The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights
Page 7
let ’em think they’re getting away,
they’re bound to die at sea.
(To Paula Amanda)
Now then—after that presidential hanky-panky
we’re going to need something X-rated.
I want to see people spank their monkey
till they can’t see straight!
PAULA AMANDA:
Spanking monkeys!
Ooooh—I love it!
It sounds so wonderfully depraved!
FIFO:
(I give up!)—It’s just a saying.
I want people to masturbate!
The idea’s to get back in the spotlight,
to get all eyes on us tonight,
and to do that we need some sex appeal.
PAULA AMANDA:
If you want to make sure people squirm and squeal
and engage in a little pre-Carnival whoopee,
I can call in Endinio Valliegas—
he’s the best, I guarantee;
he’s even played Las Vegas.
Of course first you’ll have to get him fed—
he’s just been brought back from the dead.
and I’m sure he’s ravenous.
FIFO:
No problem there—
just get him, please,
I’ll send out for Chinese.
Before Valliegas begins his poem, the lights come up on KEY WEST. We see several executives, mayors, presidents of museums, and press agents sitting around a table.
THE MAYOR OF MIAMI:
After that screw of the President’s,
I think it’s pretty safe to say
we won the ratings battle today,
which, as we know, is what really counts.
Because whether Tula comes ashore or drowns,
the more people watch, the more the sponsors pay.
A POLITICAL LEADER:
Yes, but don’t forget—Fifo’s on the other channel,
so we’ve gotta make sure that people stay tuned in.
I say we put on a special panel,
I know, a shouting match!—like they do on CNN.
THE EDITOR OF A FASHION MAGAZINE:
What I have learned, and I’ll pass this on to you,
is that without TV, there’d be no ads,
and without ads, there’d be no dough,
and without dough, you might as well be dead!—
’cause money, as we all, I’m sure, have found,
is what makes the little wheels go round.
KILO ABIERTO MONTAMIER:
There’s also power, too, of course . . .
THE ATTORNEY GENERAL:
Girl, I couldn’t agree with you more!
A POETESS LAUREATE:
You know, now that everyone’s
into this resurrection thing,
somebody ought to do an ad campaign,
with designs
by Kelvin Klein—
Resurrection—
it would sell a million!
A CONGRESSMAN:
And it’s not important who gets selected
to be the next celebrity
that’s resurrected;
what counts is the publicity.
THE BISHOP OF MIAMI:
By the way, who is going to be the next candidate
for resuscitation from the dead?
Because I think it would be very cool
to borrow a tutu made of tulle
from my dear friend (and sometime office-mate)
the Cardinal.
A NUN:
Perfect! It’s scheduled to be Mariano Brull!
CHORUS OF POETESSES:
Brull! Brull! Brull! Brull!
BISHOP:
Mariano Brull! No! He’ll be divine in tulle!
CHORUS OF POETESSES:
Tulle! Tulle! Tulle! Tulle!
Suddenly all the people in Key West—including children, old folks, and statues—are wearing long tulle dresses. Swaying, they all begin to dance the Dance of the Resurrection of Mariano Brull. From out of the dancers emerges Alta Grave de Peralta with a gigantic egg that she constantly, rhythmically waves about. The egg appears to be quite light; sometimes it floats high, high up and then suddenly plumps back down again—it gets knocked down by the chopper blades. All raise their hands to heaven. We see Ye-Ye, the Only Remaining Go-Go Queen in Cuba (undoubtedly an infiltrator) reciting one of her PornoPop poems.
THE ONLY REMAINING GO-GO QUEEN: (as she dances)
A fairy queen in her elegant tutu,
A fairy queen, in tulle of baby blue!
The egg floats up so high that it’s almost out of sight and it looks like it’s not ever coming back down again. Then Alta Grave de Peralta pulls out a pistol from under her tulle skirt and shoots at it. The egg bursts open and out of it emerges, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, Mariano Brull, dressed head to foot in tulle. Swaddled and wrapped in yards and yards of vaporous fabric, he drifts down slowly, gently, as though descending on a parachute. The poet lands on the stage at KEY WESTand begins to recite:
MARIANO BRULL: (absolutely head to foot in tulle, my dear, with a long skirt, leg-o-mutton sleeves, the whole nine yards)
I am a prisoner of the rhythm of the ocean,
and that, dear boy, is precisely the reason
that I am bound for the sea of June,
for, dear boy, the sea of June,
in my tulle and ermine.
