The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (22 page)

The door of the catacomb-like palace opened and the procession, led by Fifo, emerged. Although on solar time it was almost ten o’clock at night, to all appearances the sun was blazing in the sky—because in order to prolong the hours of daylight during this once-in-a-lifetime event the Island had changed over to Fiferonian Time, and cannons, lasers, floating light rigs, huge mirrors, and an immense flamethrower that Fifo’s agents claimed to have confiscated from an agent of the CIA were pressed into service, substantial modifications were made to the natural course of things, and a blazing noon (which might suddenly become the darkest night) assailed the entire Island.

The Program of Activities indicated that before Fifo inaugurated the Grand Carnival, there was to be a walking tour through Old Havana guided by Alejo Sholekhov, who had also been brought back to life especially for that event. It was hoped that in compliance with a request made by Fifo himself, Sholekhov would be brief. But heavens, who had the heart to shut up an old man with a nineteenth-century speaking style (meaning you couldn’t get a word in edgewise, the old thing just went on and on) and who on top of that had spent the last twenty years or so in silence under a gravestone? So that reading-room baroque of his just bubbled out like an old fountain, and in a voice like the croaking of a French frog with rheumatism. Followed closely on his right hand by Alfredo Lam (who had also been resurrected for this event and who handled his wheelchair with a skill that would have been admirable even in the finest horseman of the Arthurian Round Table), Sholekhov began his tour not with Old Havana, as might have been expected, but instead (at a pace amazing for a man of his age) down the Calzada de Jesús del Monte, then (lecturing all the way) up the Calzada del Cerro, then (still talking) down the Calzada de Luyanó, the Avenida Carlos III, and the Paseo de la Infanta. Then, not even stopping to catch his breath, the old man climbed Galiano and walked the whole length of the Calle de la Reina, lecturing not only in Spanish but in French as well on the beauties of iron pickets, brass door knockers, and spur stones. From time to time he would suddenly halt at the head of the exhausted procession, tick off (with upraised cane) the advantages of Le Corbusier’s
brise-soleil
or declare that throughout Havana one could see wonderful examples of an architecture
dans le style parisien au fin de siècle—
even including those improvised wooden sleeping lofts (built by Skunk in a Funk in so many Havana rooms) that held up to a hundred people. . . . The people who’d been roped into the tour couldn’t take much more of this. They could feel the rhythms of the Carnival’s infectious revelry beginning to get to them, while like some strange procession of the faithful they had to follow this old man dressed in black who was now going on and on about majestic carved-mahogany screens, stained-glass lunettes, and other things you never saw anywhere anymore. No doubt to the
épate-ment
even of Lezama Lima’s capacious memory, Sholekhov made associations between ogives and snippets from Racine and declared (always in that deep-throated croak like some Gallic frog) that the architecture of Havana was much closer to that of Segovia and Cádiz than Cholula’s, or even El Morro Fortress’, was. . . . Festooned doublets fraternized (for reasons that are no doubt as clear to you as they were to anybody else, darling) with Louis Juvet’s legs, the theories of Robert Desnos, and a few paragraphs of André Breton. At last (at last!), steadying himself on his cane as he smartly clicked his heels, Sholekhov turned down Calle Obispo in Old Havana. And there he launched into a grand theory of the Cuban baroque, which in his view could be defined by accumulation, collection, multiplication, division, and addition. And so, using arithmetical explanations, he leapt from Calle Obispo to the French Revolution and from the French Revolution to Versailles and the palace’s wrought-iron bars with rosettes shaped like peacocks’ tails, intertwining arabesques, and prodigious rows of lances. . . . While the writer spoke of the orders of wrought-iron bars—severe, votive, Gothic, and a style he himself called “tortured”—his tortured audience had reached the limit of their patience. As had Fifo, who ordered one of his midgets to strangle (and I quote) “that old son of a bitch.” (Lam volunteered to run over him with his wheelchair.) But before Sholekhov’s execution could be carried out, the Minister of Culture whispered in Fifo’s ear that among the audience there was a powerful delegation from UNASCO (made up entirely of Frenchmen, of course), which was going to make a large contribution toward the supposed restoration of Old Havana—which meant that Sholekhov’s lecture was of vital importance. So there was nothing for it but to keep listening to the long-dead author, who was now declaring that the wrought-iron grillwork of Cuba was an imitation of the goat motif (the cabrioles) used in the ironwork of the house of El Greco, and that Cuba possessesd Alcázars in the Moorish style and medieval castles with modernized facades and some quite unexpected allusions to Blois de Chambord. And then, hardly stopping for breath, the elderly gentleman sprang (on his cane) to the center of the Plaza Vieja, where he launched into what we might call the “heart of his lecture”: “As I was saying, Havana, the gateway to the New World, is the proud possessor of more columns than any other city of the continent.” And here the renowned author, followed by the procession of the faithful, began to march through colonnade after colonnade (most of them shored up by two-by-fours and piles of rubble), naming over, and sometimes tapping with his cane, every single column. . . . “Here we have a half-length Doric column; then a Corinthian; and this one here is a stunted or ‘dwarf’ column; and this one, with its concrete caryatids, is an extraordinary example of a nineteenth-century
vignoble.
It is by virtue of all these columns that we Cubans, for so I still consider myself, have been able to brave the sun and even time. This is, dear friends, truly the City of Columns. Columns, colonnades, columnists, columniasts—we have lived so long among these columns that we have
forgotten
about columns, and about the fact that they must be saved, for not only do they protect us from the heat of summer, they sustain our roofs and rooftop aeries and accompany even Ferdinand VII with his emblematic lions. . . . Columns, the trunks of the trees of imaginary jungles and unimaginable forums—infinite coliseums. Columns, columns, the magical columns of Havana, which sensibly remind us of those lines of Baudelaire:

Temple où de vivants piliers

Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles . . . .”

And here the reborn author, about to take a breath and continue with his recitation of the poem (for we must not forget that the members of the UNASCO delegation were all French), leaned against one of his beloved columns—an act that was to cost him his new life, for this column, like all the columns in Old Havana, was held up by little more than the grace of the Holy Spirit and a few rusty iron reinforcing rods. There was no way in the world the column could support the old man’s weight, and so it collapsed—and with it the entire roof, and then, like a row of dominoes, one by one, every column on the street. The last words (in French, for the record) that Sholekhov spoke were drowned in the noise of the falling columns that entombed him.

But perhaps the most astonishing thing about this disaster was not the toppling of the columns—which was going to happen sooner or later, anyway—but rather the fact that along with the columns and roofs there collapsed into the street a field of corn, a stand of plantains, a tomato garden, and a little plot of cassava. You see, the inhabitants of Old Havana had their own aerial truck farm, where they grew what food they could to mitigate the hunger produced by forty years of rationing. So a jungle that was not only architectural, but vegetable as well, entombed the author of
El saco de las lozas
for all eternity. But this last detail—the collapse of the vegetable gardens—apparently went unnoticed by the members of the UNASCO delegation as well as the procession in general, who looked with a sigh of relief upon the mound of rubble under which the author lay buried. So relieved were they, in fact, that they broke into applause for the “brilliant” lecture and the “heroic” end of the writer who sacrificed himself for his city. On the spot, the cave-in was declared a national disaster and the members of the UNASCO delegation pledged aid of not only the ten million dollars they had already promised, but fifty million more.

“Let’s get that humanitarian agreement signed at once!” ordered Fifo.

And on the instant, among the ruined columns, the uprooted tubers of the cassava, and the stalks of corn, the contract was signed and it was agreed by all the signatories that Old Havana would for all eternity thereafter be called
The City of Columns
(it occurred to no one that it could also be called
Men of Corn
)—and that on that spot there would be erected a column taller than that in Barcelona upon which stands the statue of Columbus. Crowning the column would be a likeness of Sholekhov, who would hold in his hand a tiny Ionic column.

“And now,” shouted a happy Fifo, “let’s
party!
The hour for the Carnival has come round at last!”

And the official procession, led by Fifo riding inside a huge red balloon, turned down the Avenida del Puerto. Behind it there came the gigantic parade, and then the floats and all the bands. And thus it was that the Great Havana Carnival—which in fact had begun several hours earlier—officially began.

The Duchess, Sanjuro, Le Seigneur des Camélias, SuperSatanic, the Clandestine Clairvoyant, Uglíssima, La Reine, SuperChelo, the Eggsucking Dog, and a couple of other screaming queens, after frying themselves to a crisp all morning cruising La Concha beach, had skipped and trudged, sometimes trying to thumb a ride and sometimes being sideswiped by the mudflaps on a Number 62 bus, to the beach at El Mégano, always in quest of their El Dorado—i.e., a golden-bronze man.

After three hours of cruising
that
hellishly hot beach, the only man they’d seen had been a policeman (a policeman who actually told them what time it was) dressed in civilian clothes, who’d asked for their ID cards. And after checking the obligatory identification, he told the fairies that that beach was posted as a tourist zone and was off limits to Cuban citizens, so they’d better move along.

The Duchess argued that her grandparents (or somebody) were Italians, and that she was descended from the noble house of Piamontes.

“Look,” impatiently said the policeman, a round and firm and fully-packed specimen of love-godhood who looked to be about twenty, “you can pee on Monty if he lets you, I really don’t much care one way or the other, but you’ll have to do it somewhere else, because you people make the country look bad to the tourists. So pick up your things and beat it,” concluded the stunning instrument of repression “—now!”

I’ll tell you, girl . . .
Enough of that “girl” stuff; I’m fifty years old and’ve got more hair than a grizzly bear.
Ungrateful thing, I was just trying to be nice.
Well, OK then . . .
So as I was saying, you fat old queen with that chicken-skin neck of yours: The poor pansies had to take the Villadiego road and march—and I do mean march, eyes front and everything, because that hunk of a policeman escorted them every step of the way—all the way to the bus stop where they could catch the bus that would take them to the Guanabo bus terminal where they’d have to stand in a line about half a mile long so they could finally get their defeated and feather-bedraggled asses back to Havana. The policeman, thighs and crotch about to burst out of those foreign-made mechanic’s overalls of his, stood there, right by the bus stop (although not too close to the fairies), waiting for the hags to catch their bus and beat it. He knew if he turned his back on them for a second, they’d go back to the beach.

The sun inflicted such martyrdom on the poor queens (specifically on them, for some reason) that they hopped up and down on one foot on the shimmering pavement.

Suddenly, the queens saw the figure of a skinny, ungainly-looking fairy with a wet backpack slung over his shoulder walk barefoot out of the stand of pines down near the shore and head straight for the magnificent cop-dressed-as-a-teenybop. It was Skunk in a Funk, whose swim fins had been stolen by Tatica on Patricio Lumumba Beach and who for days (or maybe it was just for hours, but
hours and hours)
had been
so
unable to contain her rage—and her desire for revenge—that she had stalked every beach, every inch of Havana’s coastline on the trail of that gorgeous but cruel thief Tatica. Hot with a double fury—moral and rectal—Skunk in a Funk had finally reached Guanabo—searching every wave, every pine tree, every cubic inch of sand along the way, and sidling up suggestively to all the young hunks on the beach, too, whispering sweet nothings in their ears, but all of them had frowned at her and spit. Finally, swimming underwater, he had yanked on the pricks of about a hundred of the kids, who swam after her through the ocean (ready to kill her) even at the risk of being eaten by the sharks. Finally, the outraged twinks had threatened to slit Skunk in a Funk’s throat if she ever set foot on land again, but expert swimmer that she was (even without her swim fins), she dived underwater and swam along the bottom of the ocean (sea urchins and sand dollars fleeing in terror) and emerged down the coast—emerged, in fact, almost right beside the magnificent hunk of a cop who was keeping an eye on the banished fairies.

“Don’t tell ’er he’s a cop. Don’t even say hello, so he’ll arrest her,” said SuperSatanic.

“Ooh, what a wonderful idea! Let’s watch them put the handcuffs on her, and maybe even beat her,” shivered the Duchess. “Because if they’re going to run me—
me,
who am descended from royal blood—away, imagine the tortures in store for that
peasant.”

“Would you look at the gall that crazy suicide’s got, the way she cozies up to that trick and just starts chatting,” said La Reine, feigning regal unconcern.

“And the trick, like the upstanding cop he is, leads her on so she’ll show her true colors,” remarked Uglíssima.

“Which she’s already doing, if you’ll notice,” said Sanjuro. “Look, she’s flaunting that little bubble-butt of hers.”

“Now she’d done for, they’ll be coming to take her away,” predicted the Clandestine Clairvoyant.

“They might just shoot her in the head,” wished SuperSatanic.

“Omigod!” exclaimed La Reine, “that my noble eyes should have to see a murder perpetrated virtually under my royal eyelashes . . .”

“Listen, you nelly faggot,” shot back the SuperChelo, “don’t play the saint with us—we know you’re
dying
to see the queen get her brains blown out.”

“Well I never! My sentiments are as pure as Odoriferous Gunk’s herself’s,” La Reine replied.

“Can you believe that Funky-girl’s balls!” shrieked Eggsucking Dog. “Look how she’s just leading that cop right off under that guava tree, still talking a mile a minute.”

“And that cop! What’s he waiting for?! He’s supposed to arrest her!” whined SuperSatanic.

“Don’t look, girls—they might arrest us too, as accomplices,” counseled the Clandestine Clairvoyant.

“Oooh, how stupid we were! We should have stood under that guava tree so we wouldn’t be out here broiling our pansy asses in this sun,” Sanjuro complained.

“Look! Look! That Skunk’s got her hands all over the cop’s crotch!” softly shrieked the Duchess.

“Look! Look! The cop’s crotch looks like it’s about to explode.”

“My
God!
What sights must these noble eyes be forced to look upon!”

“Calm down, girls, calm down . . . This is when he takes out his gun and shoots her in the head. He’s probably got it hidden right there under his balls. . . .”

“Look! Look! Skunk in a Funk is on her knees and . . .
she’s sucking that cop off!
”

“Omigod, I can’t stand it! Call the police!”

“You idiot, that
is
the police!”

“Look Look! Skunk in a Funk has slipped off her jeans and her underwear and she’s still sucking! Look at the way that glutton stuffs the whole thing in her mouth . . .”

“Calm down, now, girls, this is where he’s bound to shoot her, with her mouth at the cookie jar.”

“Cookie jar! And what I wouldn’t give for some of that cookie! He’ll kill her, all right, but with that prick.”

“My
God!
Right out where anybody can watch! And to think that I, La Reine, the queen of queens, should have to witness such a sight. Why, a child could walk by and see it. I insist that we call the police.”

“Girlfriend, the police has his hands full at the moment, as you can see.”

“Look! Look! Skunk in a Funk has pulled off the cop’s pants and
the cop is screwing her!
”

“Oh. My. God. I think I’m going to faint. . . .”

The queens, more flustered and envious by the minute, went on with their off-color commentary, their play-by-play broadcast of Skunk in a Funk’s score. And the truth was, the sexual square-off between Skunk in a Funk and the young cop had no parallel in the sexual history of the public thoroughfares of Guanabo. The Skunk, pants around her ankles, had thrown her arms around the trunk of the guava tree as the cop had his way with her, and the force of their coupling was shaking the guava tree with such fury that their naked bodies were being pelted with falling fruit. The young cop snorted with pleasure, while Skunk in a Funk emitted howls that echoed throughout the pine grove and the guava tree shook, shimmied, and dropped its hail of guavas. Finally, the two bodies stripped off
all
their clothes and fell to the ground. Skunk in a Funk, on all fours, was taking the entire length of the policeman’s member (which was, I’ll tell you honey,
huge).
Under the tropical sun, you’d watch that big black nightstick of his going in and out and in and out of the Skunk’s arched body. Skunk herself was going crazy with pleasure, pulling up grass with her teeth and throwing guavas up in the air. In a wink, the policeman slipped off his olive-green underwear and pistol and went back to humping Skunk in a Funk, who, possessed by delirium as well as by the cop, grabbed the gun and threw it way off into the undergrowth and followed it up with her own backpack, out of which dropped the wet manuscript of the novel,
The Color of Summer,
that she was working on. . . . Boots, olive-green socks, olive-green underwear, grass, leaves, seeds, a cartridge belt filled with bullets, ripe guavas—it all sailed through the air as though by magic from those naked bodies locked in a sexual combat more powerful than politics or geography. Finally, Skunk sprawled out on the grass face down and was drilled wildly by the policeman, who now seemed to be screwing not a human body but rather the entire planet.

Just then, to the delight of the openmouthed (and drooling) fairies who were contemplating that outrageous coupling, a Number 162 bus appeared on the horizon.

“Flag it down,” ordered La Reine. “Make it stop right here and take those two depraved perverts prisoner.”

“Right on!” shouted SuperSatanic. “Let ’em rot in jail for contempt of court, making a public nuisance, sodomy in the public thoroughfare . . .”

“And high treason,” put in the SuperChelo. “Don’t forget, there’s a soldier involved.”

“And damage to state property,” added the Clandestine Clairvoyant. “Look what they’ve done to that guava tree—not a guava left on it. Com-
plete
ly destroyed.”

“What an outrage!” exclaimed La Reine. “And for the firing squad—because most assuredly they shall face the firing squad—I believe I’ll wear my diadem.”

“Well, I’m going to wear a loincloth made out of guava leaves,” said Uglíssima.

“I’ll be stunning. Black right up to my chin. It is a solemn act . . .”

“I. . .”

“Hush, now, all of you. Here comes the bus.”

A Number 162 full of people came to a stop beside the queens, who were jumping up and down and pointing off to where the impassioned coupling was going on. And that bus went
wild,
honey! Hundreds of heads started sticking out the windows (or as much as they could—those windows are pretty narrow). One woman died of a heart attack. The uproar was so uproarious that the driver had to honk three or four times before he could make himself heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “You all just pull your hands out of your pockets or wherever you’ve got them and listen up. If you all agree, then instead of going on to the bus stop in Guanabo, we’ll go straight to the nearest police station, which is just five minutes from here. We’ll send a patrol car and have ’em arrested.”

“Why don’t you arrest them yourself?” asked La Reine des Araignées.

“Do I look like a cop?” replied the driver (who was, however, starting to show a very coplike woody about now). And having nothing else to stomp on, he stomped on the accelerator and sped off toward the police station.

“Queers!” shouted the passengers in unison at the naked bodies, which were still totally oblivious to everything but their own lust.

So now the envious queens were riding along with big smiles on their faces, headed toward the police station. They were hanging on to the door of the bus, since not another speck of fairy dust would fit inside. They would be the main witnesses in the case—although of course so would the other passengers, all those people who despite feeling more than a little itchy, a little antsy, if you know what I mean, wrapped themselves in a mantle of morality. Never have I seen such piety, girl. . . .