The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (6 page)

feel my blood and vaginal secretions thicken—

Oh, I am about to swo-o-o-oooon!

Tell me—how many men have you slept with?

How many soldiers have you bivouacked with?

How many innocents have you corrupted?

And how many of those coituses have been interrupted?

You don’t need a man, you need a
woman!

And tell the truth—the idea kind of turns you on . . .

You know that I have always yearned to give you pleasure—

yearned to probe between your thighs for buried treasure.

My oft-tilled flesh awaits your tickling plow—

come, and plant your mahogany seed in me
now!

Don’t deprive me, dear Gertrudis, of that bliss.

Bestow on me—if only once—a netherlabial French kiss.

You who once struck fire to matchless fuses,

come—engage
me
in sweet sexual abuses.

Turn your boat around, come back, come back,

and you and I will embark on another tack;

we may be getting on in years—

(taken a good look in the mirror lately, dear?)—

but there’s still time to make a little hay—

“gather ye rosebuds,” Tula, “while ye may!”

Oh,
slay me with spittle,
kill me with sweet pain—

“whatever turns you on” is my favorite saying!

My arms yearn to wrap themselves about your body,

my tongue longs to lick you and talk dirty—

and if you
cannot
break that bourgeois habit

of having a man in bed, then we’ll cohabit

with a man, or centaur, or, like the President, a rabbit.

Though I myself prefer a centaur, hung like a horse—

oh, turn around, Tula, change your course,

and paddle your dinghy back to me—

I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!

Toss me a line, and I’ll even haul you in.

Come, live with me, wallow with me in sin—

but come back now, or I promise you—Fifo will have your skin!

When she has completed her declamation, Karilda checks to see what effect her plea has had on Avellaneda. Seeing that the old poetess is not turning back, Karilda walks over to one of the cannons that the diligent midgets have set on the wall of the Malecón, pulls out (as tight as that dress is, honey, lord knows from where!) a huge papaya, rolls it like a cannonball into the mouth of the cannon, and lights the fuse. The huge papaya shoots out of the cannon and explodes smack in the middle of Avellaneda’s chest, knocking her over—her black dress is RUINED. The boat tips, bobbles, and begins to fill with water. Avellaneda eats a few handfuls of the fruit and tosses the rest of it back to her enemies. Then, with her hands and a mantilla, she starts bailing out the boat.

Fifo gives H. Puntilla a kick in the rear to signal him to get on with his poetical declamation. H. Puntilla rubs his bruised backside gingerly and, still staggering forward from the kick, stumbles up onto the Malecón.

H. P
UNTILLA
:

There she goes, like a wounded seagull

wallowing in the waves.

There she goes, like some ominous seafowl

clouding our sunny days.

Avast, begone! foul albatross—

augury of misery and horror.

Avast, begone! foul albatross,

besmirching our island’s honor.

(Softly)

There I go, the heavy again!

I
hate
this role they make me play,

I’m sick of being the villain—

When do I get to just be
me?

Baka! Grab those wings that Coco’s got on—

I’m going to fly away!

While the Chorus dances in a ring to
El condor pasa,
sung by Miriam Acebedo, H. Puntilla pulls on a huge pair of owl’s wings and, in the midst of the confusion, flies off.

He disappears into the distant sky. Spotlights are trained on Avellaneda, who is still being pelted by rotten eggs as she attempts to keep her boat afloat. Now, bailing with the aid of a veil, she looks up at the sky and fans herself with a lotus flower.

A
VELLANEDA
:

No ties any longer hold me, all are rent.

Heaven wills it thus, and so—amen!

This frail bark, I fear, is going under;

this tidal wave is ripping it asunder.

And yet—

the bitter cup I gladly quaff, my self expires,

my soul finds peace at last, and naught more desires.

When she finishes speaking these lines, Avellaneda begins to masturbate frenziedly with the lotus flower. Reaching orgasm, she falls in a faint into the boat, which continues drifting, threatening at any moment to sink.

