The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (15 page)

I beg you, tell me what your name is

so I may discover whose the blame is

for my eminent—I mean imminent—demise.

M
ARTÍ
:

My name is José Martí.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Oh, so you’re José Martí.

I have read your poetry,

and I confess

I am impressed.

But I cannot pardon you

for preferring Zambrana

to me.

M
ARTÍ
:

You and I are two ships passing in the night;

I will not tarry for some trivial, purely literary fight.

You embarked to flee—or search for—power,

while I am on a journey to a star.

A
VELLANEDA
:

A star? Some tacky star? Who is she?

What’s her name, Martí?

I confess to pangs of jealousy.

M
ARTÍ
:

Her name, Avellaneda, is liberty—

Miss
Liberty.

And she’s no woman, she is destiny

and every honorable person’s duty.

A
VELLANEDA
:

But you would abandon a land of liberty

to go in search of abstract Liberty?

I think your arguments are thin.

I’m not convinced; I say
cherchez la femme.

M
ARTÍ
:

You certainly know how to exasperate a man . . .

Look, I’m leaving because I don’t feel right here,

because I hate how people live their lives here.

Money is all anybody cares about,

and that is not what I think life’s about.

Here, all’s filthy lucre, mercantilism.

I long for something higher—idealism.

I want things that money cannot buy.

I’m leaving because I miss the Island’s sun and sky;

I want to lie under a guásima tree,

let the boughs of a jubabán rock me—

I want to be, or at least try to be,

what I truly
am
—a Cuban,

a man of the Caribbean.

Look—up here for months you almost freeze to death

and
I’m dying of loneliness, dying of homesickness.

I want to fight for that thing that is
mine.

For me, no more the exile’s bitter bread,

no more sleepless nights in exile’s bed.

I do not know if you can understand me.

Only the flowers of one’s native land smell sweet.

Here, joys do not bloom, they do not flower,

people’s eyes don’t simply look, they wound me,

the sun possesses no healing power—

it burns, it stings, it glowers.

A
VELLANEDA
:

About the U.S.A. you are such a skeptic,

while I’m an incurable romantic.

M
ARTÍ
:

Tula, my dear, you’re living in the past—

and when I say past I do mean
past.

Here, it’s a terrible existence

ruled by the laws of planned obsolescence.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Does that apply to poetry, too, by chance?

No more Zambrana, no Lezama Lima,

No more villanelles, no terza rima?

I have a sonnet I wrote for Washington—

now, I guess, a sonnet’s out of fashion.

M
ARTÍ
:

I read it—and it is one

of my favorite poems of yours.

It may be a bit overdone

but you’re right to take it on tour.

A
VELLANEDA
:

I’m glad you at least half approve—

It’s just a silly old thing

I’ve had for such a long time.

But I read it to a friend,

and she loved the rhyme.

M
ARTÍ
:

You’re the best at rhyme of all of us.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Oh, you’re too kind, you make me blush!

Of course there also has to be meaning—

I’ll read it to you again, so you’ll see what I mean.

M
ARTÍ
:

No, I don’t have time, I’m late to a party meeting!

I have a small band of the faithful that I lead.

A
VELLANEDA
:

Oh, but politics aside one moment, stay

and listen to the lay

I wrote for Washington.

Tonight, I beg, your trip delay;

you and I’ll have so much fun—

here, rest upon my breast till break of day.

(Martí remains unmoved)

Do my pleas and tears no longer persuade?

Have you no pity on this poor maid?

M
ARTÍ
:

Pity? Who dares speak of pity?!
.

My
life’s the one that’s shitty!

And it always has been . . .

A
VELLANEDA
:

Each one of us our burden’s giv’n . . .

M
ARTÍ
:

Oh, but the burden that you’ve chosen

is to be feted at
hommages

and in salons

to wear couturier gowns,

to have men kiss your hand—

and be the showpiece of a tyrant!

A
VELLANEDA
:

How dare you! I am eagle, foe of tyrants!

Of course I have my weaknesses.

All of us are human.

You, for instance,

betrayed a friend:

you slept with the wife

of a man who saved your life.

M
ARTÍ
:

Friend? Oh, please!

Look—I’m leaving because I want to die in peace.

I am not the man I was—and not the man I want to be.

A
VELLANEDA
:

But there is still your poetry.

It is for the ages; it is undying verse.

You still possess the entire universe!

M
ARTÍ
:

Which I will never see.

A
VELLANEDA
:

How can that be?

M
ARTÍ
:

Don’t you realize

that if I am to be immortal

I first have to die?

I am no longer a man of this world,

and the cause of liberty needs martyrs—

I’m returning to Cuba to be crucified.

A
VELLANEDA
:

But in Cuba you can’t be crucified;

now there’s only crucifuckingfixion.

M
ARTÍ
:
(under his breath)

Damn! I’m going to have to rethink my mission . . .

A
VELLANEDA
:

What if you lived for many years yet?

M
ARTÍ
: