The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (55 page)

“There’s just no way to rehabilitate you faggots, is there? How many times have we confiscated this counterrevolutionary novel of yours, and you persist in writing it again! Don’t you know this could get you ten years more prison time, or even cost you your life? All I’d have to do is send this manuscript to Fifo and in two seconds he’d have some common prisoner strangle you—and make it look like one prisoner with a grudge against another. Don’t ever forget that you are in our hands, Reinaldo. We can do away with you right now, or we can set you free tomorrow. It all depends on you. It all depends on how you conduct yourself. And if you persist in this obsession of yours to write these novels, you won’t last very long, I can assure you. I’ll give you five minutes to reconsider.”

But the fairy could hardly reconsider her entire life in five minutes. How could she, with this gorgeous lieutenant pacing back and forth in front of her squeezing his basket, which seemed to have an eel in it that needed some extra space? Obviously the uniform was a little tight in the crotch for the lieutenant, who, being from State Security, was more accustomed to wearing civilian clothes.

“Well, what do you have to say?” the lieutenant, still adjusting his sausage casing, suddenly demanded of Skunk in a Funk.

“I think you’re fabulous,” said the fairy, staring at the lieutenant’s bulging bulge.

“What?” asked the lieutenant in surprise, though still hanging on to his billy club.

“I said I think it’s really fabulous that the Revolution has sent a person as kindhearted and generous as you to speak to me and that you’ve given me time to think, and even given me the opportunity—I hope—to rectify my actions and offer a retractation of all my crimes and misdemeanors. Please—give me some paper and a pencil.”

The lieutenant, releasing his instrument of torture at last, held out a sheaf of paper and a pen.

Skunk in a Funk immediately and at remarkable speed composed a lo-o-ong retractation in which she accused herself of treason, counterrevolutionary thoughts and deeds, perversion, and uncleanness and praised the nobility, magnanimity, and greatness of the lieutenant who was in charge of her case—and with respect to the lieutenant’s greatness, Reinaldo was not exaggerating, at least in the physical department; then she went into minute detail over the goodness and genius of Fifo. “Everything I have written before this day,” the retractation closed, “is garbage, and should be consigned to the garbage heap. From this day forward I shall be a man, and I shall become a worthy child of this marvelous Revolution.”

“Very nice,” said the lieutenant, nodding, as he read the confession. “Here’s your manuscript.” And standing, he held out the manuscript to Skunk in a Funk.

“Could you lend me a match?” asked Reinaldo softly.

“You can’t smoke in here,” answered the delectable lieutenant, once more squeezing his magic wand and divining balls.

“I don’t smoke,” said the fairy.

The lieutenant handed Gabriel a box of Chispa matches.

Reinaldo struck one and set fire to the manuscript.

“That’s the way a man does it!” the lieutenant beamed, and embraced Skunk in a Funk, who, feeling the young officer’s stiffie against his crotch, almost fainted dead away. “Now,” continued the officer, stepping away (the fairy shuddered with pleasure), “you can go back to your gallery, and you don’t need to worry anymore. I promise that nothing will happen to you.”

The lieutenant held out his hand to Skunk in a Funk, who squeezed it tight and kissed it (here the lieutenant gave a little shudder of repugnance), and then hurried off to his gallery. As soon as he could, he traded all the cigarettes he had left for blank paper, and once more began the story of his novel.

This is the story of an island that once had the most beautiful beaches in the world, the most fertile land in the world, the most enchanting capital in the world. This is the story of an island that once had one of the world’s most remarkable ballerinas, one of the world’s most distinguished poets, and unquestionably the world’s best music. This is the story of an island that was once called the loveliest place on earth by a sailor who washed up desperate on its shore, thereby saving himself from a crew that had been threatening to cut off his head for signing them on to a voyage that was, to all appearances, unending.

