’ll make your pay—
sticks and stones your bones will break.
Nyah! Nyah! And what’s more—
you’re a dirty fat old whore!
As the dance continues, Elena Burke (with that potbelly and outsized head of hers!) sings “Sentimental Me.” Her bellowing and honking ends in a long moo-oo-oo. Now the light in the lighthouse of EL MORROcomes on. We see Avellaneda, whose boat is still being swamped by the rotten eggs thrown at her from Cuba and the chocolate bars from Key West. It has started to get dark, and night is coming on, but the spotlights of the helicopter and the lighthouse at El Morro make the glimmering ocean as bright as day. Even so, as Avellaneda rows, she begins to recite her famous poem “Night of sleeplessness and the light of morning.”
AVELLANEDA: (tossing eggs and chocolate bars overboard)
Dark
night
now attired
in air
sky
ocean
land . . .
Suddenly a huge screen is lowered at the back of the stage. On it we see a fat transvestite with long fake eyelashes and long curls, like Avellaneda’s. S/he is wearing a crown of laurel. This is Zebro Sardoya (a.k.a. Chelo), who, wriggling her backside laboriously, begins to address the audience. While in the foreground we see Zebro Sardoya’s face, behind it, on the ocean, we see Avellaneda’s lips moving, but the sound has been cut off.
ZEBRO SARDOYA: (looking quickly back at Avellaneda, then addressing the audience)
We’re very sorry, but neither the BBC in London nor France-Radio nor any other news organization in the world can possibly carry that whole poem. I mean, it would totally spoil the show and turn it into a long lyrical bore! Oh, Gertrudis hon, forgive me, but I’m from Camagüey, and we have an old saying—�
��time is not poetry, it’s golden.” (And speaking of gold, that’s what that sable-skinned hunk I was with last night was worth his weight in!) But anyway, folks—before returning to the escape that has us all sitting on the edge of our seats—look at me, I’m so tense I’m about to have a spasm, but they tell me there’s not room for another single fairy in the hospitals!—let’s pause for some very appealing commercials, which I understand have some information that is extremely important for your delicate health. . . . So-o-o-o, pay attention, everyone, please!
Zebro Sardoya fades out and the screen is filled by a well-known Miami announcer. He has long sideburns and a huge moustache.
ANNOUNCER: (his voice hysterical and his eyes bugging out of their sockets)
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for the first time we are proud to introduce Avellanela—a new milk shake that’ll make your taste buds shake it! This all-natural product is made with (and I know you Cuban-American friends of mine out there will know what I’m talking about) avena, avellana, canela, and Vanilla!—Sure to become a habit! A taste-treat for your palate! Poetry for the taste buds! And lots tastier than Milwaukee suds!—So drink Avellanela! Made from the pure pulp and squeezing of that peerless poetess, our own Gertrudis! Don’t make your stomach grovel for this gruel, this dietary poetry—give it Avellanela! And don’t forget—it’s got avena, avellana, canela, and Vanilla! Made by Goya for goys and gays and guys and dolls, for young pissers and old farts alike! And Avellanela comes in plastic or glass bottles—whichever you prefer. Goya—good foi ya!
The announcer raises his arm, milk shake in hand. He takes a big swig and falls over dead. The movie screen is immediately lifted away and KEY WESTlights up. Aerial shot of the key, from which the white shafts of arc lights, as though at a big movie premiere, swing back and forth across the sky. Hollywood stars begin to arrive, and they immediately try to steal the show or at least promote their latest pictures. Among the stars are Elizabeth Taylor (who says she supports Avellaneda’s escape), Jane Fonda (who’s opposed), and Joan Fontaine (neutral). There are also sports stars and an entire basketball team, which spontaneously begins to play a pickup game with some of the crowd. Among the sports figures is José Canseco, who declares that he’s going to give a demonstration, right there, of his power as a home-run hitter. And sure enough, Canseco hits one so hard that the ball sails out of Key West and heads out to sea, where it hits Avellaneda in the chest, knocking her unconscious for a few seconds. While rumors fly that the presidential helicopter is about to land at any moment, there arrive, to the sound of snare drums, a delegation of radical feminist lesbians. On a broad lawn alongside the harbor of Key West, they give a demonstration of self-defense techniques, while the Guadalajara Symphony Orchestra accompanies them. When they complete their demonstration of martial arts (perfectly executed), the great poet Primigenio Florido steps up onto the stage.
