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

by Reinaldo Arenas

  And as for Miss Mayoya, he had always demanded the biggest piece of meat in existence—indeed a unique piece of meat (which was why the silly thing was actually still a virgin)—and so he believed that in the bearing, grace, and proportions (!) of Bloodthirsty Shark he had at last discovered the object of his unfulfilled rectal longings. And yet that same shark was the symbol of the repression that had prevented her and everyone else on the Island from ever finding fulfillment. And so between Mayoya and Bloodthirsty Shark there also lay a gulf of grave moral principle. . . . Still, to be swept off her feet by that marine beast, to feel—ohmigod—that monstrous carnivore wrap her in its fins, carry her to the bottom of the sea, penetrate her in one swift terrible thrust, and then in a transport of ecstasy and glory, crowned with seashells, sea urchins, and jellyfish, fly with her up to the very clouds—it would be heaven. . . . And so, torn between principle and love, the queen would weep as she danced upon her seaside boulder, and Bloodthirsty Shark, its face unmistakably macho-tough yet suddenly tragic, perhaps even filled with remorse, would dance in lustful pirouettes before the forbidden faggot.

  This romance had been contained, controlled, and kept virtually in secret until the day that Mayoya saw, up close—up very close, separated by only the plate-glass wall of the aquarium—the unbelievable dimensions of Bloodthirsty Shark’s tool. The poor fairy could bear it no longer—he gave a cry that nobody heard (since everyone was being raped by the primates) and ran madly from the catacomb palace. He traversed the broad lawns, crossed the Malecón, vaulted the crowd of Pissed Disinvitees, ripped off all her gorgeous clothes (except for the sequin-spangled bikini), and, dagger at her waist, plunged into the sea. He was going to meet his lover, who meantime was soaring through the waters near the Presidential Palace.

  “Now, at last, divine justice shall be done,” intoned Padre Gastaluz, seeing the faggot madly run into the sea, dagger at his waist. And the entire group of Disappointees fell to their knees upon the rocks.

  “Now, my dear, what is going to happen is that that shark creature is going to rip her to shreds, unless of course a miracle should occur,” said the King of Romania, kissing an image of the Black Virgin of Kraków and watching Bloodthirsty Shark swim toward Miss Mayoya.

  “She’s going to kill Bloodthirsty Shark,” were the words of Sakuntala la Mala and the head of the Italian Communist Party, in unison.

