“Havana is a captivating tropical cocktail”. Nothing irritates me like this all-too familiar opening sentence of your typical guide. After reading Gutiérrez's Dirty Havana Trilogy, any Cuba travel brochure becomes revolting. Tropical Animal furthers the struggle; it is a dialectical novel which proceeds to first de-exoticize Havana, then counter-exoticize Europe, embodied by a protestant Nordic country. The vector of the dialectic is love; riveting in Havana, condescending in Stockholm. Gutiérrez's own Havana travel guide opens like this: “between shit and the clouds impossible to find a balance”. He insists that "nothing is political", just in case you'd be tempted to mistake him for a tropical Solzhenitsyn. Gutiérrez is not a tedious dissident. He's a poet in a rut, like Bukowski and Aragon. In Havana Central, his neighbors, mothers, eat when they sleep with the butcher and the baker, roll cigars, con tourists, and try to avoid overflowing sewers. Gutiérrez is an optimist: he "graces God that not everything is shit". A profound thought which describes a half-full world. In Cuba, like in the rest of God's world, not everything is shit. For example, the sea, beyond the beach litter, isn't shit. Gutiérrez, like Hugo in Guernsey, marvels at boats dancing through storms. Another profound paradox Gutiérrez poetically ponders is that the more food runs out, the more shit invades the world. Gutiérrez's dirty realism is as a matter of fact a powerful metaphysics of shit. Broken promises sully material and spiritual life; shit is the smell of fiasco, the evidence of the global mess, from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. It is also the inspiration of the artist. “An artist transforms it into raw material. (...) He creates sculptures, paintings, songs, novels, poems, short stories, and all that reeks of fresh shit." Paradoxes make Tropical Animal highly readable despite its loose and detached narration. A fifty-year-old writer who says he needs quiet to write his novel, chooses to live between roaring Chinese engines mounted on chevrolets and howling Marc Anthony tapes on terraces where mamacitas hustle. Among them: his adored Gloria, who loves nothing more than scrubbing for him and making love to him, rubbing and rubbing herself. The novel stalls but the people of Cuba keep making love. Outside ron, sex is the only delight, a currency of which every ass is a central bank. And inflation ensues. Book II, the narrator tries making love in the land of salmons and suicides, but the silence of the birch forests of the suburbs of Stockholm terrifies him: he drinks too much, he botches up, brags about it, and tires me. I still love him.