The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (16 page)

I’d die of disappointment,

of weariness and disillusion.

So I’m off.

Really, I’ve had enough.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Enough of what, Martí?

What, I wonder, are your true reasons,

your real complaints,

that lead you to set out to sea

in the season of hurricanes?

M
ARTÍ
:

My true reasons? Did I not make them plain?

Besides having to deal with rogues and rapscallions,

my reasons

are autumn’s yellow leaves, winter’s bare trees and freezing rain,

living in a borrowed house
and a foreign tongue—

bitter winters, itchy long johns.

I am out of here—I’m gone!

I am naught but the fruit’s bitter rind.

Does that answer your question?

A
VELLANEDA
:

Have you, then, nothing here to live for?

M
ARTÍ
:

Life here is a wound there is no cure for.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Listen to what I’m going to tell you.

All of that is very well for you,

but it’s also a little overly romantic,

not to say melodramatic—

and if you land in Cuba, they’ll definitely kill you.

M
ARTÍ
:

So? Remember, it is good to die

when it is horrible to live a lie.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Die
here.
Cuba is a desert island,

an infinite, infernal prison.

M
ARTÍ
:

My blood will be the water for a garden.

A
VELLANEDA
:

You know that what I say is true.

You know that they will use you,

betray you,

and make mincemeat out of you,

and that there you’ll find no rest.

M
ARTÍ
:

And what about those people in Key West?

Do you think their heartlessness is any less?

A
VELLANEDA
:

Of course it’s not my first choice, it’s not the best,

but for the time being it will do.

M
ARTÍ
:

So they’ve brainwashed you, too?

A
VELLANEDA
:

Not at all—I am perfectly lucid, as you’ll see:

I have a plan,

and I think that it will work:

I’m going to publish my Collected Works,

find a nice place to settle down,

and live on the royalties.

If you came with me, we could work together.

We could help each other,

and be one another’s inspiration.

M
ARTÍ
:

Woman, what an imagination!

What I’m looking for is a gun,

and a map, and a flashlight—

I want to start a fight,

a second Cuban Revolution!

A
VELLANEDA
:

That means I won’t be seeing you again?

M
ARTÍ
:

Oh, you’ll see me again, I’m sure—

when they put up my statue

as they keep threatening to do.

But I warn you in advance,

I’ve seen the plaster cast

and there’s not much resemblance,

especially the head—which is immense!

A
VELLANEDA
:

Noble, no doubt, is what you meant.

M
ARTÍ
:

No, I mean it’s a
gigantic
head.

And as for the forehead,

it’s broader and nakeder than a dry river bed.

A
VELLANEDA
:

A broad forehead is a sign of great intelligence.

M
ARTÍ
:

It’s a sign of a receding hairline, in my case.

A
VELLANEDA
:

But really, one must often pardon

artists who portray the human form.

Look at me—a veritable sylph,

and they always give me huge tits.

M
ARTÍ
:
(looking more closely at Avellaneda’s bosom)

I had no idea that you wore falsies.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Falsies?! How dare you! What an indignity!

These breasts, I’ll have you know, belong to me.

Here—I’ll show you . . .

M
ARTÍ
:

Whoa . . .

Let’s not go overboard.

(It’s just a figure of speech!)

Anyway, as I was saying, when you reach the beach,

you’ll see a monstrous statue of me,

“The Apostle of Liberty,”

which is another reason I’m off to Cuba to do

battle—

I’ve got to live up to my title . . .

A
VELLANEDA
:

Wait, hold on—

just one last question:

What’s in that suitcase that you’re carrying?

M
ARTÍ
:

A flamethrower,

to win the war.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Have I missed something, or is that a contradiction?

I mean, it seems bizarre—

you know you’re going to sure perdition,

yet you plan to win the war.

M
ARTÍ
:

When a man dies for a cause,

when he dies for right and duty,

his death is victory,

even when his life is lost.

A
VELLANEDA
:

But you also thirst for glory.

M
ARTÍ
:

No, but I do have an ideal.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Oh, dear, oh, dear—

how can you leave a woman

who loves you?

I
love you.

And you have no one . . .

M
ARTÍ
:

I have my flamethrower.

Martí pulls out the flamethrower and brings it up to his waist. Avellaneda looks in rapture toward the long, heavy, thick piece of armament.

A
VELLANEDA
:
(stroking the barrel of the powerful weapon)

Ah, the flamethrower! Mighty weapon!

My pulse throbs, my breast heaves—oh, heaven!

Can I have a demonstration?

As Martí prepares to give a demonstration, Avellaneda can’t keep her hands off it.

It is so potent-looking, so long, so grand!

M
ARTÍ
:

It is a powerful new invention,

a most ingenious sort of weapon,

and the patent is held by an American.

A
VELLANEDA
:
(embracing Martí while she squeezes the end of the flamethrower)