The Tragedy of Fidel Castro

The Tragedy of Fidel Castro , a novel
Highlights

I

’’If we don’t do anything, something terrible will happen… or even worse, they’ll say it was our fault.’’
’’Don’t upset yourself. Just as they’ve stripped us of our merits, so they’ll exempt us from responsibilities, you’ll see. Just as they invent theories to explain the beauty of a flower, so they will find a way of justifying killing between men.’’
’’Fine words, but one day someone will use mathematical formulae and computer programmes to prove that we don’t exist….’’
’’First of all, there are a great many people that no longer believe, and secondly, that would mean that our problems would be over….’’
’’And then what would we do? What sense does it make for us to be considered products of the human imagination?’’
’’Aren’t you the one that usually has an answer for everything?’’ 
      This was followed by some moments of somewhat embarrassing divine silence. Then, after millennia of celestial contention, God decided to bare his soul.
      ’’I confess I’m intrigued. Could there be someone above us? Who created me, then?’’
’’No one, you are the only being that has not been created.’’
’’But that is completely illogical, an affront to basic rationality….’’
’’What is fascinating in this mystery of origins and beginnings is that not even we understand it….’’
Absorbed in the contemplation of the firmament, God digressed. .’’To have no beginning and no end…’’
‘’The specialist books on the subject insist that we are immortal…’’ 
‘’Would that be a gift or a punishment?’’ Christ looked confused but God went on with his musings. ’’I also wanted to have a father and a mother….’’
’’You have billions of children….’’
’’I sometimes wonder if their real father wasn’t someone else….’’
’’It’s the adoptive father that counts….’’
’’But, if I created them in my own image, then why do they behave as they do?’’
’’You’re in no position to complain. Before I was born you were terribly mischievous...and in any case, you gave them the freedom of choice, free will.’’
’’That doesn’t seem to have been a very good idea….’’
’’That’s the problem. Only thinking beings can conceive transcendental existence. Can you imagine a turkey in a mystic ecstasy, contemplating his magnificent Baroque sculptures?’’ God frowned. He’d never been very keen on sacred art. ’’We’re getting off the subject….’’ ’’It’s all related, can’t you see? Your creation is trying to break free of its creator. Look, they have already discovered that you didn’t mould them out of clay and that women were not made from a man’s rib. Nowadays almost everyone agrees they’re descended from apes. No one believes in hell, no one goes to confession. They’ve even managed to create test-tube babies and clones.’’
’’Are you telling me I’ve been fired?’’
’’You can’t be fired because you’re the boss. What they want is to set up on their own.’’ ’’But why are they so rebellious?’’
      Christ hesitated before replying, and his countenance grew serious.
      ’’I suspect that none of them, not even those that claim to be believers, are really convinced that another life exists….’’
God placed his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. ’’So, what do they believe in, then?’’
’’Oh, they believe in power and money, in the good life, wild parties, things like that….’’ God remained silent, lost in eschatological ruminations. ’’You know, son, maybe you’re right. I sent you to Earth to save men, but they ended up fighting amongst themselves in your name, enslaving each other and burning people on bonfires….’’
’’Even the angels defy you. What do you expect?’’
’’I might be old but I’m not finished yet. I can still conjure up a plague or two.’’ - God began to sing an old song, ’’...Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy….’’ to which Christ countered, ‘’... from the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen...’’- (and their exchange continued)
’’Plagues? They would invent a cure right away and say it was all caused by genetic mutations.’’
‘’You’re right, the time for anger and revenge is over… This time, we’re going to think before we act.’’
’’I warn you, father, I’m not going to be the court jester all over again. With me, history doesn’t repeat itself....’’
“All right. But don’t forget the great religious, philosophical, and political influence that you have over these two men. JFK doesn’t lift a finger without invoking your name, and Fidel thinks he’s applying the principles of equality that you preached. In their own muddled way, they’re both trying to imitate you. In fact, if we look at the situation carefully, it wasn’t really me that created them, it was you. They’re your kids, Son!”
Now although Christ was used to being accused of all kinds of things and to shouldering the blame for others, his mouth dropped open in stupefaction. “So it’s my fault now? Me? And I . . . not even with Magdalene.”
After this disconcerting dialogue, God retired into the clouds with an infernal headache. Now he had two problems to sort out. Christ remained where he was, paralyzed by the unexpected dilemma that his father had thrust upon him yet unable to push away the chalice that was offered.
As these two reactions to adversity (movement and quiet) were quite different, even opposing, we might deduce that when the gods, like men, find themselves under pressure, just about anything could happen. Indeed, that might explain the frequent bouts of divine ire in the Old Testament, the slaughtered lambs, Christ’s rage at the moneylenders, the cruel vengeance exacted by mythological gods, and Orisha’s sudden fits of fury. In fact, only Buddha, who’s not really a god at all, has managed to keep out of brawls when he finally managed to liberate himself from all desires except food!

