Fidel.
Sergio Cervantes, our host, an Afro-Cuban who looks Brazilian, told us that we should wear ties at the reception. I hadn’t had a tie around my neck in 17 years. I didn’t even own a suit. When I had visited Mafalda and Erico Verísimo, the author of O Tempo e o Vento, in Porto Alegre in 1975, Erico had told me that he had burned all his ties many years ago. I had done the same thing, mentally. And in Havana, all of a sudden, I vacillated. Should I break with protocol and show up in one of the two pairs of jeans that I’d brought? Should I refuse the invitation in protest over socialist formalities? What the hell kind of a custom was this, when, in the National Congress in Brasília and in the Palace of the Revolution in Cuba, a strip of cloth was considered a sign of being well dressed? I wracked my brains, a thousand imaginary protests chasing one another through my head; I wavered and accepted the loan of a suit and tie from Jorge Ferreira, a Cuban friend. They fit me perfectly, and there I went, all wrapped up, putting up with Joelmir’s teasing.
The Palace of the Revolution, which is located in the square of the same name, behind a monument to José Martí, is a solemn building from Batista’s time reminiscent of the fascist architecture of the first Getulio Vargas administration in Brazil. The never-ending staircase looked like the Maracaná amphitheater. At the door, protected by an honor guard, we presented our invitations. We stayed in the entrance until the Cuban and Algerian anthems had been played. In the immense hall of marble and stone, decorated with live plants, stained-glass windows, and abstract murals, the guests listened to the speeches in Spanish and Arabic that preceded Fidel’s presenting Chadli Bendjedid with the José Martí Medal, the most important one in the country. Members of the diplomatic corps and Cuban leaders — members of the Political Bureau and of the Central Committee and ministers — were present, in addition to the visiting delegation.
When the laudatory formalities were over, trays of mojitos, daiquiris, and juice were passed among the informal groups. I went over to Minister of Culture Armando Hart, a man who doesn’t separate reason from emotion — a rare quality. We expressed our sorrow over the fact that Alí Gómez García, a 33-year-old Venezuelan, had been killed in battle the day before while defending Nicaragua against Reagan’s mercenaries. Last February I was part of the jury that awarded the prize for personal memoir in Spanish to Falsas, maliciosas y escandalosas reflexiones de un ñángara (False, malicious, and scandalous reflections of a red), the text Alí had sent to the Casa de las Américas Literary Awards Contest. Raúl Castro, Fidel’s younger brother and minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces, walked over, and Hart introduced us. On learning that I was a priest, he said, “I spent so many years in boarding school that I attended enough mass to last me the rest of my life. I was taught by the Christian Brothers and the Jesuits. Just think: I’d studied in Santiago de Cuba, yet, when I took part in the attack on the Moncada garrison, in 1953, I realized that I didn’t really know the city. I haven’t stayed in the church, but I’ve kept the principles of Christ. I don’t renounce those principles. They give me the hope of salvation, and the revolution carries them out: it sends the rich away empty-handed and gives bread to the hungry. Everyone can be saved here; there are no rich, and Christ said it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle…”
Raúl said this in a very good-natured way. You could see that he was an affable person. Nevertheless, outside Cuba he’s reputed to be tough. Imperialism’s caprices: with its powerful communications media it paints caricatures of its enemies in our minds. It paints Raúl as a sectarian and John Kennedy as a handsome boy. But the one who planned, organized, sponsored, and financed the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961, in flagrant disregard for the Cuban people’s sovereignty, was Jacqueline’s young, smiling, democratic, Catholic husband. In his personal relations Raúl is relaxed and talks with a smile, which is a rare thing among capitalist politicians, who are always so circumspect. And how could the husband of a woman as sweet as Vilma Espín be tough?
It seemed it would be impossible to greet Fidel, who is always surrounded by guests, photographers, and TV people. Then they invited us into a small, less ceremonious room. We were in the doorway when the comandante, in dress uniform, came in with Chadli Bendjedid. When they saw us, they came over. His shyness was evident. Yes, a man of that size, who yells what he thinks in Uncle Sam’s face and makes four-hour speeches, was practically apologetic about who he is.
“You’ve made two revolutions. The first was the Cuban revolution, and the second was getting my father to leave Brazil for the first time — and on an airplane, too!”
“Don’t worry; I’ll get him to return by train,” Fidel said.
In February, I’d been with the comandante at the home of Chomi Miyar, his personal secretary, doctor, and photographer, and had given him my shrimp bobó recipe, but Cuba has no dendé [Brazilian coconut] oil in which to cook the seasonings. I couldn’t find someone to take him the dendé until March.
“I made your shrimp recipe,” he said. “It came out good, but I can’t say great, ‘cause there wasn’t any dendé. The famous oil didn’t arrive until later. Plus, I made some changes, and I want to discuss them with you.”
Dona Stella saw her chance and commented that she and I had our differences over the shrimp bobó. Despite the fact that, somewhat oedipally, I consider her the best cook in the world — thanks to which I am alive and healthy — the bobó recipe that appears in her Quentes e frios (Hot and cold) isn’t the one I learned at Victoria. The Brazilian Capixabas people’s secret is to beat the boiled yucca in the water the shrimp were boiled in. This tones down the yucca flavor and brings out the flavor of the shrimp.
We were involved in the middle of a culinary discussion when Fidel excused himself politely to go over to the Algerian president, who was waiting for him. We went over to a corner, and when the Algerian leader had made himself comfortable, the comandante came back to us. He wanted to know how long we would be in Cuba. He said he was sorry Joelmir would have to leave the next Wednesday, so as to arrive in Brazil on Thursday and fly to West Germany on Friday. Fidel was going to be busy with Chadli Bendjedid until Monday, and on Tuesday he would be participating in the 40th anniversary celebration of the Allied victory in World War II. Thoughtful, holding a small cigar, with his right thumb rubbing his lips — almost lost among the white hairs of his beard — shaking his head as if to say no, he made up his mind right away: “Look, Joelmir isn’t the one who wants to talk to me. I want to talk to him. We can meet Monday night and at some time on Tuesday. I have to find some time.”
After posing for a picture with my parents, he asked them, “What do you think of the reception? Receptions are nice and have good food, but I never eat anything, because I want to take care of the guests and later do some exercises.”
He turned to Cervantes and asked about our itinerary on the island. Our friend gave him a general rundown: a visit to the Hemingway Museum, the Centro Habana hospital, Alamar, etc.
Fidel replied, “Tourist spots. The hospital is good, but they need to know our country better. Go to the Isle of Youth and see how more than 10,000 foreign scholarship students from Africa and other continents are studying there. Go to Cienfuegos and see the nuclear power plant that’s under construction. Visit a small rural community and find out how ready it is for military defense. I’ll put my plane at your disposal. It’s not comfortable but it’s safe.”
He called Chomi, his secretary, and asked him to write down the itinerary he’d proposed. We told him that we had visited the Central Planning Board that morning, where we had been received by compañero Alfredo Ham. He had explained that the board drew up annual, five-year, and longer-range plans running through the year 2000. Thus, Cuba’s social and economic investments are planned and have few surprises. A factory in Holguín turns out more than 600 sugarcane harvesters every year, which are used in harvesting more than 55 percent of Cuba’s sugarcane. Joelmir asked if planning was done from the top down. Alfredo replied that nothing was final until approved by the Council of Ministers and the National Assembly of People’s Power, whose members are elected every five years. In addition, Cuba can plan its development process with a certain margin of security because it is free of capitalist market speculation. Eighty-five percent of its trade is with the other