said nothing; Walter watched, his eyes melancholy, quiet. My laugh exhausted me. I gasped for breath. “Don’t stare at me,” I said, and sipped some tea. “I repeated to him what I’d said in Africa about the trade agreements, what I had said to him, to you, before: We’d be dependent on the Soviets for oil. We’d produce sugar, they’d trade us manufactured goods. Industrialization would come to an end. Everything would be the same as before.”
“And?” The harshness of his voice made his words peremptory, almost a command.
“And he said, Fine. Cuba was an agricultural country, should be an agricultural country. The cities were corrupt. Havana was the most corrupt, a whore to tourists, a white vampire that had sucked the wealth of the rest of the island. It had to wander in the wilderness forty years, return to wilderness until it was fit for freedom. Havana should be allowed to die; its sewers to break; its streets to decay; grass would grow between the paving stones. The peasants, he said, are the only trustworthy ones in the country. Farming was a beautiful thing, to work the land was a beautiful thing, the land itself was a beautiful thing. His hand reached out then and patted the air, as if he were stroking the island. The world, he said, was hungry, and growing hungrier. There would always be many hungry nations to buy our crops. The Soviets were right about some things, even if their reasons were crude. We had no internal market for industrial products. But we had a gift for breeding things. He talked about cows, about the different kinds of cows, about cross-breeding of cows, about raising new kinds of cattle on the state farms, about kudzu.”
“You don’t like cows?” Walter smiled, as he would have in the mountains many years ago, about to begin a story; somewhere in the past I heard his old voice say, there had been an important cow, an interesting cow. But he said no more. The smile was all that was left of the story, the smile and his ghostly voice.
“I don’t know much about cows. He knows a great deal. He’s really in love with it, his pastoral. He’s going to make himself Minister of Agriculture. He repeated that only the peasants understand the Revolution, understand it intheir being. The Revolution is in growing things, in crops, in grain, in cane, in cattle. The seasons are the rhythm of the Cuban Revolution. The people working the state farms are the base of the Revolution, the new proletariat.”
Walter laughed. “I remember when the rhythm of the revolution was the pachanga. Socialism with the pachanga.” His body shook in slow motion; each stage of his laugh was superimposed on another, a blur of forms. “And?” he said. His voice was very dry; he could hardly get the word out. His mouth had spittle around it, a lot of white foam. I lifted my arm from the table (a great effort it was, a great weight), and pointed. Walter narrowed his eyes at me, quizzically. “What?”
The foam disappeared. “Nothing.”
“And?” That ghostly sound; I always expected something else; I could not accommodate to it.
I drank some smoky tea, bringing my face close to the table. “And I said the Soviets wouldn’t protect us from the United States. They’d rubbed our faces in that in ’62. They’d made clowns of us. They’d abandoned us then and they had abandoned Vietnam to the most savage attack. They would abandon us again.”
“Abandon,” Walter rasped. “Forlorn word. Word from a love story. He said?”
“He didn’t say anything to that. He knew what I said was true. I had used his own phrases. He looked disappointed. I said that whatever we produced, still Cuba must have markets here, in Latin America. And it must have allies. It must break the encirclement, the blockade. And now was the right time. The Vietnamese had made an opportunity for us. Once begun, guerrilla warfare will spread throughout the continent. The United States cannot struggle here and in Asia. Our
“And?” The harshness of his voice made his words peremptory, almost a command.
“And he said, Fine. Cuba was an agricultural country, should be an agricultural country. The cities were corrupt. Havana was the most corrupt, a whore to tourists, a white vampire that had sucked the wealth of the rest of the island. It had to wander in the wilderness forty years, return to wilderness until it was fit for freedom. Havana should be allowed to die; its sewers to break; its streets to decay; grass would grow between the paving stones. The peasants, he said, are the only trustworthy ones in the country. Farming was a beautiful thing, to work the land was a beautiful thing, the land itself was a beautiful thing. His hand reached out then and patted the air, as if he were stroking the island. The world, he said, was hungry, and growing hungrier. There would always be many hungry nations to buy our crops. The Soviets were right about some things, even if their reasons were crude. We had no internal market for industrial products. But we had a gift for breeding things. He talked about cows, about the different kinds of cows, about cross-breeding of cows, about raising new kinds of cattle on the state farms, about kudzu.”
“You don’t like cows?” Walter smiled, as he would have in the mountains many years ago, about to begin a story; somewhere in the past I heard his old voice say, there had been an important cow, an interesting cow. But he said no more. The smile was all that was left of the story, the smile and his ghostly voice.
“I don’t know much about cows. He knows a great deal. He’s really in love with it, his pastoral. He’s going to make himself Minister of Agriculture. He repeated that only the peasants understand the Revolution, understand it intheir being. The Revolution is in growing things, in crops, in grain, in cane, in cattle. The seasons are the rhythm of the Cuban Revolution. The people working the state farms are the base of the Revolution, the new proletariat.”
Walter laughed. “I remember when the rhythm of the revolution was the pachanga. Socialism with the pachanga.” His body shook in slow motion; each stage of his laugh was superimposed on another, a blur of forms. “And?” he said. His voice was very dry; he could hardly get the word out. His mouth had spittle around it, a lot of white foam. I lifted my arm from the table (a great effort it was, a great weight), and pointed. Walter narrowed his eyes at me, quizzically. “What?”
The foam disappeared. “Nothing.”
“And?” That ghostly sound; I always expected something else; I could not accommodate to it.
I drank some smoky tea, bringing my face close to the table. “And I said the Soviets wouldn’t protect us from the United States. They’d rubbed our faces in that in ’62. They’d made clowns of us. They’d abandoned us then and they had abandoned Vietnam to the most savage attack. They would abandon us again.”
“Abandon,” Walter rasped. “Forlorn word. Word from a love story. He said?”
“He didn’t say anything to that. He knew what I said was true. I had used his own phrases. He looked disappointed. I said that whatever we produced, still Cuba must have markets here, in Latin America. And it must have allies. It must break the encirclement, the blockade. And now was the right time. The Vietnamese had made an opportunity for us. Once begun, guerrilla warfare will spread throughout the continent. The United States cannot struggle here and in Asia. Our
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