Read an Excerpt
The Tragedy of Fidel Castro?
a novel
By JOÃO CERQUEIRA
River Grove Books
Copyright © 2013 João Cerqueira
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-938416-16-3
Chapter One
JFK
Wandering through the muddy fairground with two guardsmen, JFK watched the seething commercial activity exultantly. Here were buyers and sellers from all parts of the world, including from the land of Fidel. To these he would close his eyes and open his purse strings. Business was business, and it was not worth spoiling everything for the sake of politics. The language of trade was pure—numbers, dollar signs, and percentages—immune to ethical or ideological corruption. That's how it had always been and how it would remain. It was not up to him to question the morality of the system, because, ultimately, the fault lay with the principles and values that had failed to adapt to economic developments. Between paralyzing rigidity and dynamic flexibility, the choice was an easy one to make.
In secret, bold merchants would offer JFK the enemy's best cigars, receiving in exchange some demijohns of bourbon from the demarcated regions for Fidel. These transactions were the only link between the two leaders and were as consistent as the animosity that separated them. At Christmas, each sent the other luxury gifts in a Cold War–style competition designed to impress the enemy. The last case of puros sent by El Comandante had been of exceptional quality. Far superior to the bourbon I sent him, JFK reflected, puffing the warm smoke.
As he watched the mercantile bustle, musically accompanied by the crystalline tinkle of coins, he felt a great pride in the economic vitality of his country. Whenever he compared it with Fidel's fragile economy, artificially bolstered by the state, he was overcome with patriotic raptures. He found it inconceivable how the Castro regime could ban free enterprise, thereby wasting the opportunity to tax the rich, an art that required considerable effort and imagination, admittedly. And he found it harder to believe that the state also undertook all the population's needs when there was clearly not enough money for it. Fidel obviously hasn't the slightest notion about human nature, he ruminated. That urge to mollycoddle the poor seemed to him both naïve and pedantic.
His economic system worked much better: The reward incentive was the engine of society and put everyone in their rightful place. Though, of course, some, like himself, had seats that had been reserved. Nevertheless, when he saw the unbridled greed of some of the new Pharisees, he would reflect apprehensively on the warnings issued by his counselor who stoutly defended more state regulation. "Their fatherland is their capital; give them freedom but never let them loose."
Mingling with the people, listening to the miracle cures promised by evangelical pastors, he came across a group of penitents trudging aimlessly along. These were converted criminals, repentant prostitutes, famished wretches, blind men, and cripples. Prayers disintegrating into terrifying moans composed nightmarish melodies, which in the darkness of night would return amplified to the ears of all who heard them. Each seemed bent on proving that he had the most serious flaws or owed the most splendid favor. The sight of this group disturbed the people, unleashing the demons they harbored within. It was not the madness they feared so much as the accusing blast that would ignite the crackling hellfire of guilt. Even so, morbid curiosity would still draw them toward this spectacle of dementia.
Though accustomed to man's brutal attempts to win divine recognition, JFK couldn't help but feel uneasy as he stared at the grotesque scene of those who had escaped illness or who imagined themselves to have committed unforgiveable sins. How far can man's folly go? he wondered. Some priests told him that madness was the sign of the presence of the demon, though others claimed it was a divine blessing, which made him wonder who, in the end, was truly insane.
However, some of his ruminations were more pragmatic: What if someone convinces them that they are not to blame, rather those who govern them? What if a new Fidel Castro appears to incite them to rebellion? What if Judgment Day gives rise to settling scores on earth? What will happen? Tormented with anxiety, he imagined the people rising up against him, peasants brandishing hoes, his house burned.
JFK was not afraid to confront the army of El Comandante. What he feared most was the subversive message: emancipation of the masses, their awakening from lethargy, growing awareness of their own power.
As the president, he was only one man, and there were no more than a few dozen generals. But the people, his soldiers included, consisted of millions of men and women. His country's greatness lay in his ability to harness this powerful collective force and use it to clear the steep paths to glory.
But from time to time, evil beings would appear that were more dangerous than any army. These supreme threats manifested in the form of men of faith or warriors, both of whom wielded words like weapons, words that would shake the people out of their torpor, breaking the spell. Once awake, that famished beast would turn on its masters, devouring them. He knew he was standing on a dormant volcano that sooner or later would erupt, sending a sizzling jet of lava in his direction. But his Pompeii was surely still far off. The darkness protects us; they will go on hating themselves as long as they stay in the shadows, he reflected, gazing at the band of penitents.
