The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights (68 page)

Despite tight precautions, that tireless tractor-trailer inspector in his astrakhan caftan kicked the bucket when he tried to tap his rear intake onto the trailer jack of an intractable tractor-trailer driver known for his operatic thrills as the Truckin’ Troubador. Because the tragic bucket-kicking triggered the total destruction of the tractor-trailer driver’s trailer jack, the trailer inspector, despite his tireless tractor-trailer inspections during his tragically short lifetime, is being tried by State Security, at the instigation of his truculent detractors, as a traitor. Why would a deceased tractor-trailer inspector be tried as a traitor by State Security? Did his trailer inspections tick off too many detractors? How many detractors does it take to trigger the trial for treason of a deceased tractor-trailer inspector, anyway?

For Nene Saragoitía, a.k.a. Sakuntala la Mala

And yet, the monster’s childhood was a sad one. . . .

“Hey! José Manuel Poveda wrote that line over eighty years ago.”

“You nasty
thing!
Do you dare to deny that the culture of socialist Cuba is the heritage of the entire country, the heritage of the masses, and therefore that anyone and everyone has a right to it? Huh? . . . Gotcha there, don’t I? So just hush up, because I’ve got the floor, and I’m exercising my rights.”

Yes, terribly sad was the childhood of the angel—I mean devil—I mean madman—I mean child—I mean
monster,
though they’re all the same thing. On the one hand, the influence of his mother—a countrywoman, former housemaid, and former whore, a Catholic and one of the suffering and afflicted—left in Fifo a deep and compelling desire to be feminine. Oh, how he was drawn to the beckoning crotches of those field laborers who worked under the whips and bayonets on his father’s enormous plantation. Yes, the influence of his mother was decisive in his formation as a faggot. But what, then, of the influence of his father, a Spaniard to the bone—and to make matters worse, from Galicia? Once, the father took aim and with one shot brought a worker down out of a coconut tree that the poor man had climbed to quench his thirst. I mean, this feudal lord manqué would not even give coconut water to
les misérables
who worked for him. The machista example set by Fifo’s father—who would rape mares, hens, female turtles, and his own mother (who had started off as the cook)—awoke in Fifo an irresistible desire to be a
real man,
a
heterosexual,
although the author of this novel (a screaming queen if ever there was one) would deny that. But Fifo had known many women (in the biblical sense of the word), just as he had been bedded down by many men. . . . But oh, then there was the example of Fifo’s great-great-grandfather, whose greatest sexual pleasure had been derived from screwing a horse (a
male
horse), though actually he wasn’t that particular—he’d screw anything from a male boa constrictor in Santa María to a fighting cock. This great-great-grandfather awoke in the young boy’s heart the wish to be a surly bull macho and screw
other
machos. But if to all this we add that in the Jesuit school he attended, the priests were constantly buggering the students and that Fifo, with his broad yet flat backside, was a roomy harbor that all the holy vessels sought to drop their anchors in after a hard day at the blackboard and the altar, then honey, you can see for yourself that Fifo (who also, don’t forget, had had the promiscuous example of his mother) turned out to be a
queen,
the very queenliest of queens. . . . In his little heart there stirred three stirrings—he hearkened to the call of the ass (Faggotry), the call of the phallus (Butt-Fucking), and the call of the balls (Womanizing), and this last tendency led him to want to impregnate every woman he met so as to leave a human trace of his passage through this vale of tears.

And so our little man had no peace upon this earth. When he saw a good-looking woman he would grow impassioned, when he saw a man he would become almost faint, and when he spotted a fairy he would grow inflamed with thoughts of buggering. And the worst thing was that when he was screwing a man he wanted to be screwing the mother of that glorious ephebe, and when he was screwing a woman he wanted to be taken by the woman’s brother, and when he finally was being screwed by the woman’s brother he wanted to screw the father of the hunk who was screwing him. Nothing satisfied him; nothing fulfilled him. Sometimes, on the advice of Paula Amanda, he would host multiorgies. That way, as he sat (so to speak) in the center of the action (as Paula Amanda had recommended), as he took his place at the midpoint of the daisy chain, he could enjoy screwing and being screwed at the same time. But not even that worked—when he was at the center of the daisy chain he’d want to be the first one in it, or sometimes the last. So the chain would come apart (and not so easily, either, sugar) and the poor man would find no solace.

