The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (41 page)

The Anglo-Campesina was a horrid-looking queen who’d sprung from a strange crossbreeding of Taino, Chinese, black, and Spanish bloodlines (like all Cubans today, come to think of it). But this conglomeration had not resulted in a lovely hothouse hybrid—a velvety Chinese, a muscular mulatto, a dark-skinned blue-eyed hunk with sensual lips, a monumentally endowed black man. . . . Forget that. This queen—you must have run into her someplace, my dear, no matter how much of a stay-at-home you are, because she’s a bigger self-promoter than a movie star—this queen, as I say, had the shape of a scared bullfrog or a big-bellied penguin. Like all mediocre persons, she was terribly, terribly vain, and possessed of an ego that even he himself couldn’t be sure where he got, because he (or
she,
take your pick) had neither talent nor grace nor beauty—but rather (in a word) the opposite: his body was round, though squashed-in at the poles, and her head was like some piece of cosmic fruit dented by asteroids. Everything about him (we summarize yet once more, again—just for the record) had the look of an owl sentenced to a thousand years of insomnia.

Given that quadruply Cuban nature of his, he was very attached to his little clod of earth, from which everybody,
but everybody,
upon seeing that freak of nature, had fled (so that in his hometown all that remained was an abandoned weaving mill belonging to H. P. Lovecraft). So of course he (or she) began to want to bury that background that she considered a stigma and become a man (or woman) of the world, a cosmopolite. At last, the praise of Fifo that she publicly and unceasingly sang, plus the secret reports
against
Fifo that he supplied to the Chinese embassy, plus the counterinformation that she sent to the Chilean embassy in order to offset those other reports, brought in enough money to allow her to set herself up in London—perhaps in the hopes that the London fog would camouflage her repugnant appearance. In London, this queen-turned-minor-local-color-scrivener married a rhumba-dancing mulatto with a fright wig who dressed in drag for all their social occasions so he could pass as the writer’s wife. Naturally, this particular writer, like all Cuban writers of his/her generation, was extremely cowardly, and since s/he’d not had the courage to accompany Fifo on his trek into the mountains all those many years ago, s/he lived now but to praise and adore him. Like all the writers of his/her generation, s/he (I think this technique works, don’t you?) imitated Fifo and had secret sexual fantasies about the great leader. (H. Puntilla, for example, had been
enthralled
when Fifo once slapped him. Eee-u-u-ugh Desnoës said she’d been
impaled
upon Fifo’s revolutionary rhetoric, and the Anglo-Campesina recalled with honeyed enchantment the way Fifo walked:
In two paces, he can cross an entire room,
she would muse aloud, her myopic eyes going all trembly and bleary.)

Naturally, Fifo had been informed (as he was about almost everything) of the Anglo-Campesina’s mad passion for his person.

And so, after consigning him/her to oblivion for upwards of thirty years, Fifo allowed that horrific unresolved conglomeration of races to join the official delegation sent by Great Britain to help commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Triumphant, indeed Thriving, Revolution. Leading the delegation, as we have said (or maybe we haven’t), was Princess Dinorah (naked), and behind her came the great ladies of the court, ambassadors, ministers, marquises, makeup men, pimps, directors of protocol, and all the other hangers-on that surround a great whore in all her glory. Farther back, almost blind, and leaning on the arm of his/her transvestite wife, came the Anglo-Campesina. His/her faded memory still managed to hang on to a little joke that s/he planned to use to bring a laugh to the Comandante. But just as s/he and his/her faithful walking stick were about to cross the threshold into the great hall, the door was slammed in her face, leaving her outside with (but surely we’ve already mentioned
this
) a pack of paparazzi. In the midst of the confusion and the noise, and while she was being photographed almost to death, the Anglo-Campesina lost his/her glasses. Now truly blind, and therefore desperate, s/he clutched his/her drag-queen seeing-eye hag in the hope that sooner or later they’d let her in. But that never happened. Every time a delegation of latecomers was admitted, burly gatekeepers would kick the Anglo-Campesina away from the door.
I should be kicked by Fifo himself,
the Anglo-Campesina would complain to herself,
not these underlings.
And then she would add:
I will remain here for the rest of my life—even if it kills me.
“Fifo doesn’t like vaudeville literature,” Paula Amanda (a.k.a. Luisa Fernanda) would scream at her from inside—a slight falsehood, if the Anglo-Campesina only knew, because Fifo didn’t like
any
kind of literature, except the literature that he produced himself.

