King of Cuba (28 page)

“You’re not going to try that again, are you, Jefe?” Vásquez cleared his throat. “I’m disappointed. I thought we’d ended our last visit as friends.” He produced a bowl of guavas from behind his back, peeled ones that looked like wobbling, bloodshot eyes. “Have one,” Vásquez offered. “I brought them for you.”

El Comandante picked up a slippery fruit and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness coated his tongue, shot through his veins. He ate another one, then another. Bits of pink pulp trickled down his beard. As he slurped up the last one, a saluting Vásquez slipped through a porthole in the exhibit’s west wall and ascended into the tempestuous skies.

On 125th Street, thousands of people came out to welcome El Comandante. There were Mexican and Central American faces in the crowd along with blacks and a notable contingent of whites. He felt less a prodigal son than a prodigal grandfather to this younger generation of admirers. Former president Clinton waved to him from the top step of a brownstone, his face fat and ruddy as a Russian barmaid’s.
Make way, brothers, make way!
The crowd parted and the two leaders embraced like old friends.

Clinton tried out his twangy Spanish, to the amusement of the native speakers, and El Comandante dragged out his beggar’s English—“Good to see you, mister!”

“You old warrior, you!” Clinton thumped him on the back. If he was shocked by the tyrant’s deterioration, he didn’t show it.

El Líder fake-punched the ex-president’s gut, to the delight of
onlookers. Clinton wore jeans and a checkered shirt. With a straw hat, he could pass for a guajiro.

“Tell me, hombre, how do you stay in such good shape?” Clinton bellowed.

The tyrant was down to 146 pounds—the least he’d weighed since his high school basketball days.

“The embargo, mi amigo,” he answered slyly, patting his stomach. Clinton’s eyes turned to flint. Fuck him, El Comandante thought. He needed nothing more from this impostor.

He pushed eastward toward the Hotel Marisa. Fernando had arranged a fund-raiser in the hotel ballroom for longtime supporters. Why did his brother insist on such stultifying gatherings? More and more, his old comrades had died off, and the younger activists, stupid from TV and computer games, had no real clue about Cuba’s history. El Comandante looked around at the four hundred strangers, then peered down at his plate of fried chicken. At the head of the table, a bespectacled man was linking civil rights to the Revolution. “We are indebted to you, Comandante,” he said with genuine feeling, “for lighting the way during the darkest days of our struggle.”

El Líder waved back noncommittally. He felt ill at ease, exhausted. Another fit of coughing took hold. With some effort, he stood up and excused himself. Fernando caught up to him at the exit.

“I don’t give a damn!” the tyrant exploded before his brother could say a word. “Tell them whatever the hell you want. I’ve had enough.”

El Comandante went to his suite and lay down on the lumpy bed. Gas cramped his belly. He felt weak, wasted by insomnia and an excess of grease. The air conditioner pumped freezing gusts into his room. He hated air-conditioning, considered it a waste of
valuable energy, but he let it blast to help drain—symbolically, at least—the Yankees’ bottomless resources. In the alley below, a chorus of dogs howled. It was the last sound the tyrant heard before falling asleep.

Tyrant . . . son of a bitch . . . descarado . . . assassin . . . atheist . . . thief . . . Goyo spat out the list of insults as he methodically scoured himself with a brick of yellow deodorant soap. And seducer. Adelina’s seducer. He attacked one underarm then the other, his neck, the crack of his ass. After rinsing off, he dried himself with a monogrammed towel and reached for his bathrobe, also monogrammed. He wiped a circle of fog from the bathroom mirror and examined his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth to inspect his gums. Fans of wrinkles and delicate, purplish pouches padded his eyes. His cratered nose had been scraped of carcinomas more than once. He clipped the errant hairs from his nostrils, twirled cotton swabs in both ears, then snapped a mental picture of himself.

“Adiós, cabrón,” Goyo saluted himself. “La historia te llama.”

Víctor brought him a cortadito, perfectly made. He’d already pressed Goyo’s white linen suit, polished his shoes, and reshaped his Panama hat, as if he understood the significance of the day. He’d set out a pale blue shirt, also freshly ironed, a matching handkerchief, and a silk tie from his Miami haberdasher. What was civility, Goyo thought, if not endless ritual? He didn’t bother checking his blood sugar. What for? He reminded himself to call his children and his brother, Rufino; transfer gratitude money to his mistress Vilma’s account; leave a sizable check for the saintly Víctor, who’d
spent another sleepless night watching over him. And for Carla? What could he do to repay her?

The midmorning news was banal: a topless woman protesting who-knew-what at the Supreme Court, more politico peccadilloes followed by a rehash of yesterday’s assassination attempt against the tyrant.
What?

“Did you know about this?” Goyo demanded.

Víctor twisted the kitchen rag in his hands. “Sí, Jefe.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

The Andean hung his head.

“Speak up!” Goyo lost his temper.

“You n-needed to sleep,” Víctor stammered.

“I’ll be sleeping for eternity!” Goyo pushed himself to standing but fell back, crab-like, onto the sofa. “Help me up, goddamnit!”

Víctor ran to right his boss, who was trembling violently.

“What time is it?” Goyo barked.