And now, up there in his transparent balloon lighted from the inside, he looked out upon that constant ass-wiggling and backside-shaking, those shimmies and shakes given by men, women, and fairy queens alike, and as his eyes caressed that ass, that piece of meat, that pair of tits, Fifo, despite his age (about ninety, although the author of this novel has portrayed him as considerably younger), saw that he was getting an uncontrollable erection, so he turned off the light inside his balloon, unzipped his trousers, and began to masturbate. Ay, but as he approached his climax, as he reached the moment of orgasm, there was no one body part (cunt, ass, or prick) to concentrate his imagination on, no one thing to get him off. Fifo could not cum!
No, there is no peace to be had for me on earth,
shouted Fifo, dressed in that huge, shapeless, olive-green uniform-thing that Raúl had given him to wear. So once more he turned on the overhead light in his floating balloon and—shining-bright, martial, “mechanical and ecumenical” (as the author of this novel put it in a previous one)—he smiled and lifted one arm and saluted the crowd that was applauding him as he led the grand parade, the Big Float at the head of all the little floats. But the truth is that while he was raising his arm and saluting, apparently with enthusiasm and joy, inside he was weeping tears of frustration and despair. Oh, if only he could be that black man who twisted and wiggled and showed off his basket; or that whore dressed as a militia recruit dancing on top of the wall; or that fairy clandestinely, passionately, squeezing a patriotic soldier’s crotch; or that old guy with his hand on that cheering boy’s butt. But no-o-o-o—he was everything at once, and he was therefore nothing. He was all of them and none of them. And therefore, being no definite human being, he was able to find fulfillment (or even solace) only in the destruction of every life-affirming instinct, every trace of authenticity and integrity. And so, as the ass-shaking and backside-wiggling went on, Fifo was almost howling (inside, of course) in grief and loneliness. The only thing he had was power. But power could not be possessed—power was solitude, loneliness, and death.

It was then that the voice of Raúl, dressed in a smashing red outfit and parading along atop a tank, came through to him on the intercom:

“Fifo, don’t forget that I’ve had all your noblest friends taken out, just as you asked me to, including Arnaldo. I hope that when you give your speech tonight you’ll name me as your heir.”

Just look at Raúl in that red getup of hers!
thought Fifo.
She at least knows what she wants and goes after it. She’s had every man in my army up her ass.

“No!” screamed Fifo into the intercom. “I will name no heir! The person who replaces me will be the man or woman who’s amassed the most brownie points when it’s all over. And besides, I plan never to die.”

And not waiting for a reply, Fifo turned off the intercom and with his tragic eyes followed the enormous waves of ass-shaking and backside-wiggling as they rippled through the crowd.

Now, Mary dear, I don’t want you think that Eachurbod had resigned herself to staying back there at the UNEAC headquarters while those drums at Carnival were beating so insistently that every fold in his virginal asshole was throbbing. (Yes, sadly, despite all her efforts,
virginal
 . . . ) No
way,
sugar. Once the Carnival had been officially kicked off and was going strong, the queen (in spite of the memory of almost being murdered back there a few pages ago for having tried to take the handoff of the famous long-distance runner’s baton) grabbed up the
Collected Works of Nicolás Guillotina
and made a monumental staircase out of them. And without more ado, though still clutching Volume XXVII of the
Complete Works of Lenin,
she scaled the fence at the UNEAC headquarters and leaped to the other side. Of course on the other side Juantormenta was waiting to wring her pretty neck, but Eachurbod threw Volume XLVI of the
Complete Works of Lenin
at his head, her tormentor Juantormenta was knocked unconscious, and the queen ran off, elbows and knees flying. After, of course, picking up Volume XXX of the Complete Works of Vladimir what’s-his-name.

Desperately Eachurbod searched through bars and sewers, on bridges, and in every kind of nook and crevice imaginable. Finding nothing
(nothing!)
yet still seeking, she darted down the Paseo del Prado, where she saw a queen with a huge pair of scissors leap out of her sleigh, jump Coco Salas, and trim the poor thing’s eyelashes. On tippy-toe, and still undicked, Eachurbod saw Skunk in a Funk being screwed by an
unbelievable
black man up in one of the laurel trees on the promenade. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk and sprawling on the ground, she saw Karilda Olivar Lubricious’ husband run right over her fetching body, saber raised. And Eachurbod shouted at him: “Oh,
stab
me! I’m Karilda!” But no, that saber was not meant for her. The offended spouse turned a look of fury upon her, kicked her, and ran on after his senile but still hormone-driven wife. Then heavens, in the midst of that debacle, those drums drumming, thrumming, commanding, clamoring, making magical danceable lecherous lickerous musical
demands
on a poor girl, the queen saw SuperSatanic with her hypodermic needle infecting hundreds of people with her AIDS-infected blood, and she begged her, for heaven’s sake, to prick her with that mosquito-prick, but SuperSatanic, throwing needle-stabs left and right, said, “Don’t even
think
about it, hon, you’re fated to live a thousand years—if you haven’t already—and to die of chronic virginitis!”

