Blame It on the Bossa Nova by James Brodie Page B

sitting.
    “Alright. But you are, aren’t you?.... Jesus, you picked the wrong bloke when you picked me. Didn’t you know I was a raving Trot?”
    “A Trot?” For a second the colour drained from his face, then he recovered, slowly. “Ah.... Another of your little jokes Alex.”
    He laughed a sick laugh and consoled himself with thoughts of my secret trial after the revolution.
    “What’s all the fuss about anyway?” I demurred. “America’s only pursuing the Monroe Doctrine. It’s been doing that since 1823.”
    “Look, listen. You know nothing. Got it? Nothing.... Get that into your head and you’re going places. The Monroe Doctrine is a piece of history. Why d’you think the CIA hasn’t sparked off an internal insurrection?”
    “The Bay of Pigs…”
    “The Bay of Pigs was a half-cocked invasion by exiles - No, answer my question. They could have. Cuba’s crawling with CIA agents. Counter insurgency in Latin America has been a preoccupation of Kennedy’s since his senate days. They’ve got the organisation. I’ll tell you why they haven’t done it. It’s because they don’t want to damage U.S. property.... That’s right. Who d’you think owns the electric light company and the telephone company or the oil refineries.... Private U.S. corporations. That’s how nutty they are. They’re scared of a counter-revolution because they don’t want to damage their own property. It’s hilarious isn’t it?” He was laughing that bitter twisted laughter that is close to hysteria. “.. You see, their dream, the object of their policy, is to hand all that private property back, not only to U.S. citizens but also to Cuban exiles, in perfect working order. That’s what they did in ‘54 in Guatamala after the CIA had kicked out Arbenz. Aren’t they beautiful?” He was still laughing in that way that made me nervous. “Aren’t they so beautiful - The cunts.... Castro’s so scared he only gives his armed forces twenty four hours supply of ammunition. He’s not sure who’s loyal and who isn’t... Unrelenting hostility - that’s the terminology for their policy. It’s got nothing to do with the Monroe Doctrine. It’s linked with Berlin, the whole world. And the joke is, it’s alienating every section of Cuban opinion. There isn’t one Cuban that agrees with U.S. policy - Not even the scum. ... But that’s irrelevant. We’re not bothered about what Cubans think.”
    A phrase came back to me.
    “The sacrifices of our Cuban Brothers?” I said.
    “Oh sure, sure. Of course, of course. But when the editor of Time magazine says ‘If Khrushchev wants nuclear war he can have it,’ - and he’s a moderate, then it becomes clear that even by its own insane moral standards the American Industrial - Military machine is out of control.” Perhaps he was aware that he’d got too carried away, revealed something behind the bland exterior, but anyway we neither of us said anything for a few minutes, but sat just looking across at the copse that formed the perimeter of the Isabella Plantation.
    “So... OK Toby, you’ve convinced me. I’ll do it.” I slapped him on the back in a pathetically unconvincing simulation of bonhomie. He needn’t have wheeled out the big guns for me. His first salvo would have sunk me. Besides, it wasn’t in my interests to humiliate him in political debate, even if I were to have the capacity.
    “Good,” he mused absent-mindedly. I wondered whether he was still brooding over the machinations of U.S. foreign policy, or seriously re-appraising my suitability for the job. Eventually he broke the silence.
    “You see, I don’t think you realize what a mess the world’s in.”
    I had some idea things could have been in better shape, but I let him continue.
    “... Everyone’s running scared. Macmillan’s shitting himself. Everything he touches turns to shit. He’s staked everything on this Common Market application, and he didn’t even want to do that. Kennedy forced him