Read Online King of Cuba by Cristina Garcia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cristina Garcia
Tags: General Fiction
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forever.
The tyrant felt faint, though his heart beat wildly. Delia held a vial under his nose that smelled of Fernando’s prison disinfectant. His brother had stayed behind in Havana, tending to emergencies: another hunger striker had tried to hang himself in La Cabaña; Fernando’s daughter had imprudently called a dissident blogger “a sex-starved lesbian whore” on national television and was now combating a firestorm of international criticism; and, worst of all, one of the Damas de Blanco 1 had set herself on fire in the Plazade Armas with rationed gasoline, like that monk in Vietnam years ago. Were the times really so desperate?
Drowsiness enveloped the tyrant. He didn’t want to nap, but his body overruled him. With Delia’s help, he settled himself in an overstuffed chair by Babo’s bedside, sank his head to his chest, and, like his friend, fell asleep. The two snoozed together, leaving their wives to freely ignore each other. An hour later the men awoke with a start, almost simultaneously. The evening sky was hazy, reflecting the lights and smog of the city. Babo and El Comandante were pleased to find themselves still in each other’s company.
“The moon dies with the night on its back.” Babo’s face creased with emotion. “I thought I had dreamt your visit.”
“I’m no dream,” the tyrant said, pressing his tongue against his palate. “Nor am I ready to repent or regret!”
Babo laughed a weak facsimile of his laugh. His mind was shorn of most wordplay, but his emotions remained fierce. “To the only son of a bitch who ever came close,” he said, quoting himself.
“To the monarch of the word,” El Comandante retorted, holding up an imaginary champagne glass.
In the spreading darkness the old friends surrendered to the ordinary happiness of being together, oblivious to the sounds beyond the study: the ringing telephone, a faraway television, the ticking of the grandfather clock, the few drops of rain moistening Babo’s windowsill at last.
It was past twilight when El Comandante left Babo’s side. What he least expected accosted him on the sidewalk: an ex-lover in red dreadlocks with a teenager—presumably their love child—in tow. Television cameras surrounded them. Supporters shook signs scrawled with accusations: EL COMANDANTE IS A DEADBEAT! PAY UP, PAPI ! A cocktail waitress at the Meridian Hotel in the capital, Angela Reyes had flirted with him at a conference of Formerly Non-Aligned Nations (FNAN). It’d ended predictably—in hishotel room as his bodyguards waited outside. He might not have remembered her at all if it weren’t for the threats Angela began sending him once she learned of her pregnancy. Next to her slouched a skinny, pimply teenager with multiple tattoos and piercings. There was no way in hell this punk could be his son.
The reporters stampeded toward El Comandante, but he and Delia ducked into the waiting limousine. Outside the tinted windows the crowd chanted: DO THE RIGHT THING! DO THE RIGHT THING! Delia had endured such sordid displays before but never said a word. This was one of the reasons the tyrant loved her, or at least felt sporadic surges of gratitude for her tolerance and discretion. The ride to the airport was miserable, slowed by the fierce rain. Entire neighborhoods of Mexico City were converted to mud and plunged into darkness by a sudden blackout. During the Special Period in Cuba, apagones had been a way of life. On street corners children with wild, squinting eyes peddled Chiclets alongside drenched newspaper vendors and peasant women hawking homemade tamales in plastic baskets.
El Comandante reached across the backseat for Delia’s hand. It was cold and inert, and this enraged him. Over the years, the tyrant had refused all paternity tests. Cojones, he would decide which children were his. Hadn’t he done right by Delia and married her, legitimized their sons? It’d taken twenty years because he’d waited until Ceci Sánchez, his
The tyrant felt faint, though his heart beat wildly. Delia held a vial under his nose that smelled of Fernando’s prison disinfectant. His brother had stayed behind in Havana, tending to emergencies: another hunger striker had tried to hang himself in La Cabaña; Fernando’s daughter had imprudently called a dissident blogger “a sex-starved lesbian whore” on national television and was now combating a firestorm of international criticism; and, worst of all, one of the Damas de Blanco 1 had set herself on fire in the Plazade Armas with rationed gasoline, like that monk in Vietnam years ago. Were the times really so desperate?
Drowsiness enveloped the tyrant. He didn’t want to nap, but his body overruled him. With Delia’s help, he settled himself in an overstuffed chair by Babo’s bedside, sank his head to his chest, and, like his friend, fell asleep. The two snoozed together, leaving their wives to freely ignore each other. An hour later the men awoke with a start, almost simultaneously. The evening sky was hazy, reflecting the lights and smog of the city. Babo and El Comandante were pleased to find themselves still in each other’s company.
“The moon dies with the night on its back.” Babo’s face creased with emotion. “I thought I had dreamt your visit.”
“I’m no dream,” the tyrant said, pressing his tongue against his palate. “Nor am I ready to repent or regret!”
Babo laughed a weak facsimile of his laugh. His mind was shorn of most wordplay, but his emotions remained fierce. “To the only son of a bitch who ever came close,” he said, quoting himself.
“To the monarch of the word,” El Comandante retorted, holding up an imaginary champagne glass.
In the spreading darkness the old friends surrendered to the ordinary happiness of being together, oblivious to the sounds beyond the study: the ringing telephone, a faraway television, the ticking of the grandfather clock, the few drops of rain moistening Babo’s windowsill at last.
It was past twilight when El Comandante left Babo’s side. What he least expected accosted him on the sidewalk: an ex-lover in red dreadlocks with a teenager—presumably their love child—in tow. Television cameras surrounded them. Supporters shook signs scrawled with accusations: EL COMANDANTE IS A DEADBEAT! PAY UP, PAPI ! A cocktail waitress at the Meridian Hotel in the capital, Angela Reyes had flirted with him at a conference of Formerly Non-Aligned Nations (FNAN). It’d ended predictably—in hishotel room as his bodyguards waited outside. He might not have remembered her at all if it weren’t for the threats Angela began sending him once she learned of her pregnancy. Next to her slouched a skinny, pimply teenager with multiple tattoos and piercings. There was no way in hell this punk could be his son.
The reporters stampeded toward El Comandante, but he and Delia ducked into the waiting limousine. Outside the tinted windows the crowd chanted: DO THE RIGHT THING! DO THE RIGHT THING! Delia had endured such sordid displays before but never said a word. This was one of the reasons the tyrant loved her, or at least felt sporadic surges of gratitude for her tolerance and discretion. The ride to the airport was miserable, slowed by the fierce rain. Entire neighborhoods of Mexico City were converted to mud and plunged into darkness by a sudden blackout. During the Special Period in Cuba, apagones had been a way of life. On street corners children with wild, squinting eyes peddled Chiclets alongside drenched newspaper vendors and peasant women hawking homemade tamales in plastic baskets.
El Comandante reached across the backseat for Delia’s hand. It was cold and inert, and this enraged him. Over the years, the tyrant had refused all paternity tests. Cojones, he would decide which children were his. Hadn’t he done right by Delia and married her, legitimized their sons? It’d taken twenty years because he’d waited until Ceci Sánchez, his
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