“No!
No!
” cried Eachurbod madly, and she ran to join the ass-shaking and backside-wiggling in a conga line of glorious mulatto hunks shaking maracas and banging rhythm sticks together with their expert hands, and opening their legs to show off their
own personal
(and even more hypnotic) maracas and rhythm sticks, which Eachurbod would’ve dearly
loved
to get her hands on. And so Eachurbod danced, shook her ass, and danced some more, but the Regla rhythm boys didn’t ask her to join their band. In the midst of the noise and celebration she saw Skunk in a Funk again, now wielding a machete and running after Tatica to revenge the theft of her first swim fins—but even that spectacle couldn’t distract Eachurbod from his itch. Then he was run over and knocked to the ground by the Lady of the Veil, who was running madly toward a gigantic float belonging to the Ministry of Construction—but that blow (to more than her dignity) was also unable to shake some sense back into her—not that she ever had any, but you know what I mean. Her goal was to find a man, so she had no scruples about gazing at a policeman in his green uniform, his big gloves, boots, helmet, visor—and
nightstick!
This magnificent cop looked like a centaur in the flesh as he sat astride his equally magnificent steed. Eachurbod, taking a quick glance at the testicles on the horse, took a better look at the crotch on the cop, who sat like a stern statue in the center of the crowd that swirled around him. Eachurbod offered a pint of beer to the officer, who politely declined, saying that since he was on duty he couldn’t drink. Encouraged by the cop’s courtesy, Eachurbod took a step closer to the centaur and as she made sure he saw the red cover of Lenin’s book (sure to gain his trust, she reasoned), she told him she had taken part in forty-nine People’s Harvests and won every medal it was possible to win. The centaur looked down on her approvingly. Eachurbod then caressed the horse’s back legs, its magnificent testicles, and from the horse moved on to the rider—she touched his military boot, touched a leg, and then, with one foot in the stirrup (like some fairy Cervantes) she swung up astride the horse’s withers, and right there, hands together as though in silent prayer, she began to worship at the police officer’s waist, and to touch with the tip of her tongue the tip of the saddle on which the man-part of the centaur sat. The drums beat faster, more insistently. Eachurbod couldn’t wait any longer, and tucking the volume of Lenin under her arm, she plunged her shaved and numbered head into the cop’s lap. The agent of Authority then raised the visor (revealing only stunning eyes), removed the helmet, and began to smash Eachurbod’s head with it—Eachurbod was beaten until she fell off the horse, which then began to trample her. From between the magnificent steed’s legs, Eachurbod raised his anguished eyes and saw that the policeman was no
man
at all—she was a police
woman,
and she even had long blond hair. Eachurbod had been thrown off by all that damned police drag. The queen took off running (limping) through the crowd.

“Criminal!” the policewoman screamed at him, charging after him on her fearsome mount. “How dare you attempt to corrupt the morals of a revolutionary woman? Criminal! You’ll be punished by the Law!”

The fearsome police officer (who had twice been awarded the Lydia and Clodomira Medal) spurred her horse directly at poor Eachurbod, who used Volume XXVII of the
Complete Works of Lenin
to shield herself from the attack. But the terrifying policewoman just kept spurring her mount, which was now rearing and kicking furiously at the red-covered volume under which Eachurbod, in fear of her very life, was cowering. And then, just as she was about to give up the ghost, she cried out in pain to St. Nelly once more, and St. Nelly—despite the pains in her joints and despite the fact that she had retired from sainthood
ages
ago—descended from the clouds illuminated by the huge klieg lights of Carnival, and with one puff from her hideous lips detoured the syringe filled with arsenic that Fifo’s thugs had just thrown from the balcony of Virgilio Piñera’s apartment, directing it instead at the hideous, murderous horse, which it punctured in the croup (which is horse talk for “butt”). The horse, hit with the poison, dropped dead on the spot.

“Stop, you son of a bitch, you’ve killed my horse!” shouted the policewomen, drawing her revolver. Then, firing several times in the air, she took off after Eachurbod on foot. But the fairy queen, taking advantage of the confusion and hullabaloo, ran like crazy, bumping into Karilda Olivar Lubricious’ indignant husband, who took out his fury on poor Eachurbod by swiping at her with his saber, which barely missed her but did split Volume XXXIX of the
Complete Works of Lenin
right down the middle. Eachurbod, tossing away the book at last, ran on through the crowd. She flew like a rocket through the mob and came to the Avenida del Puerto, leaped clean over the Condesa de Merlín’s gig (snatching off the poor lady’s wig in the process), and took refuge in one of the dark corners of the docks, while in the distance she heard the shots of the angry policewoman and, much closer, the beating of the Carnival drums.