But little by little, all the inhabitants of this island decided, individually, that they alone should enjoy these beauties. They all began scheming to possess the entire island for themselves, to take over the best land for themselves, to live in the most luxurious house even if everyone else had to live on the street. In their colossal egotism, the prima ballerina refused to allow anyone else to become a prima ballerina, the great poet silenced all the other good poets, and the musicians wouldn’t let anybody sing or dance to any music that they themselves didn’t make. And as if all that were not enough, they all used every trick they had up their respective sleeves to corner for themselves or their families or their close friends all the public buildings in the city and all the most important positions. The city became a sea of inaccessible towers and walled mansions. Among the most prominent citizens—who all had remarkable criminal minds—so fierce was the struggle to take over the island that soon from among their ranks there emerged a sort of supercriminal, the offspring of generations of criminals, and with his own band of criminals he shut out (or wiped out) the other criminals, so that after a while he was able to proclaim himself the
only
criminal. He quickly moved to take over all the beaches, all the land, and all the cities, and he forced the great ballerina, the great poet, the great singers and orchestras to dance, play, and sing only for him.

Me!—
I’m
no kin to Guillén, that hyena whose tendencies to malfeasance and heinous treason are so fiendish, so deep-seated that I feel they’re in the genes. Oh, Guillén, a queen who would be king, unlike others, for instance Arenas, is seen as a winner and his treason and malfeasance have remained secret, but if I were he—or is it him?—I’d seek quarantine in China or even Indonesia, somewhere Asian, because if Fifo gets wind of his evil machinations, there’ll be revenge—Guillén will wind up in a hyena roundup and be eased under the guillotine.

For Nicolás Guillotina

In the immense Hall of Retractations, all was in readiness. The guests had once again taken their seats. Fifo was still wearing his impressive dress uniform spangled with stars, with a fatigue cap on his head and an Übercap on top of that one, and on top of the supercap the olive branch so long that it reached almost to the floor. He also still had on the long red cape and knee boots. H. Puntilla was onstage. Nicolás Guillotina took out his papers again and began to read what might be taken to be an introduction of the alleged traitor.

“Dear friends,” began the famous poet and rumba dancer, “we are gathered together here today . . .”

But he got no further because just then, at a signal from the master of ceremonies, the diligent midgets produced enormous trumpets and played a fanfare and Paula Amanda stepped forward to announce that the president of the Spanish Senate wished to bestow upon Fifo the highest distinction awarded by the Spanish government. The president of the Spanish Senate advanced across the stage with the careful movements and pained expression of a man who for many years has been suffering the most terrible hemorrhoids. And he came to the imposing figure of Fifo and awarded him the medal. But so nervous was the poor devil that as he bestowed the medal he stuck Fifo with the pin. “Fascist asshole jackanapes” were the words of thanks that Fifo spoke to the hemorrhoid sufferer.

The diligent midgets blew their trumpets again and Paula Amanda announced that Avellaneda would now come up on the stage to read a sonnet to Fifo.

Avellaneda’s immense figure, dressed head to toe in black, slowly began to climb the steps to the stage; she was followed by her literary agent, Miss Karment Valcete. So slowly did these ladies ascend the steps that while we wait for them to take their places we can break away for a couple of minutes to comment on the state of euphoria that Fifo was now in. And for good reason, we might add, because everything about this celebration was going swimmingly, not only with respect to the arts and letters but also financially and politically. The Prime Minister of Canada had signed a pledge to Fifo for a loan of more than a hundred million dollars. An even bigger loan had been promised by the Viceroy of Santo Domingo, and the President of Venezuela had given a speech in which he maintained that every country in the world should annex Fifo’s republic. “We might as well,” concluded this little tropical Machiavelli, “since soon the world will be but a single monolithic state—Fifoland. And I believe that it is better to sign a peace accord with ink than with our own blood. . . .” When the president of Venezuela finished his speech, Fifo presented him with a package containing a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Unbeknownst to the president, however, the package also contained an almost invisible but extremely powerful time bomb set to explode as the president’s plane was flying over the Gulf of Mexico, because Fifo’s secret informants (among them, the unspeakable E. Manetta) had informed him that the president had also received a check from the United States. . . . But that’s all the time we have now, since Avellaneda is just stepping up on the stage with her literary agent. Let’s go back to the auditorium and see what happens next. . . .