The pain and grief experienced by the Anglo-Campesina soon affected her body, and so while she waited on the threshold of the palace she suffered several heart attacks and succumbed to a sort of senile dementia that led her to babble no end of nonsense. Fearing for her life, the drag queen-husband dragged her over to the group of Dissed & Pissed who were milling about alongside the palace hoping to be recognized as official guests. But considering him/herself superior to all those Dissed & Pissed, she refused to sign any of their protests.

It was no doubt resentment, and not patriotism, that induced her, upon her return to London, to lend her support to the flight of Avellaneda and to publish in
El País
an article titled “
Ave,
Avellaneda!” The article was immediately plagiarized in New York by Miguel Correderas, who published it under his own byline in the magazine
Noticias de Marte.

One day, walking along the golden sands of the beach at Marianao after praying a heartfelt prayer to the nonexistent though powerful gods, Skunk in a Funk bumped into the most gorgeous teenager he’d ever seen—and he’d seen a lot of them. This was a kid with a svelte, supple body, blackblack
black
curly hair, café au lait skin, and eyes the color of honey. Skunk in a Funk stood so transfixed before that barefoot, bare-chested love god that he couldn’t say a word. It was the love god, in fact, who came over to him and asked if he had a cigarette.
A cigarette! A cigarette!
Skunk in a Funk slapped desperately at his pockets. No, he didn’t have a single cigarette on him, but if the young man would come home with him, he could give him a whole pack. Skunk in a Funk and the stunning barefooted teenager started walking together along the beach. While he walked, Skunk in a Funk told the young god that his name was Gabriel. The love god, in proof of his honesty, first stated his name and both surnames, father’s and mother’s, and then showed the enchanted Skunk in a Funk his ID—Lázaro González Carriles, his name was, and he lived in Old Havana. They came to the Skunk’s room in Aunt Orfelina’s house. Naturally, because of the Watchdog Committee’s constant surveillance and his own (treacherous) aunt, Skunk in a Funk couldn’t go in the front door with any man, much less with this
gorgeous
barefooted and half-naked adolescent. So they went around to the back of the house and the fairy flew over the wall into the back yard, telling the young man to jump over behind him—and not to make a sound. The delicious teenager jumped over the wall all right, but he landed on top of one of Orfelina’s she-cats, which let out a bloodcurdling wail. Orfelina was washing clothes at a washtub over in a corner of the back yard, and when she turned around and saw this stunning bare-chested teenaged kid she stood speechless for a few seconds. Then she yelled: “What are you doing in my back yard?” The teenager replied that he was going to visit a gentleman named Gabriel who lived there. “There’s no Gabriel living here—Skunk in a Funk lives here, and he’s not allowed to have visitors,” shot back Orfelina, more furiously yet, thinking that there was no
way
her nephew was going to take that jewel to bed—ay!—in
her
house (is nothing sacred?), which it had taken her umpteen jillion denunciations of her neighbors to get and which she shared with her decrepit husband, a militant member of the Communist Party. The teenager, somewhat taken aback, apologized and jumped back over the back-yard wall. But Skunk in a Funk vaulted over the wall, too, and caught up with Lázaro. Together they wandered the beach for more than twelve hours, and around dawn, when the aunt, her husband, her son Tony, and all the she-cats were asleep, they silently slipped over the wall again and went up to the maid’s room which Skunk in a Funk lived in (and for which he had to pay his aunt an exorbitant rent and also give her all the products that he was allowed on his ration card). . . . Skunk in a Funk unbuttoned the formidable teenager’s pants, and he discovered that in addition to his formidable beauty, he possessed, oh most beautiful of all, the largest phallus that the gods (and his constant cruising) would ever, in his entire hard-bitten life, permit the Skunk to lay his (ahem) eyes upon. And now Skunk in a Funk, having removed the young man’s pants, once more contemplated that unique, and fleeting, jewel. The teenager was a lily in underwear, with a magnificent lilac-colored stalk. By the time (before the sun was fully up) that Lázaro releaped the wall, Skunk in a Funk had been absolutely transfigured, transformed, transverberated (which is the perfect word for it, thank you). A happiness which she had never before known filled out her skin, made her hair once more full and silky, brought an unwonted sparkle to her eyes, filled in all those nasty wrinkles, and turned her face into something fine and smooth. At last he had found the love god he’d always yearned for, the last to fit his shoe, the Key to the Gulf—because what she had was a gulf, and only such a monumental key could fit such a gigantic lock.

