cried, spittle flying.
During the worst of the Special Period, after the Soviet Union collapsed and its five billion dollars in annual subsidies to Cuba along with it, when basic necessities were scarce and the plumpish populace lost, on average, twenty-two pounds (statistics were kept on such matters), what Cubans complained about most bitterly was the lack of soap. The Revolution was brought to its knees, its citizens forced into prostitution (often for a few hotel toiletries), because the government couldn’t keep them squeaky clean.
“You underestimate them—”
“Or a cell phone. Or a plate of dichoso pork chops! We might convince everyone on this island that the sea is red, but let’s not deceive ourselves!”
“If I believed you, I’d put a bullet in my head.” Fernando lowered his voice. “You’re overexcited. Let me take care of this.”
El Comandante shifted onto his right hip, then changed the subject. “And what’s this I hear about plans to build luxury casinos in Varadero?”
“It w-will attract a higher caliber of tourist.” Fernando stuttered when he was nervous. He didn’t dare tell his brother about his preliminary talks with the Mexicans. 1
“We’re not that desperate yet. Cancel it.”
“But—”
“I said cancel the casinos. We’re not goddamn Monaco here! Whatever happened to going green, anyway?”
“We’ll never be in the black by going green,” Fernando quipped.
“Cojones, you sound like a captain of industry.”
“Hermano, we are the captains of industry here.”
His brother had been succumbing to too many bourgeois indulgences of late—Rolexes, hot tubs, golf, and now casinos. Some Communist ideologue he’d turned out to be. El Comandante didn’t bother asking about the disastrous real estate reforms already under way.
“And the Bay of Pigs reenactment?”
“We’re having trouble getting those old planes to work.” Fernando avoided his brother’s gaze. “Besides, no one wants to play the bad guys.”
“Who the hell gets to decide what they want to do around here?” El Comandante struggled to sit upright. “Listen to me, Fernando. Everything must be perfect. Down to the combatants’ stinking underwear. Do you hear me? The eyes of the world will be watching us again.”
“I’m on it,” Fernando whined, then turned around and left.
Let him sulk, the tyrant grumbled. The Revolution’s party days were over. The sooner Fernando realized this, the better. The two were overly attuned to each other’s moods. It’d begun when they were boys and Fernando inexplicably stopped talking. For eight months he relied on his older brother to speak for him, to say Fernando hurt his knee, or needs to take a shit, or wants vanilla ice cream. One day they snuck into a neighborhood cockfight, and the favored rooster swiftly decapitated the other and plucked out its eyes in the first round. “Puta madre, did you see that?” With those words, Fernando rejoined the ranks of thearticulate. Now cockfighting was making a comeback in the capital. The best ring, by all accounts, was in Regla. Fernando wanted to shut it down, but the despot advised him to wait and strike when the ring was more flush with cash.
A pair of dazzling peacocks strutted and shrieked in the gardens below. The birds had been shipped from Madagascar at his wife’s request. El Líder studied their tremulous, iridescent plumage. These two had been impressing each other for years without a single female to distract them. When he’d complained to Delia about being surrounded by maricones, she’d nibbled on his ear and said: “Mi amor, you know as well as I do that boy animals are prettier than the girls.” Who was he to argue?
A stack of fresh reports was piled high on his desk: annual nickel production, last winter’s lobster harvest, revisions to the elementary school curriculum, tobacco exports to Switzerland, illegal marijuana production in Oriente, the trade imbalance with Mozambique, an
During the worst of the Special Period, after the Soviet Union collapsed and its five billion dollars in annual subsidies to Cuba along with it, when basic necessities were scarce and the plumpish populace lost, on average, twenty-two pounds (statistics were kept on such matters), what Cubans complained about most bitterly was the lack of soap. The Revolution was brought to its knees, its citizens forced into prostitution (often for a few hotel toiletries), because the government couldn’t keep them squeaky clean.
“You underestimate them—”
“Or a cell phone. Or a plate of dichoso pork chops! We might convince everyone on this island that the sea is red, but let’s not deceive ourselves!”
“If I believed you, I’d put a bullet in my head.” Fernando lowered his voice. “You’re overexcited. Let me take care of this.”
El Comandante shifted onto his right hip, then changed the subject. “And what’s this I hear about plans to build luxury casinos in Varadero?”
“It w-will attract a higher caliber of tourist.” Fernando stuttered when he was nervous. He didn’t dare tell his brother about his preliminary talks with the Mexicans. 1
“We’re not that desperate yet. Cancel it.”
“But—”
“I said cancel the casinos. We’re not goddamn Monaco here! Whatever happened to going green, anyway?”
“We’ll never be in the black by going green,” Fernando quipped.
“Cojones, you sound like a captain of industry.”
“Hermano, we are the captains of industry here.”
His brother had been succumbing to too many bourgeois indulgences of late—Rolexes, hot tubs, golf, and now casinos. Some Communist ideologue he’d turned out to be. El Comandante didn’t bother asking about the disastrous real estate reforms already under way.
“And the Bay of Pigs reenactment?”
“We’re having trouble getting those old planes to work.” Fernando avoided his brother’s gaze. “Besides, no one wants to play the bad guys.”
“Who the hell gets to decide what they want to do around here?” El Comandante struggled to sit upright. “Listen to me, Fernando. Everything must be perfect. Down to the combatants’ stinking underwear. Do you hear me? The eyes of the world will be watching us again.”
“I’m on it,” Fernando whined, then turned around and left.
Let him sulk, the tyrant grumbled. The Revolution’s party days were over. The sooner Fernando realized this, the better. The two were overly attuned to each other’s moods. It’d begun when they were boys and Fernando inexplicably stopped talking. For eight months he relied on his older brother to speak for him, to say Fernando hurt his knee, or needs to take a shit, or wants vanilla ice cream. One day they snuck into a neighborhood cockfight, and the favored rooster swiftly decapitated the other and plucked out its eyes in the first round. “Puta madre, did you see that?” With those words, Fernando rejoined the ranks of thearticulate. Now cockfighting was making a comeback in the capital. The best ring, by all accounts, was in Regla. Fernando wanted to shut it down, but the despot advised him to wait and strike when the ring was more flush with cash.
A pair of dazzling peacocks strutted and shrieked in the gardens below. The birds had been shipped from Madagascar at his wife’s request. El Líder studied their tremulous, iridescent plumage. These two had been impressing each other for years without a single female to distract them. When he’d complained to Delia about being surrounded by maricones, she’d nibbled on his ear and said: “Mi amor, you know as well as I do that boy animals are prettier than the girls.” Who was he to argue?
A stack of fresh reports was piled high on his desk: annual nickel production, last winter’s lobster harvest, revisions to the elementary school curriculum, tobacco exports to Switzerland, illegal marijuana production in Oriente, the trade imbalance with Mozambique, an
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