Havana

Chapter 18

"Oh, the young crusader!" said El Colorado. "What a fine specimen he is. Come in, boy, let's have a look at you!"

El Colorado was vast and brown, the mahogany of his skin set off by the whiteness of his teeth and his hair and his suit as he sat on the patio at his house, no. 352, on the corner of 23rd Avenue in 15th Street in Vedado.

The old man was enjoying a perfectly hard-boiled egg in a cup. A sea breeze blew in, as the Caribbean was but a few blocks away, yet what Castro could see, as he was brought in to the old man, was flowers: a cascade of them, in the gardens below the patio, invisible from 23rd Avenue.

"The great El Colorado," he said. "I come at last to show my respects!"

" At last is certainly right, boy. You young ones, you have no respect for those who came before and did the hard work. You think we lived merely as midwives to the birth of your generation."

This bitter truth, nevertheless, was delivered with a great deal of zest and humor. Whatever had passed before, this day found El Colorado in fabulous humor.

And why not? He lived in one of Havana's most beautiful houses, he had six of the most beautiful mistresses in the city-Castro had eyed them longingly as he was escorted through the house by a factotum, but he could see their tastes were too evolved for a ragamuffin speechifier, as he was-and he ruled the city's vice network, with the exception of the women who worked the big Americano hotels and gambling houses. He was rich. Not bad for a socialist.

"It is true," Castro said humbly. "In my generation, we think we have invented everything ourselves. That is our shortsightedness. We forget the great Marti, we forget the great El Colorado. Now, with a view toward what is possible in the future, I have come to make introductions, amends, and to seek the advice of the greatest revolutionary fighter of the thirties."

"Sit, then. Julian, bring the boy some coffee. I see in your face, in its ovals and whiteness, you are not long separated from the motherland."

"I am only a third generation. My father is a petty caudillo in Oriente, and his father a humble soldier who stayed after the debacle of '98."

"Otherwise, you would have more cocoa in you. I see only lily-white. That is good for your ambitions, I know. It will be yet a time before anyone of chocolate persuasion makes a difference in our homeland."

"That is one of the things I hope to change."

The old man laughed hilariously. He found young Castro truly amazing.

"See, Julian, how well he plays. He knows which keys to hit, and exactly when to hit them. This boy has talent."

"Yes, senor," said the servant.

"Fetch him more coffee. You, young man, are a pleasure to have around."

"Thank you, senor."

"But what exactly do you seek? A favor? A source of income? A strategic consultation?"

"Advice, I suppose. And, I hope, friendship. That you would say good things about me, if asked. And if I am in a position to repay this kindness ever, then I shall do so. We in the struggle must concentrate on our opponents, not each other."

"Possibly I am too old and used-up for good advice."

"Yet still I hear of your heroism in the '36 strike against United Fruit, and leading the dockworkers in '42. Those were great days."

"My best, my favorite, the source still of pride and manhood. But I'll tell you my miscalculation. I believed too much in the strike as a weapon. Now, especially, with all this American money invested and the people getting used to soft living, I doubt the power of them to sustain a strike and of a strike to topple Batista and drive the Americans out."

"Then it's terror?"

"Terror is messy. The wrong people die, always. The hunger for blood becomes difficult to manage. Killing begets killing. A nightmare of betrayal and recrimination. I am thinking of something new: symbolic terror."

Castro leaned forward.

"I don't follow you."

"Suppose something happened that was grand," El Colorado said, leaning forward, his eyes lit with inspiration. "Big! Something that had never happened before. Something that gave the people hope and heart and dreams of the future. And yet nobody died. And now I see a greater possibility. What if, furthermore, they ascribed that thing to you. You, young Castro, you had done this wondrous thing. Your name was on everybody's lips. Moreover, upon this occasion, you gave a grand speech. Your words were heard the country over. History, you say, will absolve me! And this speech puts you on the map so powerfully that no force on earth could take you off."

"'History will absolve me.' Hmmm," said the young man, "yes. Yes, I do like that. I am for that, I agree to that."

"Excellent. What wondrous instincts you have. Amazing in one so young."

"And what is this thing?"

"Imagine…an American casino. Bandits attack it. But they kill no one. They abscond with millions, yes? They abscond with millions, and before the police can intercede, they have passed it out in the slums. All that American money, gone straight to the poor. And if the agent for this deliverance were seen to be young Castro, can you imagine the impact? Ah…" He paused.

The American gangsters who ran the casinos were by repute men not to be trifled with, Castro thought. Yet the gain would in fact be so enormous it stunned him. And if the connection between himself and the crime were more associational than exact, no charges could be brought, no prison sentence would ensue. He turned it over in his mind.

"Such a thing is going to happen?"

"Exactly as I have described it. It is a thing I have contemplated for many a year, and the planning is immaculate. Come with me."

The old man stood up. He led young Castro through what seemed countless rooms jammed with treasures both of artistic and fleshly perfection. In most, servants bowed and scraped unctuously, and the grand socialist El Colorado sailed through as though it were beneath him to notice.

But from this heaven on earth, they departed quickly enough by way of stairs to the cellar, and in its darkness discovered a hell on earth-or more precisely, the capacity to bring hell to earth by virtue of violence.

In the deep underground, men labored, shirtless, on machine guns. So many machine guns! Many were broken down, and their parts lay greasy and sparkling under bare bulbs. But some of the guns were being assembled with a surgeon's care, by black men with soldier's graces who knew what they were doing.

"They have just arrived. From friends in Chicago, of all places. Come, look."

He seized one of the finished guns, held it, admiring its weight and density, its gleaming beauty, the glow of its wood and metal parts, the sleekness of its design, the efficiency of its workings.

"Do you know this weapon, young Castro?"

"You see them everywhere. The police carry them. The Thompson gun, I believe. And now we have them."

"Yes. To even the odds. If you fight mobsters, you must have a mobster's gun. He respects the gun. These guns will make my enterprise work smoothly and without damage."

"I had no idea you had machine guns," said Castro, deeply impressed.

"These will carry the day," said El Colorado. "You may be sure of it! They won't even have to be fired! Now go, young man. You have a speech to write. You have to tell people that the day after tomorrow, big things are coming and that they come owing to your strength and vision. You should profit from this venture in power; I will profit merely in satisfaction."

"History will absolve us," said Castro.