Only later would I see those girls for what they were. These girls were like no other girls in the world. They possessed that wide-mouthed inbred look, chewing gum, slutting some illegitimate Creole twist when they walked, and when they talked their voices came up through their legs, their ample hips, their swollen breasts. They acted cheap and trashy, believing perhaps that this was the way they were supposed to act, and when they slanted by, tilting their eyes out beneath thick brunette bangs, you could sense in their expression how they felt about you. They ate you with their eyes, sucked your root with their arrogant and conceited lips, rolled you over backwards across wide rhythmic shoulders and buried you in the belief that to lie with them beneath some clammy, sweated sheet was the closest you would ever come to Heaven. Perhaps they were fathered in Hell, fathered by brothers and cousins, and abused before they realized there were differences between men and women.
This was a town called Evangeline, down south along Lake Borgne, and it was a small broken-up town that ran by its own rules, and those rules were laid down, branded in iron, and it would have taken more than any number of men to change them. The people were strong-willed, resentful of strangers; they clutched their secrets to their chests like unwanted gifts, things they wished to shed but could not. They carried a myriad burdens, and even as a small and frightened child I could read it in their cracked faces, their sun-bleached hair, their worn hands, their open hearts. For this, for me, was where life began and ended; this was where I found all that was significant about life – fear, anger, hatred, power and pain. Love and betrayal too, for love and betrayal walked hand-in-hand, cater-cousins, blood-brothers, echoes of the soul. My father, the Hurricane, did not sleep with these women because he did not love my mother; he loved her the only way he knew how. He loved her enough to beat her when she badmouthed him, to hold her afterwards as her eye bruised, to wrap cracked ice from the cooler in a towel and hold it against her swelling face, to calm her tears, to whisper his gentle platitudes, and then to coax her into taking his cock into her mouth, breathing life into him sufficient that he could turn her onto her side and bury himself inside her, to hold her shoulders hard against the floor while he emptied his rage out the best way he knew how. And she would scream his name, and shed tears as he hurt her, but she was blind enough to believe that now he would love her like the man she wanted, and not the man she had married.
Later I would think of my father. Later I would dream. Even as a child I dreamed, but my dreams were not of cotton candy and fairgrounds, of childhood as some warm and secure hiatus before adulthood… No, no such things as these. My dreams were of my father, and how one day I would see him undone.
He continued to fight, my father, his bare-knuckle madness displayed for the world to see most every Friday and Saturday night, and by the time I was eight, as I heard of the death of Roosevelt, as the Second World War finally collapsed beneath the weight of its own insanity, I would go with him to the brutal and sadistic tournaments held in backlots and car parks behind sleazy bars and pool halls, where for twenty-five dollars a time grown men would beat each other senseless and bloody. I was given no choice in the matter. My father said I should go, and so I did. On the single occasion that my mother expressed some vague disagreement in the matter he merely had to raise his hand and she was silenced, never to protest again.
So, as Fidel Castro Ruz graduated from Colegio Belen in Havana with a Ph.D in Law, as he went on to enter the University of Havana, I stood and squinted, with barely opened eyes, through the chicken-wire fencing that separated the back yard behind some broken-down moonshine haunt, squinted and grimaced and dared myself to go on looking as my alcohol-reddened father brought his callused and brown fists down repeatedly on some poor challenger’s head. He was the Hurricane, the Havana Hurricane, and there was no-one, not one single man, who ever walked unaided from a fight with my father. On three occasions – once when I was nine, the second time when I was eleven, the third when I was twenty-one – I saw him beat men to death, and once the death was confirmed I saw money exchange hands, the body drawn up tight in a hessian sack, and then dark-faced men with leather coats lifted the cadavers and carried them to the back of waiting flatbed trucks. I heard those bodies were sawed up like a jigsaw and hurled piece by piece into Lake Borgne. There the fish and the snakes and the alligators would remove any evidence that those men had existed. Their names were left unspoken, their faces forgotten, their prayers unanswered. One time I asked my father about them, and he turned to me and breathed some whiskey-fueled challenge that included the phrase
Later, I would think that the saddest thing about my father’s death was his life.