Nonetheless, the unending conflict with Fidel was exhausting him, leaving him lost in a labyrinth of strategies doomed to failure. As soon as a new idea occurred to him, he would ruthlessly reject it, unmasking some blocked reasoning. Wherever his mind led him, he would come to a dead end and have to start over. Each time that happened, he grew more tired. He would then recall his numerous military victories and the diplomatic skill he would use whenever force was unadvisable; there were so many powerful men who had been brought low by his strength, astuteness, or gold coins. Recalling his past glories always filled him with pride and renewed confidence. It was his opium. The euphoria would wear off minutes later, however, and anguish would return. He continued along the fairground paths and through the crossroads of reasoning, yearning for inspiration to end the exhausting conflict with Fidel.
A gust of wind shook his coat and icily caressed his neck. JFK shivered and found himself alone. He was staring into the abyss that people called the sky, gaping at the sheer size of it. It confused him to try to conceive of its beginning, and he didn't dare imagine its end. At that moment he understood that his nation was no more than a splinter of an infinite universe and his own existence merely a brief flash in the tremendous cosmic darkness.
He felt lost and wondered if God had abandoned him.
As night gradually settled over the day, composing delicate hybrid hues, he glimpsed the mansion of J. E. Hoover and stopped instinctively. He had heard terrible tales about this sinister figure ever since he was a child, stories of drinking animal blood and biting off birds' heads, all invented by his nanny to make him eat his soup. Now, though, J. E. Hoover was his main ally. Yet for some, Hoover wielded more power than the president, thanks to a vast network of informers and spies constantly supplying him with compromising information about the country's citizens. It was said that Hoover kept detailed files that could destroy anyone's reputation, including that of JFK—that he had ordered phones to be hacked, and that he had access to confidential legal information. For that very reason, it was claimed, Hoover had the generals, clergy, bourgeois, and wise men all in his hand, each of them hostages to scandal.
Although he would callously berate Fidel Castro, burning up in ire like Cato recalling Carthage, Hoover's most exquisite hatred was reserved for the counselor. This was partly because of his importance to JFK, as if the deference shown to him obliterated part of what was due to himself. But it was also because he had never found anything in the counselor's conduct—not sex, nor drugs, nor drink—that could be used to mire him in shame. He had no trumps with which to manipulate him.
For a few moments, JFK remained before J. E. Hoover's house with a strange taste of cabbage soup in his mouth. He recalled Hoover's words during the last Council of State: "Human beings have an innate taste for servitude and subservience, a strange resignation to abuse, which allows minorities to tame the masses without much effort. That is why those who promise to emancipate them also throw them into the dungeons, as if it were the same thing. This is the reality, the only social contract possible. Let us not generate needs in them that they are currently unaware of, nor appetites for which we might one day become the food. The people are ugly, dirty, and bad, and all they want is bread and circuses."
* * *
JFK was in session with the counselor, and both kept a meditative silence. JFK began to pace around the table, closely imitated by his counselor.
Seen from above, through the reticulated eyes of a fly on the ceiling, these moving bodies would be transfigured into two masses of different shapes and sizes—a large rectangular one in front and a small spherical one behind. Such was the synchrony that as soon as one slowed his pace, the other would immediately follow suit. Likewise, any increase in speed would instantly be matched. However, as concord between two men never lasts long, JFK switched directions and crashed into the counselor, sending him flying some six feet—according to the mental calculations of the fly on the ceiling.
"Careful!" shouted JFK, rubbing his belly.
"I've had an idea," said the counselor, prostate. JFK pricked up his ears. Then, as he'd once seen in a play at the theater, the counselor got up and moved to the window. With his back to the president, he asked, "Mister President, how can you tell the strength and weakness of a man?"
"Well ..."
"To defeat Fidel we have to get into his mind, learn to think like he thinks, feel as he feels."
"What if we turn into Communists too?"
"Don't worry. There's a man that can help us—Castro's spy, captured last year. All you have to do is question him about his ideological concepts, his faith in the revolution, and the hatred he feels for our model of society. In other words, just let the tape play on to the end, and you'll decipher the mindset of his mentor."
Without bothering to summon guardsmen, JFK and the counselor headed straight to the cell to interrogate the man who could unlock doors into the intricate mind of Fidel Castro. In his eagerness for quick answers, JFK broke into a gallop that forced the counselor to run to keep up with him.
"I have one small doubt, Counselor. How are we going to make him talk?"
"We are going to earn his trust, seduce him."
"Wouldn't it be better to use more traditional methods, already tried and tested?"