II

“Comrades, the capitalist oppression is over,” the commandant began, holding up a finger in warning before an audience that was desperately trying to find meaning in his words. “Starting today, the people are in charge. No more landowners will exploit you, and no financial speculators. All businesses will be nationalized and tax havens closed down.”
As the speech went on, the crowd grew more and more confused. “Maybe it’s not us he’s talking to,” they muttered. “This reminds me of one of the padre’s sermons.” “It would’ve been better if the Chinese had invaded us.”
However, all their doubts evaporated when the speaker moved on to more concrete subjects, things of common interest and general understanding. “The land belongs to all of us now.”
This unexpected declaration struck the ears of all those present and was followed by a collective murmur that gradually overwhelmed the voice of the commandant, forcing him to speak louder to make himself heard. As the wall of whispers increased in intensity, isolating the orator’s words, he found his vocal cords wavering until eventually, like a flame in a bell jar, his voice was extinguished into silence. A few moments of great confusion followed, a tumult soldiers were unable to control with their pushing and threatening. The people then began to put the revolutionary theories into practice by issuing orders. “No one touches my pig!” shouted one irate farmer, brandishing an imaginary hoe. This ignited the others, who protested heatedly against the proposal for agrarian reform and Castro-inspired collectivization. 
Surprised at the fanatical response from the people, who were proving more reactionary and bourgeois than welcoming, as the oppressed were supposed to be with their liberators, the commandant experienced the first signs of a tremendous headache. He took a deep breath and replied as sweetly and gently as he could: “The pig belongs to the people, comrade.” (He said this while imagining himself savoring slices of cured ham.) But as he was getting ready to explain the benefits of abolishing private property and dividing up personal wealth and capital equipment, another man called out rudely, “What about the women? Do they belong to the people too?” This raised a roar of coarse laughter. Having definitively lost their fear of intervening, the masses erupted in a chorus of spoken thoughts, revealing their innermost feelings. “You can have my wife any time!” “Let’s get down to it then. Drop your drawers, Maria!” “Oh, my poor daughters!”
Worn out and bad tempered, given the failure of the debriefing session, the commandant felt like ordering half a dozen men to be shot to set an example. He tried to restore order by saying the first thing that came to mind. “From now on, pornography is banned.” This got him embroiled in an argument with the protesters, who were getting noisier by the minute.
“But we haven’t got that here yet.”
“An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.”
“Sorry, I’m not sure about something.”
“What is it?”
“Does a romp in the hay with the neighbor’s wife count as pornography?”
“Well . . . not if she’s a comrade. But if she’s a capitalist, then yes, obviously it does.”
“And if she’s neither?”
“That’s impossible. Anyone who is not with us is against us.”
“That’s very complicated.”
“And what about doing the five-knuckle shuffle?”
“Enough!” shouted the commandant, furious at the people’s lack of discipline. “This rabble is completely ungovernable,” he ruminated. He was at a loss as to how to deal with the chaos he had created.
In the meantime, some of the people had begun to insult each other, reviving old feuds, scoffing, and generally threatening to transform the debriefing session into a pitched battle. Soldiers, unused to such attitudes, suspected these must be very strange and complex people, maybe even a little crazy. They hesitated about what to do. Once more, the commandant proved he could deal with the most sensitive situations with enviable sangfroid: Two shots into the air were enough to calm people down and reduce the clamor to a deathly silence.
The square now looked as if it were filled with stiff statues modeled by an mediocre sculptor. Dazzled by his own magic, the commandant savored the moment, more convinced than ever that one shot was worth a thousand words.
With arms outstretched as if to embrace the crowd, he addressed the protesters again, this time with more confidence. “I can see that I didn’t make myself clear, comrades. This can all be summed up as a process of dialectic, whereby the opposition of contrary concepts gives rise to the perfect synthesis. That is to say, what used to be mine and yours is no longer mine or yours; it’s now ours. Do we understand each other?”
The pig owner, who greatly appreciated sausages and brined meat, was visibly distressed and muttered: “He won’t eat pig feed.” But all others remained silent. This subtle example of popular wisdom, where silence can mean anything at all, from a given thing to its exact opposite, left the commandant wary. He then realized that facing a silent crowd could be a much more difficult undertaking than confronting a noisy mob.
Meanwhile, accustomed to simple yet incontestable language, the people were waiting to be given clear orders and specific instructions. For the selfsame reason, they became more rowdy when the commandant urged them to speak up, in what he called a session of criticism and self-criticism. “Comrades, to perfect our new classless society, each of us will say what he or she thinks about himself or herself and about others.” This unexpected invitation was received with astonishment by those present, now entirely convinced that some sort of plot was being hatched against them.
“I told you he was a padre in disguise.”
“He just wants to know where we keep our money.”
“Anyone who speaks will be hanged.”
With the sentiment of the people explained, verbalized in collective fears, no one dared open their mouth.
Helplessly watching as his strategy crumbled around him, the commandant  controls a new urge to draw his gun recalling the old psychological manipulation techniques he had learned at elementary school. “Anyone who finds his tongue gets some chocolate,” he cried, his face trapped in a satanic angelic smirk. “Some chocolate?” the people called out, unable to contain the saliva pouring from their lips.
“Yes, some chocolate.”
“The good stuff?”
“The best money can buy.”
A huge tumult broke loose once again in the throng, with everyone jostling for position, leaping in the air and trampling on each other’s feet as they struggled to be granted the right to speak. This time the soldiers, themselves deprived of the pleasure of the capitalist invention known as chocolate, had no qualms about unleashing their rifle butts on the crowds. What was the point of eating delicacies once your teeth had been bashed out? Finally, when everyone had settled down, the commandant ordered everyone to sign up to talk. To his surprise, the process was all very civil, without any insults or blows. The only break in the proceedings came with some angry voices proclaiming, “Exploiters and the exploited will only cease to exist on the day everyone eats chocolate mousse!” “Pastry chefs of the world unite!”