When those two enormous women mounted the stage where Fifo was awaiting them, many people in the audience feared they would trigger an earthquake. If we include the two women and Fifo, there were more than four thousand pounds of flesh on the stage, and if to that we add the considerable bulk of Nicolás Guillotina and H. Puntilla, who were also on stage, one can see that the fears of the audience were not altogether unfounded. But unaware of the ripples of anxiety she was causing, Avellaneda advanced toward the center of the proscenium and announced that she would read a sonnet dedicated to a man of truly
heroic
proportions. Fifo of course thought the sonnet was dedicated to him, and he bowed his head in grateful appreciation. But when Avellaneda, who was wearing a laurel crown that Raúl Kastro had lent her for a few minutes, began to read her sonnet, it turned out to be about George Washington—the very antithesis of Fifo! I mean, Washington was an honest-to-goodness hero! When she came to the end of the sonnet, Fifo, to all appearances unfazed, presented Avellaneda with a red rose and gave her and her literary agent a kiss on the cheek. The midgets played their cornets or clarinets or whatever the hell they were, and Paula Amanda, in yet another long formal gown (this one with a lovely bell-shaped skirt), announced that
now
H. Puntilla would begin his long-awaited second retractation. Avellaneda and Karment Valcete returned to their seats beside H. Puntilla’s wife, Miss Baká Kozá Malá, who was holding a machine gun in her lap. Fifo retired to his presidential box, and the spectacle commenced.

Nicolás Guillotina directed a look of disgust at H. Puntilla (who murmured “Thank you, professor”) and began to read from his sheaf of papers. It was a
totally
boring speech, full of praise for Fifo, but in the last paragraph all ears pricked up, because Guillotina said that Fifo was aware of everything that was to take place there tonight. Since H. Puntilla’s confession was supposed to be “spontaneous,” those words had to be taken as a snide poke at the entire event. And that was, in fact, how Fifo took them; he ordered his most loyal midgets to cut off both of Nicolás Guillotina’s legs (“Guillotine him! Guillotine him!” were the exact words he used) and leave him to die of double galloping gangrene. The great bulldog finished his speech without looking at H. Puntilla (who once again said, “Thank you, professor”) and left the stage to go sit beside Avellaneda. Then Baká Kozá Malá, brandishing her machine gun, called out to her husband—“Talk!”—and H. Puntilla began his “spontaneous” retractation. This statement followed the guidelines set forth in a document entitled “First-Degree Retractation,” a model which had with great foresight been drafted more than thirty years earlier by E. Manetta and Edith García Bachaca; it was long, typically bureaucratic statement in which the retractor was to confess to having committed all possible crimes of
lèse-patria
and treason against Fifo and plead that as an act of contrition he or she be executed by firing squad. The document ended with a cry of “¡Patria o muerte! ¡Venceremos!”

But to that Manichean/Manettian document, H. Puntilla added certain touches of his own. For instance, while he was denouncing himself as a traitor and counterrevolutionary he also denounced most of his friends, among them Paula Amanda and César Lapa (the fiery queen of the mulattoes) and even his own wife, who, hearing her name, quickly whipped out the machine gun and fired off a wild barrage that hit a gigantic statue of Karl Marx that stood to the right of the stage and blew it to smithereens. Thinking (as who wouldn’t?) that he was actually being executed by the firing squad from which this time not even a retractation would save him, H. Puntilla began to scream uncontrollably and, as proof of his loyalty to the regime, recite the three poems to Spring that he had composed (or so he said) while he was confined in the cells at State Security. At that, Baká Kosá Malá fired off another barrage that brought down the monumental statue of Lenin that stood stage left. H. Puntilla gave a bloodcurdling shriek and screamed “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! I’m sorry, I’m really, really, sorry for all my crimes. I love and revere Fifo—desperately! And if the Comandante of the Dawn of Revolution will come up on the stage, I’ll get down on my knees and beg his forgiveness. Please, Comandante, come up here with me!”
¹