  Alongside the palace, near the shore, and in full sight of the Nobodies, the long-awaited meeting at last occurred. Mayoya, opening her arms, embraced the potent phallus of Bloodthirsty Shark—a phallus which emerged from the shark’s sleek body like a black periscope—as the sea creature beat its fins in pleasure. In a fit of ecstasy, Mayoya planted kisses along the whole splendid length of it. The shark, propelling itself with its powerful tail, sailed with the queen high into the air as it kissed her and with its magnificent teeth ripped off her sequined bikini. In the air, the queen hurled away the silver dagger, which fell into the sea, and lifting her arms high, fell backside-first upon the shark’s gigantic member. The shark, at that, performed a violent contraction and penetrated her to the hilt. Smoke issued from the queen’s mouth—boiling-hot steam produced by the shark’s sleek piston in Miss Mayoya’s ignition chamber. Mayoya, like some lascivious buoy, bobbed and floated on the surface of the waves, spitted deliriously upon the shark’s stiff member. The pleasure that the two bodies were giving and receiving was so great that powerful electrical charges flashed from them like lightning bolts or huge sputtering arrows launched toward the heavens, and these electrical discharges set off a terrible storm, which the Uninvitees on the shore, in their anxiety over the outcome of the sexual combat, faced with uncommon bravery as they clung to the rocks along the beach. When the storm clouds cleared, they could once more watch the lustful sport that was still going on out at sea—and, disappointed and dejected by this new disillusionment, plot a new route to vengeance. But shark and fairy, oblivious to all dangers (which were considerable), were intent only upon their savagely licentious encounter—which, by the way, was now taking place under serene and cloudless skies. Mayoya walked, arms spread, upon the water and then suddenly, opening her sensual mouth, dived onto and deep-throated Bloodthirsty Shark’s black rod. Bloodthirsty Shark, rising higher and higher out of the blue ocean with Mayoya in its jaws, began to tickle him with its many rows of sparkling teeth. And so, never touching the waves, and before the terrified eyes of Deaconess Marina and Bishop O’Condom, fairy and shark performed a coupling so high in the air that it seemed to be freed from the laws of gravity. Mayoya then took the shark’s pole with a tremendous howl of laughter and stuck her head in the beast’s jaws—the beast, still more aroused, and without withdrawing its member from the little fairy, leapt from wave to wave, giving off a smell of male sex hormone so strong that it polluted those waters for all eternity (which is why you always see so many maricones having sex on that beach—it’s the pheromaricones, I mean pheromoans, I mean pheromones) and even stimulated the sea cucumbers, who awoke from their thousand-year sleep. . . . That unparalleled member even temporarily blocked the path of the Gulf Stream, which, breaking loose at last, gave an enormous heave and threw Ernest Hemingway (who’d been resuscitated to attend Fifo’s party) all the way to Greenland, where, seeing himself naked and with such a little tiny dick, he hanged himself with one of his fairy feathers. And for several minutes more the priapic sleek black shark and fiery fairy writhed in one ultimate sexual spasm, emitting shrieks, fish scales, streams of hot and cold semen, muffled giggles, and stunning flutters of the fins. Then, meshed into one great whirlpool of lust, they spiraled downward into the depths of the waters, setting off a waterspout that even today is the bane of sailors around the world. Then, like an erotic meteor scuttling across the ocean floor and setting off undersea earthquakes, shark and fairy, still carnally coupled, came at last to the plate-glass wall of the underwater Aquarium Theater in Fifo’s palace. There the copulation was in full flower when Fifo and his entourage burst into the hall.

  We should note here, I think, that never in the entire long history of screwing had such a screw been seen—or would ever be seen again. There in the great underground fishbowl, the shark and the fairy writhed, leaped, twined, twisted, embraced, nibbled, bubbled with pleasure, and unleashed deafening underwater thunder. . . . Fifo was red with rage. This was not only an emotional blow, but a moral blow as well—emotional because he had always secretly been in love with that shark (as he had once been with a very special cow); moral, because the sex he was seeing was an act of high treason, an act of ideological betrayal committed, to make matters worse, before his VIP guests—first ladies, ministers, attorneys general, kings, drug traffickers, magnates, henchmen and flunkies, poetesses, and other well-educated whores.

  And what, in the meantime, were those VIP guests doing as they contemplated the spectacle from their velvet seats? The only thing one can do, my dear—they were all sitting there jerking off.

  Fifo, who never once gave any sign of losing his composure, first gave secret orders that Bloodthirsty Shark was to be annihilated by any means necessary and then, in a loud voice, ordered his midgets to release the monkeys again. But after the titanic bout of lovemaking that they had just gone through with all the guests, the monkeys acted more like zombies than lecherous simians, and were able to do little more than drape themselves over the aroused bodies of the guests. The only person who managed to stimulate her primate partner was Mother Teresa, who finally worked up an erection in a gigantic orangutan by whispering a stream of Latin in its ear. The other guests had to make out the best they could. The Prime Minister of India, for example, unwound the wrappings from the mummy of his mother (whom he himself had killed) and began to mount her while he was being mounted by several of his muscular escorts, each wearing a costume of his home province.

  Suddenly, a sleek frogman (dispatched by the diligent midgets) swam into the waters of the aquarium and fired off a harpoon at Bloodthirsty Shark. Seeing the de
adly lance, Mayoya made a desperate effort—the effort that can be inspired only by love—and pulled Bloodthirsty Shark, still harpooning her, out of the way just in the nick of time. But the hail of deadly harpoons continued, and then there came a depth charge so powerful that Bloodthirsty Shark (taking care that nothing happen to his beloved Mayoya, whom he never ceased embracing) was thrown against the glass wall of the Aquarium Theater. So hard did Bloodthirsty Shark crash into the glass that it shattered into a million pieces—and a wall of water exploded into the auditorium. Terrified, the audience, their clothes soaked through, began to flee the mini-tsunami, with the monkeys right behind (though many of them were so exhausted that they drowned). Water flooded not only the Aquarium Theater but the whole catacomb palace, despite the most diligent efforts of the diligent midgets, who were desperately stopping up cracks and closing air locks.

