32: The Minocastro in His Labyrinth

Havana has something about it like a pallet of half-rotten vegetables—its leaking sewage and gas pipes, its clotheslines dripping on the neighbors, its electrical wiring always about to short out, its totalitarian stink of an impatient patient about to terminate, exterminate. There’s a lot about Havana that’s like a bubble about to implode.

On this timeless bomb Fidel is still seated, a sociophagic monster that we keep like the last relic of the ancien régime. Cuba is like a post-Utopia crypt. Fidel is the eternal source of a stubborn Revolution. Some say our city won’t collapse, thanks to the secret resistance of those plastic and metal entanglements, that illegible labyrinth of pure Havanity. If one day Fidel dies (which hasn’t been scientifically demonstrated to be possible), then all the archeological layers of Havana might collide in the Big Bang of Big Brother. From stagnated Castroism with no transition to chaostrism. And our Island will finally be struck by the Apocubalypse.