Víctor pointed to the clock on the far wall. It was nearly ten in the morning. Goyo rushed to his desk and turned on the computer: fifty-two messages, including several all-points bulletins from Hijodeputa.com. So it was true then. Somebody had tried to kill El Comandante again, and failed. Now every exile group on the planet would be taking credit for the dubious heroics. Carajo. After nearly sixty years, it was time to get it right. Goyo envisioned the act precisely. It must be executed in a clean, controlled manner. If all went well, it would be over in six seconds. Six seconds, and the world would finally know his name.

Nobody talks to me anymore. From one day to the next, I’ve become persona non grata. I look back over what I’ve written. Nothing egregious. My fair share of praise for the Revolution and whatnot. I’m not one to go around throwing rocks at glass houses. I come to every writers’ union reception dressed in my one good jacket. Yet everyone finds an excuse to leave me con la palabra en la boca. At least there’s plenty of rum. That’s how they keep us in line here, try to force the illusion that we’re free men, not the kowtowing scum we’ve become. ¡Salud!

—Francisco Sotomayor, poet

The chapel around the corner from the United Nations was open twenty-four hours a day to accommodate the faithful from every time zone. The interior was modern with abstract stained-glass windows and Stations of the Cross that merely hinted at the blood and suffering. The signs were in English, Russian, French, and Chinese, the languages of the five veto-wielding members of the Security Council. Goyo searched for a confessional and ducked inside. A handwritten note was tacked under a buzzer:
PRESS HERE TO SUMMON PRIEST
. His legs felt shaky, out of fear or tiredness he wasn’t sure.

The loud clap of the wooden slat announced the arrival of the priest. “What brings you seeking the Lord this morning, my son?”

Goyo’s eyes watered at the phrase “my son.” It’d been so long since his own father had called him mijo. He remembered their last
afternoon together in Papá’s sparse apartment in Brooklyn Heights. He’d served Goyo a fried hamburger and sliced tomatoes with olive oil. Papá was in his late sixties then, but he’d looked much older. The Revolution had aged him, had taken his youngest son, driven him to penury and despair. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve had a good life, mijo,” Papá said as he sent Goyo on his way. A few days later, he shot himself in the head.

Goyo got right to the point. “Can murder ever be sanctioned, Father?”

“There are exceptions to everything,” the priest said. His voice clacked like river stones. “Are you a believer?”

Goyo hesitated. “Most days, I guess.”

“And on the days you’re not?”

“I think of all the evil that goes unpunished.”

“It is for God to decide who are the sinners—”

“Then why do we have courts?”

“Such judgments are preliminary. The last and final judge is Our Lord.” The priest seemed to weigh each word as he spoke. “No Christian ought to die in any other state than that of a penitent.”

“What else can you offer me, Father?” Goyo struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice. His entire history felt diminished, wilted. He wanted to die the way he should’ve lived, like a blow to the head.

“Hope.”

“And to the hopeless? And to hopeless situations?” Goyo’s voice rose. He reached for a caramel in his pocket and noisily unwrapped it.

“More hope,” the priest said with finality.

“In my homeland children don’t have milk, Father. How can you say to one child, You will grow, and to another, You will not?”

“You must rely on the Lord, on the power of prayer.”

Goyo grasped the ledge of the confessional booth and pushed
himself to standing, tonguing the caramel to one cheek. A back molar felt loose and he feared uprooting it. He’d hoped to take Communion, but he didn’t want to risk sacrilege on top of murder.

“Go in peace, my son.”

The United Nations loomed on the banks of the East River, its flags snapping in the wind. It was supposed to be a bulwark against rogues and anarchists. Why, then, did it permit criminals to give speeches? Goyo remembered something his history teacher used to say, quoting Shakespeare: “No king, be his cause never so spotless . . . can try it out with all unspotted soldiers.”

The Russian guard was expecting Goyo at the visitors’ entrance, smacking his thick lips. The smoked salmon and caviar delivered to him yesterday afternoon had had the desired effect. “Good to see you again, Comrade Herrera!” Yuri thundered, enveloping him in a fishy embrace. Goyo was relieved that Yuri, as usual, didn’t ask him to empty his pockets or walk through the metal detector. No matter that the Glock was safely locked inside Carla’s desk. Magnanimously, the Russian ushered him past the security station without a second glance. Goyo stopped by Carla’s office but, as prearranged, she wasn’t in. It was just as well. He feared that one look at her might make him abandon his plans. But he’d come too far to forget the past. The gold key to the bottom drawer of her desk was in his pocket. Goyo’s knees creaked as he bent to unlock the drawer and remove the pistol.

El Comandante was dressed in full military uniform for his speech. The damn thing weighed a ton, but he was aware that this might be his very last public appearance. Why not look his best? If he could make just one woman swoon—he’d try for that new delegate from Swaziland—and a convocation of diplomats rise to their feet in adulation, he would consider it a day well spent. Fernando strode alongside him, whispering furiously. The tyrant paid him no mind. His speech was in his jacket pocket, but he
wasn’t inclined to play by the rules today. He was feeling good, energetic. Perhaps he would replicate his first visit to the General Assembly and shoot off another two-hour harangue. Everyone—delegates, newsmen, pundits, los gusanos themselves—would have to acknowledge that nothing at all had changed; El Comandante was still the same handsome, fiery devil the world had fallen in love with nearly six decades ago.