III

When he returned, he found the devil, sitting cross-legged in the now-cold chair where J. E. Hoover had once sat, tapping his fingers on the table. He gazed at him naturally, as if they were old acquaintances at a scheduled meeting. ’’It’s just as well you came.’’
      Charming as ever, the devil replied beguilingly, ’’Unlike others, I am always available when I am needed.’’
’’I have often been on the point of calling for you, so many afflictions have I suffered, but I have always managed to extricate myself on my own…’’
’’You know, you and I are similar, we have much in common. We started off as good-hearted angels that knew no evil, one obedient, the other already a little rebellious, until one day, knowing that we were the most intelligent, we got fed-up and decided to taste the pleasures of evil. From then on, so sweet are the delights of being evil, there was no way back. However, your resistance even surprises me...’’
’’But I’m tired. I don't have the energy I had before, and I need your help so as not to lose the meaning of my life.’’
The devil stroked his goatee and gazed idly at the ceiling. ’’Nobody knows this, not even you, but I have lent a hand to all the great leaders that have gone down in posterity, filling them with vigour when they wanted to give up, removing a powerful enemy from their path, ensuring that they received boundless affection from their people and sometimes even from those they had conquered. So now it’s your turn. Just ask what you want and it shall be granted.’’   
Fidel, stood a polite distance away, took a deep breath, and took a deep look inside himself. Then finally, he took a step towards the devil. ’’In the future I want to be remembered as the man that confronted the tyranny of capitalism and rescued the people from exploitation. I want schoolbooks to describe the new society I built and compare it with the previous one. I want my life to be studied, and without hiding my mistakes, to conclude that I did everything possible to give the men and women of this world a more worthy existence.’’. When he had stopped speaking, now almost touching the devil, Fidel was exhausted, on the point of fainting.
  ’’It will be done.’’
’’What do you want in exchange?’’
The devil’s lip curled and he rubbed an eye, amused at Fidel’s naivety. ’’You have been making part of the payment for many years now. As for the rest, I’ll be round to collect that after the battle, in which none of your men will come out alive.’’
Hardly surprised and knowing only too well who made the rules, Fidel was rebellious to a fault, even to the prince of darkness. Already imagining himself organising a mutiny amongst the condemned souls of hell, he dared ask an embarrassing question that had been niggling him. ’’Don’t take this badly, my dear devil..., but what if God by chance decides to intervene in the battle as well?’’
At this, Lucifer’s horns, which till then had been hidden by his thick shock of black hair, began to protrude, the hairs on his body stood on end and blue sparks began to fly from his eyes. Vexed, he got to his feet, overturning his chair, and stared furiously at El Comandante. Old doubts as to Fidel Castro’s malevolence began to stir in him. Before disappearing in the same way as he had arrived, with blood on his bitten tongue, he thundered a sarcastic retort that made the tent tremble: ’’Just look at the world and tell me who is the strongest!’’ 


http://www.amazon.com/Tragedy-Fidel-Castro-Joao-Cerqueira/dp/1938416163/ref=sr_1...

The Author

João Cerqueira, who has a PhD in History of Art from the University of Oporto, has published a number of books in his home country of Portugal.
These include scholarly works on history and art – Art and Literature in the Spanish Civil War (published in Portugal and Brazil), a biography of the Portuguese queen, Maria Pia of Savoy, and three satirical novels: A Culpa é Destes Liberdades (Blame it on to much Freedom, 2007); A Tragédia de Fidel Castro (Saída de Emergência Edições, 2008) and Reflexões do Diabo (Devil's Observations, 2010).
The second of these, translated here as The Tragedy of Fidel Castro, was voted book of the month and book of the year in 2009 by the literary magazine Os Meus Livros. Excerpts were published in the Toad Suck Review #2, Danse Macabre, Literary Lunes, All Right Magazine, The Liberator Magazine and Anastomo.