On scores of Mondays, under scores of suns
on scores of sunlight-dappled beaches
I have scored with surfer-hunks,
and with hunks agricultural
in the middle of the cane field.
And when comes ’round the big blue new moon,
in the hot green month of June
I’ll cruise again (in gowns of tulle)
the lovely fields of Purial—
cruise the sweet green greenery, the sugary green scenery
of the itchy fields of prurient Purial!
Grr-grr-grr-grr-grrrrowl!
Then through the sweet green scenery I’ll steal,
steal through the hothouse scenery of the fields,
in pink flesh gloriously incarnate I will come,
come the queen omnicuntipotent,
come—on Monday or on Friday come,
come, cunning queen omnicuntiferous,
roly-poly feline pussiferous—
mrr-mrr-mrr-mrr-meoow!
Sea-greeniferous, omnimellifluous,
polymorphous perversiferous,
but not a trace of syphilis,
will come the tool-seeking, tulle-dripping Brull—
grr-grr-grr-grrroowl!
Through the green all lemony and limey—
but watch out! they might take a bite out of your heinie!—
through the sea-green, pea-green verdor,
will come the cuntiferous, lickerous whore!
(This queen sucks dick
and pays for it!)
But then through the green green green green greenery
the humected wet-dream long-live-the-queenly-queen green
the wet sweet and eminently eatable purslane—
I fade
(how it pains me to relinquish it)
once more away—
prisoner of the rhythm of the sea,
prisoner of the rhythm of the ocean.
“—Hey! you forgot
to get me off!”
We see Zebro Sardoya, accompanied by the Guadalajara Symphony Orchestra, singing “I’m a Prisoner of the Rhythm of the Ocean.”
A MIAMI SOCIETY LADY: (all in tulle, dancing)
So that’s Cuba’s national poet?
If you ask me, he’s a pervert.
AN OLD WOMAN: (in a wheelchair)
Not national—municipal.
A PRIEST:
National, municipal, I don’t care if he’s pontifical,
if you ask me, he’s not—um—you know, normal.
ZEBRO SARDOY
A: (laboriously swaying his hips through the crowd and pausing beside some people who are having a perfectly nice conversation)
I am a prisoner of the rhythm of the ocean . . .
A NUN:
I am utterly repulsed
by those disgusting verses
which, I agree, are totally perverse
and to which, like you, I am utterly averse.
They are totally detestable,
virtually indigestible,
and radically homosexual—
a sin against our nature
and an offense against the Church.
A FEMALE PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE:
And to think that once upon a time
his poetry was so sublime . . .
ANOTHER POETESS LAUREATE (SELF-ANOINTED):
The one to blame for it—eh?—
is surely Avellaneda.
She was, after all, his inspiration.
THE NUN:
And therefore his perdition!
THE OLD WOMAN:
No, that would be Cepeda.
A HIGHLY RESPECTED ASTROLOGER NOW LIVING IN MIAMI:
O dearly beloved,
the planets and stars above us
tell me that Gertrudis,
being a Sagittarius,
will be caught committing incest .
in the year 2001
in a whorehouse in Tijuana.
THE ATTORNEY GENERAL:
Good lord! Alert immigration!
She’s a menace to the nation—
we do not want people like her
in our neighborhoods.
THE NUN:
And another thing that I’ve heard tell
is that she’s illiterate—can’t even spell!
A HOUSEWIFE:
But you know, I bet that’s Cuban propaganda—
they do that sort of thing a lot, down in Havana.
THE ASTROLOGER:
It’s not propaganda—it’s a fact!
She couldn’t spell her way out of a paper sack.
THE OLD WOMAN:
And they also say that she’s a glutton.
THE FEMALE PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE:
Just look at her—she’s busting her buttons!
I ask you: Could anyone as fat as that
be a decent poet?
MARIANO BRULL: (still dressed in tulle)
How can you people mention me in the same sentence
as that big fat thing (and so-so poet) Gertrudis!?
She and I are nothing alike—not even close!