Still wearing his long red cape, Fifo bounded up onto the stage with his three famous bounds. H. Puntilla shuffled over to him on his knees, bowed low, and begged the Maximum Leader to spit on him and kick him—which the Maximum Leader, one hand grasping the cape and the other steadying the monumental Übercap, immediately did. The hall exploded with deafening applause. Then H. Puntilla asked the Leader to urinate on him, and instantly a stream of urine so powerful that it seemed to issue from a fire hose bathed the genuflecting body. And again the hall erupted, but this time the applause was even more deafening than before. H. Puntilla then lowered his pants and begged Fifo to give his naked buttocks a kick, and immediately Fifo violently kicked the poet’s ass, inspiring a round of applause so thunderous that it threatened to bring the roof down. But H. Puntilla was still weeping, and now he was pleading with Fifo to please, please, ram his foot, boot and all, up his ass—and getting down on all-fours, H. Puntilla presented his black and apparently bottomless asshole. The Maximum Leader seemed to like that idea. He walked over to the far side of the stage and (aided by the diligent midgets) removed all his clothes, leaving on only his boots, the long red cape, and the magnificent hood with its olive branch. Then, rocking back and forth for a good start, he leaped—all the way from one side of the stage to the other—and planted one of his booted feet square up H. Puntilla’s ass. Puntilla gave a piercing scream of pleasure, louder even than the renewed applause that rocked the hall. “What a
fabulous
evening,” purred Sr. Torquesada.

The problem came when Fifo tried to pull his boot out of the poet’s ass. He couldn’t seem to free it from that sphincter that was squeezing the boot like the suckers on an octopus’s tentacle or the pincer of a giant crab. More than sixty-nine midgets clambered up onto the stage and started pulling on H. Puntilla, but they couldn’t extricate the Leader’s foot. Finally, one of the midgets (the supervisor midget, apparently) untied the boot, which left the boot in the backside quicksand and Fifo with a bootless foot, but free. And the boot
remained
inside H. Puntilla’s bowels. Folding his long red cape around him, Fifo descended from the stage to wild applause. The smell of shit that came from his foot was dreadful, but the diligent midgets immediately set about licking it clean. (In this they were aided by Mario Bendetta, Eduardo Alano, Juana Bosch, and the Marquesa de Macondo.)

Now H. Puntilla was standing in the very center of the stage. He stripped off all his clothes and with great pride showed the audience his bulging belly with the outline of the Commander in Chief’s size-thirteen boot. I’ll tell you, my dear, the man’s face had never displayed such an expression of joy—at last he had been impregnated by the Maximum Leader’s hated yet infinitely beloved boot. But H. Puntilla was always an
extremely
ambitious man, as you know, so once again he begged the Maximum Leader to come up on stage, and this time bury his
second
boot in his ass. That way he would bear within his womb the impress of the greatest man of this century—those were the very words he spoke, and he was instantly echoed by Bosch, still licking the Leader’s shit-covered foot. The Comandante, beet-red with rage at the stench of shit, rose from his seat and reached the stage in only two large bounds—and that was with one foot missing a shoe! “Now I’m
really
going to screw this faggot,” he murmured to himself as, rocking back and forth to get up a good head of steam, he flew through the air—cape flying, body naked, booted foot extended—and landed, his boot sinking not just up to the knee but all the way up to the thigh. H. Puntilla gave an indescribable shriek. The audience gave a standing ovation. But this time it was
really
hard for the Commander in Chief to extricate himself from that anal bog. Even though H. Puntilla could hardly breathe, his sphincter maintained a death grip on that foot. The diligent midgets tugged desperately on the poet, but all their efforts were in vain. Finally they called on Avellaneda and Karment Valcete to lend a hand. The two women lumbered up onto the stage again, and Avellaneda took H. Puntilla, Valcete took Fifo, and they each began to pull. H. Puntilla was still howling in pleasure, Fifo was muttering curses, and the audience was going wild. The two gigantic sweaty women huffed and puffed and tugged and pulled, but they could not separate the two bodies. They were almost ready to give up when a sound without parallel in the history of terraqueous sounds (and there have been plenty of them) split the rear curtains in the theater and shattered windowpanes and chandeliers. The sound was louder than fifteen torpedoed submarines, the detonation of a gigantic mine in the Bartlett Trench, the suicidal self-detonation of a whale in the Antarctic Ocean, and an atomic explosion in the Japan Sea, all at once. And it seemed to be coming from the Aquarium Theater!

In a single tremendous tug, Fifo pulled his half-body from the poet’s ass (causing the poet to swoon into the arms of Avellaneda) and, followed by a crowd of guests and the ubiquitous diligent midgets, ran to the aquarium. There, he was halted in his tracks at a spectacle like none any human had ever seen before. Behind the plate-glass wall of the aquarium, and before an audience stretched out in the comfort of their seats, Bloodthirsty Shark and Miss Mayoya were writhing in the throes of passionate, violent copulation.