whore for the Yanquis.
The capitalists bled Cuba until there was no blood left—they would keep exploiting people the world over until there were no more people. Or no more capitalists. Until then, the capitalists would have all the money. He should have realized that fundamental truth.
He had grown up hating the United States, hating Yanquis who drank and gambled and whored the nights away in Havana. He hated their diplomats, their base at Guantánamo Bay, their smugness, their money … he despised them and all their works, which was unfortunate, because America was a fact of life, like shit. A man could not escape it because it smelled bad.
God had never given him the opportunity to destroy the Yanquis, because if He had …
Fidel Castro was intensely, totally Cuban. He personified the resentment the Cuban people felt because they had spent their lives begging for the scraps that fell from the rich men’s table. Resentment was a vile emotion, like hatred and envy.
Well, he was dying. Weeks, they said. A few weeks, more or less. The cancer was eating him alive.
The painkillers were doing their job—at least he could sit up, think rationally, smoke the forbidden cigars, plan for Cuba’s future.
Cuba had a future, even if he didn’t.
Of course, the United States would play a prominent role in that future. With the great devil Fidel dead, all things were possible. The economic embargo would probably perish with him, a new presidente could bring … what?
He thought about that question as he puffed gingerly on the cigar, letting the smoke trickle out between his lips.
For years Americans had paraded through the government
offices in Havana talking about what might be after the economic embargo was lifted by their government Always they had an angle, wanted a special dispensation from the Cuban government … and were willing to pay for it, of course. Pay handsomely. Now. Paper promises … He had enjoyed taking their money.
He had made no plans for a successor, had anointed no one. Some people thought his brother, Raúl, might take over after him, but Raúl was impotente , a lightweight.
He would have to have his say now, while he was very much alive.
But what should the future of Cuba be?
The pain in his bowels doubled him up. He curled up in the bed, groaning, holding tightly to the cigar.
After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.
Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace with the United States. They were going to have to be selective about America’s gifts, rejecting the bad while learning to profit from the good things, the gifts America had to give to the world.
That had been his worst failing—he himself had never learned how to safely handle the American elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people. Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long, narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the island might as well set sail for Miami.
Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.
Next time. Next time he would retire young, let the Cubans make it on their own.
Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices he made early in the game were irreversible. He and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the consequences. Life is like that, he reflected. Everyone must make his choices,
wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them; there is no going back.
There is always the possibility of redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past. We have only the present. Only this moment.
When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his fingers.
He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the nurse. If he did, she would give him an injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle
The capitalists bled Cuba until there was no blood left—they would keep exploiting people the world over until there were no more people. Or no more capitalists. Until then, the capitalists would have all the money. He should have realized that fundamental truth.
He had grown up hating the United States, hating Yanquis who drank and gambled and whored the nights away in Havana. He hated their diplomats, their base at Guantánamo Bay, their smugness, their money … he despised them and all their works, which was unfortunate, because America was a fact of life, like shit. A man could not escape it because it smelled bad.
God had never given him the opportunity to destroy the Yanquis, because if He had …
Fidel Castro was intensely, totally Cuban. He personified the resentment the Cuban people felt because they had spent their lives begging for the scraps that fell from the rich men’s table. Resentment was a vile emotion, like hatred and envy.
Well, he was dying. Weeks, they said. A few weeks, more or less. The cancer was eating him alive.
The painkillers were doing their job—at least he could sit up, think rationally, smoke the forbidden cigars, plan for Cuba’s future.
Cuba had a future, even if he didn’t.
Of course, the United States would play a prominent role in that future. With the great devil Fidel dead, all things were possible. The economic embargo would probably perish with him, a new presidente could bring … what?
He thought about that question as he puffed gingerly on the cigar, letting the smoke trickle out between his lips.
For years Americans had paraded through the government
offices in Havana talking about what might be after the economic embargo was lifted by their government Always they had an angle, wanted a special dispensation from the Cuban government … and were willing to pay for it, of course. Pay handsomely. Now. Paper promises … He had enjoyed taking their money.
He had made no plans for a successor, had anointed no one. Some people thought his brother, Raúl, might take over after him, but Raúl was impotente , a lightweight.
He would have to have his say now, while he was very much alive.
But what should the future of Cuba be?
The pain in his bowels doubled him up. He curled up in the bed, groaning, holding tightly to the cigar.
After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.
Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace with the United States. They were going to have to be selective about America’s gifts, rejecting the bad while learning to profit from the good things, the gifts America had to give to the world.
That had been his worst failing—he himself had never learned how to safely handle the American elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people. Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long, narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the island might as well set sail for Miami.
Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.
Next time. Next time he would retire young, let the Cubans make it on their own.
Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices he made early in the game were irreversible. He and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the consequences. Life is like that, he reflected. Everyone must make his choices,
wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them; there is no going back.
There is always the possibility of redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past. We have only the present. Only this moment.
When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his fingers.
He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the nurse. If he did, she would give him an injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle
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