The cells were located near the river in an occupied building, once a cosmopolitan cultural center. Facing westward, the rectangular building had a central open courtyard, three floors, and a two-gabled roof whose garrets had been converted into lookout posts for the sentries. The façades were broken by large, barred windows, the single doorway equipped with a heavy knocker. Bathed in dusky light, the stones emitted warm tones, and fiery reflexes shone in the windows. Glowing gently as if a profound mystical charge were emanating from it, the lockup seemed more like a place of repose and meditation. JFK and the counselor contemplated it. Like an apparition, the building radiated dazzling light, which held their gaze. "What Fidel would give for a prison like this!" burbled JFK, quite numb with aesthetic ecstasy. Stunned, the counselor closed his eyes.
At the door, JFK hesitated politely. "Do you not think it might be a bit late to visit?"
"They're still up. Anyway, it's your prison."
Not wishing to be rude, JFK gently tapped on the wood with the metal knocker. Knock, knock.
"Who's there?" yelled an uncouth, ill-humored voice.
"Us!"
"Us who?"
"Me—JFK—and the counselor."
"Got your ID?"
Irritated by the ignorance and unwillingness of servants, all too common in public services, the counselor roared: "If you don't open the door immediately, we shall have you hung before the day is out!"
The heavy door swung open, letting out a squeal of pain, such was the effort upon its poor old joints. A billow of musty air smacked them in the face like spittle, as if it had been waiting for the chance to escape.
"Would you be so kind as to step this way, Mister President?"
A ragged cloak, stretched out on the porch, served as a red carpet for the guests. Planted on it, looking sleepy and forcing a smile, was the prison governor. Opening his arms, he greeted JFK effusively: "Mister President, to what do we owe this honor?" JFK recoiled. He could well dispense with such excesses of affection, which would only give him lice and scabies.
"We've come on a top-secret mission. All I can say is that we wish to interrogate Fidel's spy."
"But that's against the rules!"
"Who do you think makes the rules if not the president?" snapped the counselor, restoring the logic of hierarchy.
"Well, in our land, rules were not made to be kept, were they?" quipped the governor, feeling his authority was being undermined.
"Take us to him, O scrupulous servant of the nation," bade JFK.
The former cinema, theater, and conference hall had been converted into collective cells, while the remaining rooms of the old cultural center served as dormitories for the wardens, a canteen, workshop, library, and the governor's quarters. For one hour a day, all prisoners were let loose in the courtyard to get some sun. They usually passed the time kicking each other violently as they pretended to be playing football.
All, that was, except Varadero, Fidel Castro's spy, who had been placed in top-security solitary confinement. "We can't let him mix with the other prisoners or he'll start converting them to the revolution, and then there'll be trouble," explained the governor. "Because of him, two dangerous criminals have taken to using berets and smoking cigars, while another has been greeting people with a clenched fist without so much as a by-your-leave. The cooks have been heckling for a raise and the guards have set up a labor committee. If I hadn't taken measures, goodness knows where it might have led."
"I see, I see," said JFK pensively.
"One day we had a riot among the prisoners because he decided to organize criticism and self-criticism sessions, and they all took advantage of it to get on each other and complain."
"That man's a danger," said JFK.
The governor decided to take the opportunity to give them a guided tour of the establishment. "Before I take you to see the spy, I'm going to show you the main cell, where we keep the most dangerous thugs on the face of the earth," he declared importantly, trying to boost his own worth. As they strolled, the strip of light projected by the torches transformed the three men into distorted shadows that slid along the walls in a two-dimensional procession. On this journey into darkness, strange phenomena occurred, turning the counselor into a giant and causing JFK and the governor to sometimes blend into a single patch with undefined contours. And thus the three flesh-and-blood beings and the phantasmagoric figures that accompanied them proceeded abreast down a long corridor until they arrived at a large collective cell, the former theater.
Its new actors had arranged themselves across the existing space, now bereft of seats. Some were standing, others seated, almost all involved in dialogues that ranged in tone from excitement to serenity, intense gesticulations to sleepy quietness, as if the stage director had allowed them total freedom to express themselves in a rehearsal without beginning or end. In scenes of greatest emotional intensity, groups of various sizes raised their voices and pushed and shoved at each other as if in a prelude to a brawl. In more intimate scenes, two or three men murmured confidences or told fantastic stories, while one or two solitary actors uttered seemingly interminable soliloquies.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Tragedy of Fidel Castro? by JOÃO CERQUEIRA Copyright © 2013 by João Cerqueira. Excerpted by permission of River Grove Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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