Later, I would think a great many things, but as a child growing up in a small run-down four-room adobe house on the edge of Evangeline, the sour smell of Lake Borgne ever-present in my nostrils, I believed the world to be nothing more than a bruised and bloody nightmare spewed from the dark imagination of a crazy God.
My life came in staggered jolts and paragraphs, it came from the depth of the heart where the birth of love and pain shared the same bed. To understand me, both as a child and man, is to understand some things of yourself that you could not bear to face. You shy away from such revelation, for to see it is to relinquish ignorance, and to relinquish ignorance is to know that you yourself are guilty of the recognition of possibility. We all possess our darker aspects; we are all capable of acts of inhumanity and degradation; we all possess a dark light in our eyes that, when ignited, can incite murder and betrayal and infidelity and hatred. We have all walked to the edge of the abyss, and though some of us might have lost our balance, it was only the few – the vital and necessary few – who fell into its shadows.
Perhaps I was such a child, one of those who walked, who looked, who reached towards the promise of the unseen, only to find myself without equilibrium and grasping the air ahead of me, feeling the tightness in my chest as fear erupted throughout my fragile body, and then the sense of certainty that all was lost as my feet slid from beneath me and I began to fall…
And fall I did, all the way down, and even now – these many years later – I have yet to reach the lowest depths.
I was born out of poverty and grew beneath the shadow of drunken brawls between the two people who I believed should have loved one another the most. It was a birth of regret, both my mother and father believing until the very last moment that I should have been aborted, and though this was not for the lack of trying – she on her knees, he kneeling behind her holding her shoulders, giving all his strength and support, with Lysol douches, with orangewood spikes, with prayers
There, among the bloodied and dirty sheets, within the crowded and broken shell of a Ford trailer home, the windows cracked, along their edges the filth and grease of a hundred years, and the whole frame tilting to the left where the tires had sagged, finally believing that to protest decay and dilapidation was to protest the passage of time itself, and that was something that could not be done, I was born.
And screaming voices moving from broken trailers to tarpaper shacks to this battered and religiously dirty adobe and plank-wood house on the Zachary Road. And later, sometimes having to carry my mother, barely able to make it to the small and shadowy bedroom, but I did carry her, diligently, cautiously, knowing that if I stumbled and fell, if I lost my balance, then she would fall too, and in falling would shatter like a porcelain doll.
Such things as these are my life, my memories, my past. I walked these steps, one foot patiently following the other, and sometimes slowing to ask myself if perhaps there was another way I could have walked, another path I could have taken, but realizing that I would never know, and even if I did what point was there in asking such a question, for I would never be able to take it. I had made my choice. I had made my bed. I would lie in it now, even until death.
The world went by me unnoticed. Gandhi was assassinated, Truman became president of the United States, the North Koreans invaded the south, and Fidel Castro Ruz graduated Havana University’s Faculty of Law and went into practice in the city of my father’s birth. My father talked of the life he could have led. He told me names like Sugar Ray Robinson and ‘The Bronx Bull’ Jake La Motta, spoke of Randolph Turpin and Joe Louis, of Rocky Marciano and a dozen more that even now I cannot remember.
He told me also of his homeland, the Cuba that he had left behind. He told me stories of Castro, of his intention to campaign for parliament in the election of ’52, how General Fulgencio Batista overthrew the government of President Carlos Prio Socarras in a coup d’etat. Castro went to court and charged the dictator Batista with violation of the Cuban Constitution, but the court rejected Castro’s petition, and then before the fall of 1953 Castro organized an armed attack with one hundred and sixty loyal followers against the Moncada Barracks in Oriente Province. This attack, alongside a second against the Bayamo Garrison, failed. Half of Castro’s men were killed, and Castro and his brother Raul were taken prisoner.
I listened to these things, listened to them with half my mind elsewhere, for I did not care for my father and