Thousands of fairies and thousands of hunks paraded past, as did thousands of women shaking their gigantic tits so hard they squeaked, thousands of midgets frisking people, hundreds of high-ranking military types, dozens of glorious athletes, and all the high-wire acts and dancers that were scheduled to do their routines around and under Fifo’s balloon. And now parading past were thousands of enlisted men beating their drums and flashing their radiant cymbals. And all that was just too much for the sensitive eyes of any human being, much less a human being as supersensitive as Eachurbod. She left her hiding place and once more abandoned herself to the abandonment of the celebrating throng.

How many men, in the midst of all that ass-wiggling and backside-shaking, were rubbing up against other men and so being semibuttfucked by the ones who were coming up from behind? Oh, in the midst of that conga line, in the midst of all that music, how many fairies were unzipping flies and jerking off the respectable young hunks who were kissing (up there above street level) their official girlfriends before the approving eyes of their future mothers-in-law, who were being taken from behind by off-duty midgets? But
she,
Eachurbod the Devouress, could find nothing. Half-dead, she leaned up against an aspen tree (yes, an aspen tree—this is
my
novel, Mary) in whose branches a group of sailors were screwing—oh, my God!—Coco Salas, while higher in the treetop the Areopagite was jerking off. Eachurbod looked, and in every tree, on every branch, there perched a midget, masturbating like the Areopagite or screwing to the rhythm of the moaning of Coco Salas, who appeared to be the queen of this arborescent orgy. Lord, to think that Coco Salas, one of the most hideous faggots in creation, was the queen of the prom! Was there no justice? Eachurbod considered slitting her own throat, even thought about that little bottle of kerosene that she’d slipped past Clara.
Yes, that’s it—I’ll incinerate myself right here in the middle of the crowd; I’ll immolate myself like a despairing monk who can’t find his God.
But a strong smell of urine brought Eachurbod back to her senses and set her back on track.

Yes, on track, because that smell of man-urine was coming from
somewhere,
and Eachurbod set out to find that spot. She sniffed at trees, walls, people, and stairways, following the scent. And at last she came to a huge wooden outhouse, a portable toilet—a john for johns!—that had been set up especially for use during the Carnival, and right in the center of El Prado. Man after man, beer in hand and face lit up by the music, was entering that holy place, and none were coming out. Like a shot off a shovel, Eachurbod whisked into that men’s room, in quest of his deepest, dearest desire. . . .

And now she’s in another monster men’s room. There is no light, because some cunning queer has removed the bulb. In the darkness Eachurbod can make out crouching forms, magnificent forms erect and standing, hunks with their pants wide open. She can hear the wet slurping sound of tongues, the moans of pleasure, the sucking sound of lips like vacuum-cleaner heads. She hears (because she can hardly see a
thing
) the puffing and grunting of pleasure from several men being violently taken by their buddies, their pals, or their drunken first cousins. Glug-glugs, slurps, smacks, gulps, ingurgitations, clucks and clicks—mouths and throats like caverns, deep-throating pricks and making sounds so glorious, so irresistible, that they would electrify, energize, and eroticize even men who’d just stepped in to pee. Oh, that irresistibly sexy sound of frenetic fucking. And men keep filing in. . . .

And the fairies and the queens and the faggots who don’t look like faggots keep on suckin’. Policemen with helmets and nightsticks put aside their duties as officers of repression for a moment and kneel before a heroic black man who’s just come home from fighting in some international conflict and hasn’t had any for ten years. All, in that dense darkness, recover their ultimate identities. Eachurbod feels himself caressed, squeezed, rubbed, palpated, touched from head to foot—and it’s not one hand, it’s
several
hands that are touching and rubbing her. Something hard yet inexplicably soft, slick, and wonderful-feeling is being rubbed on her; something arousing yet unclassifiable is passing over his face. And as he is stroked, someone pulls down her pants. Oh, is this a dream? No, no . . . in the midst of the smell of urine and cum, in the darkness, while the Carnival is booming out there outside, here inside Eachurbod feels powerful hands rubbing him—they reach his head, come down across his throat and neck, squeeze his nipples, drop to his thighs, squeeze and massage his legs, then rise to search for his asshole. They scrub him, rub him, rub-a-dub him, and spread her pink virginal cheeks. Something that feels like a clenched fist covered in heavy goo penetrates Eachurbod’s behind, opening a passageway for itself almost up into his belly. Eachurbod’s howl of pleasure is so piercing that only the drums beating thunderously outside can drown it out. And while she’s drilled and thrilled, Eachurbod pushes back against the whatever-it-is, which (fleshy, slick) goes on pumping her body—in and out, in and out—at the same time as dozens of hands (which felt more like suction cups) caress her. Unable to contain her excitement, as the hands caress her and the
thing
penetrates her, Eachurbod cums, over and over.