The next night, when the beautiful teenager sat (naked) in the broken-down (but only) chair in Skunk in a Funk’s room, the Skunk, kneeling before him, confessed in all sincerity that he, Lázaro, was the only man that had ever fully satisfied him and that all day he’d done nothing but think about him—and that he’d decided that he loved him. “For the first time,” he said, and it was true, “I’ve fallen in love. You have fulfilled all my dreams, have plumbed the depths of my sensuality. And when we’re alone, I’m not going to call you Lázaro, but rather the Key to the Gulf.” And as Skunk in a Funk was speaking these words, he gazed entranced at, and gently caressed, that monumental key that would soon open the gates to his immense gulf. Then, as he possessed him, the Key to the Gulf confessed that he had never done this with anybody, “even with a real woman,” he said. And that confession almost made the fairy die from happiness.

For more than three months the Key to the Gulf leaped over the wall every night and frenziedly transverberated Skunk in a Funk, who gave thanks to St. Nelly that his Aunt Orfelina hadn’t discovered the teenager’s nightly visits.

One morning before dawn, after having been possessed in the most convincing way by the Key to the Gulf (who was smiling as he crept downstairs), the entranced fairy went out onto the balcony to watch how lightly and gracefully the marvelously conditioned young man jumped over the wall after more than three hours of lovemaking. But Skunk in a Funk did not see the young man vault the wall.
He’s so athletic,
he thought,
he probably jumped over before I even got out onto the balcony.
The next night, Lázaro couldn’t possibly have gotten all the way down the stairs before Skunk in a Funk, wrapped in his only sheet, stepped out onto the balcony so he could watch his love god leap the wall. He did see the marvelous adolescent carefully close the door to the back stairway and make his way across the yard.
Now he’ll jump,
the fairy said to himself, even more entranced.
And that leap is a leap that he will make in my honor.
But instead of going toward the garden wall, the teenager crossed the back yard toward the door of Orfelina’s room. The Key to the Gulf didn’t have to knock; Orfelina opened the door—which showed that it had all been planned beforehand! The fairy, unable to control himself, and still wrapped in his only sheet, tiptoed swiftly down the stairs, tiptoed over to Orfelina’s room, and peeked through the window. His beloved teenager was frenziedly possessing Orfelina, who was moaning with pleasure at the immense key. The fairy, mute with horror, ran up to his room. So that, he said to himself, was why he hadn’t been discovered and denounced—his aunt was taking kickbacks! The whole day, Skunk in a Funk meditated, and at last he reached the conclusion that he loved the young man too much to give him up because of another woman.
If he likes women,
he said to himself,
all the better; that shows he’s a real man, and that he was telling me the truth when he said I was his first fairy. But I don’t care, I’ll have my revenge anyway
—
I’ll send an anonymous note to my uncle, who as an upstanding member of the Party is always trying to figure out a way to catch his wife with another man so he can throw the whore out and keep the house for himself.