  Just then, from outside the palace, a metallic roar, a clanking clamor, was heard.

  “Oh, my god, the Garden of Computers!” cried Fifo, now paddling one of the rafts that the diligent midgets had distributed among the guests. “I forgot! It’s feeding time! Come on! You’ve gotta see this!”

  And plucking up their courage, the entire floating entourage followed Fifo to the Garden of Computers.

  Meanwhile, Mayoya and Bloodthirsty Shark were swimming out of the palace into open water. They were pursued by the harpooners, several planes, and a fleet of enormous attack helicopters presented to Cuba by the former dictator of Romania so Fifo could “contain the rebellious hordes”—it was clear that Fifo had no intention of allowing those two traitors to live. Bloodthirsty Shark, fearing for its life, gave Mayoya a lingering farewell kiss, dropped him off near the shore, and then dived into the waves and began to gnaw at the Island’s foundation—much to the surprise of the other rodents. And even more surprising, Bloodthirsty Shark ordered all the other sharks (with depth charges still going off all around them) to start gnawing at the foundation, too. And all the sharks began to gnaw. They were joined by throngs of octopuses, squid, crabs, sea urchins, sea turtles, and other sea creatures whose family members had been wounded or killed by the depth charges and harpoons. And as though that were not amazing enough, several bishops in full bishopric regalia, nuns in their wimples, the head of Soviet counterespionage, some of Fifo’s most trusted generals, a Miss Universe, a Nobel Prize winner, and even a high official in the Chinese Empire (among others), taking advantage of the momentary confusion, dived into the water to help.

  Meanwhile, Miss Mayoya, with the triumphant air of a queen who’s just had the screw of his life, had reached the shore and collapsed, exhausted with pleasure, near the milling crowd of Dissed & Pissed. Immediately this group, egged on relentlessly by Deaconess Marina, King Miguel I of Portugal, the head of the Zambian Armed Forces, Clara Mortera, and the Prince of Batavia, decided that the fairy should be tried by court-martial for high treason. The tribunal was composed of, among other celebrities, the queen of the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, the president of Amnesty Intercontinental, Padre Gastaluz, Sakuntala la Mala, Odoriferous Gunk and his dying mother, and the head of the Italian Communist Party; also seated on the panel were the cunning Mahoma, Delfín Proust, SuperSatanic, and Skunk in a Funk, who, under cover of the confusion caused by the flood, had escaped the palace to confront Mayoya. The court’s sentence (unanimous) was handed down within five minutes: Mayoya was to be burned alive on the seashore before the anguished eyes of Bloodthirsty Shark, who was constantly poking its head up out of the water to see what the fate of its beloved little fairy queen was to be.

  Mayoya was bound to a sharp rock and dry sticks were piled all around her. Hiram, la Reine des Araignées, lit the pyre. Padre Gastaluz and Bishop O’Condom began to pray for the salvation of the fairy’s soul. The queen of the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, in all her regal splendor, approached the flames, waving a huge cross she had made out of two planks. “Abjure! Abjure as Joan did!” the queen of Carnival was shouting as she waved her cross around like a magic wand.

  “Yeah, like crazy Joan,” said Sakuntala la Mala loudly as she threw more kindling on the fire.

  But instead of abjuring, Mayoya hawked a wad of smoking spit straight at the queen of the Carnival in Rio, putting out her eye.

  While the queen burned, the Disappointees, including the head of the Third Independence Party of Puerto Rico, Corazon Aquino, Uglíssima, and even the Anglo-Campesina and Odoriferous Gunk’s dying mother, formed a huge circle around her, clasped hands, and began to dance around the gigantic pyre. This ritual continued for a long time, since although the queen was burning on the outside from the flames, inside he was just hot, remembering the incredible pleasure she had experienced during the world’s greatest screw with Bloodthirsty Shark. And as she recalled the ecstasy of those moments, the queen came in a flood of cum, extinguishing part of the fire, which had to be started again.