She’s never written poems to a rose
and I’ve never lived a life as scandalous as hers.
Plus—I live to wear the latest clothes
while she’s completely out of fashion!
Did I mention my poems to the rose?
You’ll love them, just have a listen:
Rosa rosarum, rosisimus amorisimus!
That buzzardous comatose (and very obese) poetess
has never hymned the rose!
She’s nothing but a posthumous poetizing poseuse!
CHORUS: (pointing out to sea where Avellaneda has almost capsized)
A comatose posthumous poetizing poseuse!
Key West darkens and the Malecón lights come up.
DELFÍN PROUST:
Now again, ladies and gentlemen, here comes that john of all trades—Endinio Valliegas!
ENDINIO VALLIEGAS: (standing on the wall of the Malecón)
Barefoot I walk the golden beach,
naked I swim in the green sea,
for I am a pink cockleshell
and any boy (I mean anybody) can pick up me!
DELFÍN PROUST: (interrupting)
You’re not a cockleshell, you’re a sea urchin!
A sea-cucumber at the bottom of the ocean!
ENDINIO VALLIEGAS:
I am a tree, the needle’s prick . . .
DELFÍN PROUST:
A queen who lives to turn a trick.
VALLIEGAS:
I am not one to overreach,
to visit the salon or palace
of some new social leech.
DELFÍN PROUST:
The leech is Coco Salas.
VALLIEGAS: (furious, to Delfín)
Your grandmother Alice
is the leech, you bloodsucker!
(now calmer)
I do not betray the turtledove
(or, like Delfín, charge for my love).
I am the swallow with spread wings,
the flight of the owl,
the startled little squirrel . . .
DELFÍN:
A frog that tries to sing . . .
VALLIEGAS:
I am all things, save that dreariness
portrayed in graveyards and whorehouses . . .
DELFÍN:
A faggot famous for his fatuousness.
VALLIEGAS:
I am whatever you make of me,
whatever you invent for me,
to turn my tears to morning mist.
DELFÍN:
An imbecile babbling pure nonsense.
VALLIEGAS:
I am a green voice, a lover forsaken,
innocently seeking,
with the sweet panpipe tweeting
of a wounded shepherd.
DELFÍN:
You’re a drag queen—no, make that screaming queen—that
screws German shepherds.
VALLIEGAS:
I am all things, save that which hides,
with a mask covering its face.
DELFÍN:
I’m a fairy shrieking, “I’m leaving this place!!”
VALLIEGAS: (to Delfín)
Shut up, asshole—for that, there’s a reason!
(Now addressing the ocean, speaking in a voice breaking with emotion:)
A buried life, blind obedience—
it’s better to leave than serve out a life sentence.
DELFÍN:
My advice to you, Mary, is patience.
VALLIEGAS:
I try, I try,
but I cannot acclimatize.
DELFÍN: (imitating Valliegas’ tone of voice)
“Here are the hustlers come to slay me—
but when I dead and bloody be,
weep no more, dolphins of the deep,
I didn’t give them blow jobs till I’d lost all of my teeth.”
VALLIEGAS:
Shut up, you insolent curmudgeon.
I’ll have no more aspersions cast on my poetry.
cast on my poetry.
DELFÍN:
You shut up, you pitiful old queen.
VALLIEGAS: (trying to ignore Delfín)
In golden gambolings I disport,
in poesy’s airy curvets I cavort.
DELFÍN:
It sounds to me like a horse fart!
VALLIEGAS: (waving a razor blade)
Shut your mouth or I’ll cut out your heart!
FIFO:
I’ve had enough of these two faggots, by god.
Take them both to the firing squad.
DELFÍN AND VALLIEGAS: (in unison, and leaping into the ocean)
I am a silent fish— a cod!
(Suddenly transformed into codfish, the two men swim off into the sunset.)
FIFO:
Goddammit, two more sons of bitches that got away from me!
Oh, well, that means there’s that much more to go around, he-he.
Plus, what contempt for the proprieties,
for the comme il faut!
RAÚL:
Fifo, Fifo, Fifo,
please, forget it,
don’t fret your old gray head about it;
for the next appearance we’re going to resurrect
a poet of such great genius (however epicene),
and such renown, and such respect,
that people will forget that obscene scene.