That very day, Skunk in a Funk wrote out the note and with the help of the Divinely Malign (dressed as a lieutenant) sent it to his Uncle Chucho, who worked in the regional Party headquarters. That night the fairy and the Key to the Gulf made love as passionately as always. But the second the Key to the Gulf started down the stairs, Skunk, wrapped in the sheet that she’d now dyed black (thanks to a packet of dye given him by Mahoma), went out onto the balcony. This time the teenager didn’t go toward the door of Orfelina’s room; he knocked on the door of the dining room. Instantly the door opened and behind it, Skunk saw his Uncle Chucho, who invited Lázaro in.
Jesus!
thought the fairy,
I never should have sent that note
—
now my uncle, as a member of the Party, will surely kill my beloved Key to the Gulf. How could I ever have been so perverse?
And wrapped in his black sheet, the fairy ran down the stairs so fast that he slipped and broke his kneecap and cracked his forehead wide open. Bloodied but unbowed, however, he continued on. There was no way he was going to let his Uncle Chucho, that disgusting Party slimeball, kill the Key to the Gulf. When he came to the door of the dining room, Skunk in a Funk stood aghast. On top of the huge dining table, the beautiful teenager was violently and rhythmically screwing Uncle Chucho, who had stuffed a napkin in his mouth to muffle his shrieks of pleasure.
So he’s never done anything with another fairy!
Skunk in a Funk sneered to himself.
I’m going to stand right here and wait for him and get to the bottom of this.
And Skunk in a Funk waited in fury for the Key to the Gulf to finish his business with Uncle Chucho. But when he’d finished, instead of coming out of the house, he went into Tony’s room. Tony, Skunk in a Funk’s cousin, was famous for the number of girlfriends that he had—yet there he was in bed, on all fours, ready for the arrival of that teenager who started banging the son with even more violence than he’d screwed the father. So loud and aroused were Tony and the beautiful teenager’s cries and moans of pleasure that Skunk in a Funk, tears in his eyes, had no alternative but to go back up to his room and masturbate.

While he was getting himself off, the fairy heard a terrifying wailing sound. Wrapping himself in the black sheet again, he went out onto the balcony. In the middle of the back yard, the beautiful teenager was now impaling one of Aunt Orfelina’s she-cats, who though she’d begged for that magnificent member couldn’t take it all, and died. Skunk in a Funk, furious (and unable to finish himself off), stomped back into his room. But the next day he woke up in a more reasonable frame of mind. What if the gorgeous teenager had been entrapped? Maybe—almost certainly—he’d been blackmailed by Orfelina and forced to screw the whole family (and the cat) in order to keep her, Skunk in a Funk, from being reported to the police.
Uh-huh, I’m sure of it—the Key to the Gulf made all those sacrifices in order to save my life. Poor thing, what a terrible sacrifice to have to make for me.
And with that fantasy of love, the enamored (and therefore blind) fairy made her way, singing and whistling happily to herself, toward the beach on Calle 16, where all the young men in Havana were supposed to meet that day—because according to the Three Weird Sisters and the Clandestine Clairvoyant, there was not going to be the usual roundup of queens and fairies. It was Tomasito the Goya-Girl who upon seeing Skunk in a Funk singing and whistling to himself asked him what might be the cause of such euphoria.

“So tell me, girl, who’s been sticking it in up to the elbows to make you look so fully filled, I mean fulfilled, and cause you to go around chirping like that?”

“That’s right, tell us, tell us who the owner is of the phallus that’s been giving you such pleasure,” leaped in Le Seigneur aux Camélias.

“It’s a secret,” replied Skunk in a Funk, playing enigmatic. “And besides, there’s no sense in telling you nasty things his name, because you don’t even know him. He’s only slept with
me,
and he barely even knows my family.”

“Oh, come on, tell us his name. Anyway, if we don’t know him, there’s no way any harm’ll come to you from
us,
” argued the Dowager Duchess de Valero.

Lowering his voice, and with shyness unusual for her, Skunk in a Funk pronounced the name Lázaro González Carriles.

The fairies exploded in laughter.

“My goodness, you mean the Key to the Gulf?” said Le Seigneur aux Camélias. “The most famous, best-endowed bugger in all Havana? Why, child, the first time he gave it to me—must have been about two months ago—I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” nodded La Reine des Araignées. “I think that of all the hunks I’m planning to take to Fifo’s party, he’ll win the prize. Over a year ago I bestowed upon him my award as the Best Bugger in Arroyo Arenas,” she went on, “and I have never regretted it.”

“Not a bad piece of meat,” commented Mahoma with some indifference, “but I’m getting tired of him coming in through my balcony door every night.”

“I had a piece of that, too, and I can assure you that he is the best-endowed man in Havana,” said Coco Salas, removing his glasses. And Coco, the most horrific queen in all the world, whom nobody but
nobody
would screw, even on a dare, opened a little purse woven from silver threads and took out a snapshot of the Key to the Gulf completely naked and with his immense Key standing up like a lighthouse. “I made this portrait just a few weeks ago when we were in Varadero,” Coco explained, as he passed the photo around.