El Commandante is aging in his mansion in Havana, while a Cuban exile in Miami plots (in his mind) against him. Most anything about Cuba I devour since traveling there; this combination a great tour de force, especially since Castro had died not all that long before our visit. a few parts I especially noted:
speaking of Castro (whose endless speeches were legendary), and then of the ubiquitous image of Che (which we saw everywhere in Cuba): "Of all his infirmities, the incessant choking bothered him most because it interfered with his ability to speak. If he couldn't speak, he couldn't cajole, intimidate, or command.... His old rial, Che, had suffered from chronic asthma, and this had slowed down the rebels in the Sierra Maestra. Half the time, Che was laid up looking like a goddamn saint. At least he's had the decency to (finally) die young and photogenic while 'exporting revolution to Latin America, thereby becoming the face of radical heroism. That photography -the one of him in a beret looking beatifically toward the future-was the most ubiquitous image of the twentieth century. Fifteen years ago an anthropology museum in Los Angeles had exhibited its infinite reproductions: refrigerator magnets, T-shirts, designer handbags, flip-flops, even neckties. page 29
And this one, which captures many of the contractions we saw and hear about, again and again: "A stack of fresh reports was piled high on his [Castro's] desk: annual nickel production, last winter's lobster harvest, revisions to the elementary school curriculum, tobacco exports to Switzerland, illegal marijuana production in Oriente, the trade imbalance with Mozambique, an espose on the cross-dressing babalawos of Camaguey, another of Baracoa's illicit moonshine operators (Five people had died from the sweet potato liquor.) How the hell did he know what was true anymore? People told him only what they thought he wanted to hear. Nobody had the nerve to say that this plan was unsound, or that most government employees didn't bother to show up for work on any given day. Cuba was riddled with corruption, hustlers, parasites: plagued by a culture of sinecure, amiguismo, back-scratching, ball-scratching. If you didn't lie, cheat, or steal* you were considered stupid or incredibly naive. If you happened to be a genuinely honest, hardworking revolutionary, you came under the worst scrutiny of all accused of being a spry, a sellout angling for some negligible advantage over your neighbor. (and under *: Stealing is an ugly word, Papito, but I ask you this: When I steal your entry fee from the state, why do you call that 'theft'? Everyone here works for slave wages, so I ask you: who's robbing whom? - Yvette Aguirre, Paragada factory tour guide " pages 91-91
And this one, speaking of Castro’s spies and Soviet espionage: “To this day Cuban spies had infiltrated the highest ranks of the CIA and the Pentagon without blowing their covers….The intelligence they’d gathered, e.g., who’d killed President Kennedy, Jimmy Hoffa’s whereabouts, et cetera, had proved invaluable for the Revolution as well as for the Soviets, who’d turned out to be as clumsy in espionage as they were in bed.” pages 110-11