Suddenly lights come up on the other side of the stage, on
K
EY
W
EST
.
In a large pool of light, José María Heredia appears. He is dressed in the clothing characteristic of the early nineteenth century. Kilo Abierto Montamier approaches him with a makeup brush and paints great bags under the poet’s eyes. Heredia now stands alone in the spotlight. He turns away photographers and journalists, but he can’t keep an enormous electric fan behind him from ruffling his hair. With the fan always trained on him, Heredia climbs up onto the stage that has been set up in Key West for this event.

H
EREDIA
:
(trying to make Avellaneda hear him)

Soft rules the sun the peaceful waves

as the proud ship cuts through the deep.

A broad track of white it leaves in its wake,

bright foam in the endless sea.

Anxiously we scan the horizon,

eagerly we wait to spread the welcome!

Be courageous, Gertrudis, and stay the course.

A golden destiny awaits you on this shore.

Come—life in America has its perks.

Girl, they’re republishing your Collected Works!

The lights of
K
EY
W
EST
go down. We see Avellaneda in the middle of the ocean. Heredia’s little white lies give new spirit to the poetess, who, filled with enthusiasm, begins to clean all the trash out of her boat while she declaims
:

A
VELLANEDA
:

How much more thrilling to me is that virile voice

than some vulgar (no doubt pirated) new edition.

Fear not, Heredia, I have made my choice

to join you and my compatriots—that is my mission.

For you, old poet, I would brave

winds, tempests, rotten eggs, the waves,

and more—if beside you I might stand

and share a second
belovèd Eden, happy homeland.

Who gives a fig about Key West, Florída?

We will journey on to Iberia,

and when our traveling days are done,

stroll together under the palms.

Darkness. We hear the rumble of the ocean and then the Guadalajara Symphony Orchestra, under the direction of Octavio Plá, playing
La Bayamesa.
The lights come up once more. In the sky appears H. Puntilla. Beating his huge wings, he hovers over Avellaneda’s boat. He pulls out a thick manuscript. It is titled
Herod Is Grazing in My Garden.

H. P
UNTILLA
:

Tula, I can’t take it anymore. Nobody can stand living there, not even Chelo, who works for State Security. I’ll just leave this with you if you don’t mind—would you see that J. J. Armas Maquiavelo gets it? Tell him that’s half of it. They say that Ufano’s supposed to come soon, but I can’t wait any longer . . .

H. Puntilla continues his flight, arrives in
K
EY
W
EST
,
and approaches José
Martí, who is among the crowd, but incognito; he has come back to life of his own volition. H. Puntilla embraces him familiarly and then from his jacket he pulls out a bottle of gin, which he immediately drinks down. Martí walks away disgusted, to a spot beside the ocean.

We now see a huge crowd of people in
K
EY
W
EST
.
In an act of welcome they are throwing chocolate bars, pieces of fruit, and all sorts of trinkets and gewgaws at Avellaneda. All this stuff splashes water on her, and anything that falls outside the boat is devoured by the sharks. Avellaneda, making a desperate effort, struggles to lift H. Puntilla’s heavy manuscript. Finally she lifts it enough to tumble it overboard. A shark passes by (Pedro Ramón Lapa) and swallows it in one gulp, then gives a death-leap in the water and expires. Avellaneda now paddles at full speed.

K
EY
W
EST
C
HORUS
:

Row faster, faster! as fast as you can!

Come, be with your friends—

Oh, how we want you here beside us,

Here where the streets are invariably golden

and the Welcome Wagon’s open

serving milk and honey, fruits and
nuts!

Countless poetesses, carrying their books dedicated to “La Franca India,” “La Peregrina,” “Tula,” and other pseudonyms used at one time or another by Avellaneda, continue to arrive in Key West. Standing on a huge stage, Martha Pérez sings the
zarzuela
“Cecilia Valdés.” Buses full of senators, mayors, and notables from the world of religion arrive on the key. Somebody announces that in a few moments the presidential helicopter will be making its arrival. Now the poetesses, approaching the water, toss (hurl, pitch, etc.) their books to Avellaneda. Under the avalanche of paper falling into her boat, she almost capsizes. But “La Franca India” dumps their cargo into the sea and continues onward. The sharks swim away, whining piteously. . . .