The tyrant was unfazed by the attack, a lamentable occupational hazard. It might’ve meant something for someone to have killed him in his prime, but to knock him off when he was already at death’s door? What triumph could there be in that? Fernando was extremely agitated by the disruption. He never kept his cool in a crisis. The only time he ever felt in control was pointing a gun at the head of a bound and blindfolded man.
“Let’s walk up Fifth Avenue,” El Comandante suggested.
“That’s imp-p-possible,” his brother sputtered.
“It’s your job to make it possible.” He wanted to show these lily-livered leftists how a real leader behaved under fire.
On their procession uptown, someone procured a wheelchair for him, but the tyrant refused to occupy it, finding the strength to walk on his own. The brush with death had invigorated him, recharged him to life’s purpose. As they made their way past astonished shoppers, not everyone recognized El Comandante. Had he changed so drastically? Some idiot shouted that Qaddafi’s ghost had come back to haunt Manhattan. Another brayed in a nasally accent: “What, that bastard’s still alive?” To which the despot contested: “Yes, and there is no greater victory.”
El Comandante stopped on the northeast corner of Forty-Ninth Street and ordered a hot dog with the works. Onlookers cheered when he took a bite dripping with sauerkraut, relish, onions, mustard, and ketchup. New Yorkers loved anyone who loved their hot dogs. Never mind the gastric repercussions, he couldn’t buy this kind of publicity. The image of the oldest living dictator eating a hot dog went viral and ended up on the front page of the next day’s New York Post with the headline TYRANT WANTS THE WORKS!!!
Next he demanded to be taken to the planetarium. A prickly Fernando and El Conejo flanked him in the backseat of the limousine. These two detested each other from way back. Neither uttered a word, but El Comandante sensed their displeasure with his impromptu street diplomacy. “Sic semper tyrannis,” he joked in between coughing fits. At the planetarium, he watched with great interest a film on the life cycle of stars. The tyrant sympathized with the supernovas, which, upon expiring, took entire galaxies with them. He was distraught to learn that the sun would burn out in five billion years. He, too, felt the life ebbing from him, as if it were trickling from some unknown hole. Why struggle so hard to have it all end in eternal nothingness?
After the movie, El Comandante paid a visit to the dinosaur hall. By then a motley group of municipal officials was trailing him, chatting inanely about baseball and hurricanes, as if these were Cuba’s only exports. He examined the remains of an Apatosaurus and an impressive skeletal reproduction of a Tyrannosaurus rex. Behind the beast hovered that Vásquez fellow, a wispy crown of smoke over his head. The tyrant’s knees buckled as he reached for his pistol. Around them, everything froze.
“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!