Florido is wearing a huge pair of earphones, an attempt to improve his hearing. They look like big earmuffs, or the big ears of a donkey, and they stick up high above his head.
PRIMIGENIO FLORIDO: (gazing out at the sea where, in the distance, we can begin to see Avellaneda’s little boat)
Oh, there she is! There—on the far horizon!
A figure like a tiny island in the ocean,
like a bobbing buoy on the waves’ crest,
and far in the van, her peerless breast!
Oh, would that I might fly to save her,
would that these old arms could cradle her,
but we must wait—I’ll just wave at her . . .
Oh, that one day that grand, grand heart
beating beneath that bosom divine
might—it’s never too late for love to start—
beat, here, alongside mine!
That swelling breast—
I could gaze upon it without halt
as though I’d turned to a pillar of salt
or a colossus plunked down on the beach.
But the colossus (of poetry, of course) is she—
sailing toward us, but still just out of reach.
(In the stiff wind, Florido’s enormous earmuffs sometimes lift the poet several feet up off the stage and set him down again in the same spot, where, unfazed, he continues reciting his poem.)
Yes, white statue, goddess of alabaster, row,
row! Flee fearsome Fifo Kaster-o.
For how well I know you know,
my dear peerless geographer,
that fiery is the air
and sulfurous the dew
anywhere
you can’t even say Boo.
O kiss of paella,
toothsome heartthrob,
how glad we all are
that you
(as we do)
detest the ubiquitous mob.
Come to us, my steel-willed pigeon!
Come, fly that horrid dungeon!
Row, Gertrudis, seize that gusty wind
that’s giving me so much trouble! (Shoot!
I can’t keep my feet on the pavement!)
Come, for to you we’ve built a monument—
a bright statue, our kisses mute,
And mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble . . .
Florido’s words are lost as the wind lifts him up to a tremendous height. When he’s almost at the same height as the clouds, though, his earmuffs, I mean earphones, come off, and they fall straight into Avellaneda’s boat. She snatchesthem up and uses them for sails. They’re so efficient that the boat skims the water at tremendous speed before the wind.
AVELLANEDA: (full speed over the waves)
Anchors aweigh!
Cut through the spray!
On through the foam,
the whitecapped waves!
Far from home,
sailing on—
as we pull on the oars
we sing out our song!
Florido falls back onto the stage in KEY WESTand picks up the poem where he left off, not hearing the screaming of the crowd or the yelling of the Organizing Committee, who try to tell him his time is up. Finally, several people pick him up (still reciting) and carry him off the stage.
Meanwhile, the mayor of Hialeah is addressing the crowd, suggesting that they should take Florido’s words literally and erect a monument to Avellaneda in Key West Harbor, where they are all standing, awaiting her arrival. At the mayor’s words, an angry argument breaks out, and fierce competition arises among those who want to carve her statue. Hundreds of sculptors present their projects to the mayor of Hialeah. It is decided that each sculptor will make a statue and submit it to a jury, which will make the decision. Immediately they all start to carve away at statues of Avellaneda, because there’s very little time. Key West becomes filled with hundreds of gigantic statues—Avellaneda nude, Avellaneda with a long dress and a shield on her head, Avellaneda with a dove on one shoulder and a torch in her hand . . . From out of the hundreds of sample statues, the jury gives the award to the one by Tony López, portraying Avellaneda in a long dress, dripping wet with sea water, sailing through a grove of palm trees. Stars twinkle among the palm fronds, and in the top of one of the palm trees sits a naked black man playing a trumpet. A banner reading WELCOME TULA! runs from one side of the grove of palm trees to the other. A crane deposits this magnificent statue at the entrance to Key West Harbor. But the losers protest so bitterly that the jury declares that all the statues are finalists, and therefore should also be exhibited. Now Key West is one huge mob of statues and people, among whom the Guadalajara Symphony Orchestra continues to play. On each statue, a child with long curly locks is sitting.
CHORUS OF CHILDREN: (perched on the statues)
Look! Look!
She’s coming! She’s coming!
Another nail
In that pig Fifo’s coffin!
(The lights on the Malecón come up. Raúl is standing next to Fifo.)
RAÚL:
Well, I never! Dear me! Did you hear that!
That stubborn Gertr
udis just won’t quit!
And adding insult to injury,
those brats are calling you a pig!
I tell you, Fifo—
Why not just cut the old bag loose,
and let me get dressed and go out to cruise?
FIFO:
That woman is paddling like a speedboat,
The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights Page 5