  Meanwhile, in a delirium of rage and impassioned grief, Bloodthirsty Shark rose into the sky, its horrid teeth crushing Fifo’s planes—which could never have destroyed the fearsome fish anyway.

  At last, the once sexy, once dancing fairy was fried to a crisp. Requiescat in pace, said Padre Gastaluz, sprinkling the ashes with water from his silver aspergillum (the same aspergillum he had used to bless a steam engine more than a hundred and fifty years earlier). And then the ashes were thrown into the sea, where Bloodthirsty Shark was once again gnawing at the Island’s foundation.

  A TONGUE TWISTER (20)

  I, Meme, mummified male mammal, hum as I munch the yummy male member of Momo, the Mameluke mime. My mommy, muse of all member-munchers and sometimes memo-minder for Mumo the Minister of Mammal Morals, always gave me mameys to munch as a mimetic mimicry of male-member munching. Mommy herself makes music on Mumo the minister’s much-munched male member by mimicking me humming munching on Momo’s yummy male member.

  Which male members does Meme’s mommy munch and which members are munched by Meme? Who munches the member of Momo the Mameluke mime, and who munches the member of Mumo the Minister of Mammal Morals? Who merely mimics munching? And what is the exact meaning of mimetic?

  For Meme Solas, a.k.a. the Mummy

  A LETTER

  Havana, July 25, 1999

  My dearest Reinaldo, Gabriel, and Skunk in a Funk,

  I just want to answer—once and for all—those letters from the three of you that have managed to get through. (And since the ones I’ve gotten all say more or less the same thing, I don’t think I’ll be failing to address anything important.) I assure you that I can imagine how much you’ve all suffered—and will go on suffering—and how lonely you must be up there, far from this country that is and always will be ours, no matter where we live. But get real. Nothing that you suffer can compare with the horror of life down here. Up there, even if all you get is kicks in the ass, at least you can yell about it—here, we have to applaud when we get kicked, and applaud enthusiastically. How can the three of you have the nerve to tell me I should stay here? Have you forgotten so soon that living under a tyranny is not just a shame and a curse, but an abject act that fills us with self-disgust because if we want to live, we have to play the game by the tyrant’s rules, whether we want to or not?

  I’m really tired of all your moaning and carrying-on, and of hearing how alone you are, and about the plagues that are killing you. We’re all alone here, too, and I have the plague, too, but I don’t get the medical attention I need—there’s no way for me to get it—and I can’t make the slightest whimper.

  You might ask, then, how I dare to write so openly. The answer is very simple: Tomorrow, at the height of Carnival, I plan to throw myself into the sea with my latest (my last) novel—which I haven’t been able to smuggle out of the country—and my swim fins. Into the sea! With a little luck the coast guard and the sharks will be drunk celebrating the triumph of Fifo’s reign, and I’ll be able to escape. Although most likely I’ll just die trying.

  You haven’t said anything about my books. I
hope all the ones I’ve sent you arrived safely. You know, I think, that everything I’ve done comprises a single enormous work. Sometimes, as in the case of the Pentagony, it follows a single line, with the same characters and the same desperations and calamities; in other cases, the characters, in other guises, travel through time—they’re friars, black slaves, pathetic mad condesas. But all the things I’ve done—poems, stories, novels, plays, and essays—are linked; they form a series of historical, autobiographical, and agonic cycles, a series of anguished transmutations. Even in the book of poems I titled The Will to Live Manifesting Itself, there is a sonnet inspired by Skunk in a Funk. So I ask of you—please, if all this is published, tell people that my books constitute a single enormous whole in which the characters die, are reborn, appear, disappear, travel through time—always mocking, always suffering as we ourselves have mocked and suffered. All of my characters form a single mocking, despairing spirit, the spirit of my work, which is also, perhaps, the spirit of our country. As for my play Abdala, don’t publish it, for heaven’s sake—I really don’t like it; it’s a sin of my youth.