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over, judo has prospered here like never before, and I am proud of
it."
Since he took over? What was this?
"In fact, all Cuba has prospered!" he continued exuberantly.
"We produce more sugar, more tobacco, meat, milk, oranges, cobalt,
manganese, oil, cement, tungsten, nickel, copper. More and
better housing, better education-everyone can read now!"
He signaled, and an orderly brought a tray of food. I looked at
the Cuban "hero" sandwich, with butter, ham, pierna sliced pork,
cold cuts, cheese, pickles, and guava pastries, and suddenly I was
aware that I had not eaten more than scraps for two days. To pitch
into that repast . . .
He took up a huge Cuban roll, bit off a jagged hunk, chewed,
and belched. My own hunger intensified. But now I had no doubt.
This was no underling; this was Fidel Castro himself, the ruler of
Cuba! Why had he chosen to interrogate us personally?
But there was no chance to ask. Fidel was talking. Despite his
mouthful, he spoke well, with compelling interest, and we listened,
fascinated. But we had to wait on his convenience. How I
longed for a bite of that bread!
"But you Americans don't believe that, how well we have done,"
he continued, drinking from a bottle of beer. Now I was thirsty,
too. But I had heard he spiked his drinks with Benzedrine. Addiction
of one kind or another was almost universal.
"Your politicians lie to you, your newspapers prevaricate. Your
free press is much less free than you believe, amigos! Half your
foreign correspondents are in the pay of the CIA. Just think, but
for the carelessness of one unbribed night watchman in one hotel,
you would never have known of the complete corruption of your
government! Watergate-there will never be a Watergate in Cuba!"
Naturally not, I thought. There was no two-party system in
Cuba, and all the spying was authorized by the government.
Fidel gestured expansively under my nose with a chorizo, a
Spanish sausage, before cramming it into his mouth. I could al-
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most have taken a bite of it in passing. I swallowed the excess saliva
in my mouth and paid attention to his words.
"Once Cuba was like that, too, in the time of the Sergeant,
that embezzler Batista. But we routed out those murderers and
put in honest men. We eliminated crime. There is no drug addiction
in all the country, except for a few opium smokers too old to
cure. I can't abide addiction!" He took another swig of spiked beer,
then puffed on his cigar. Some ash fell on his food, unnoticed.
Probably true, I realized. To Fidel, Benzedrine, alcohol, and
nicotine were not addictions-not in himself, at any rate. All hardcore
addicts in Cuba were either dead or in prison. Totalitarian
regimes could be very efficient with specific problems. But this
did not preclude drugs for export, as we knew.
My expression must have given me away, for he addressed himself
directly to me now. "You think I am a hypocrite, Jason Striker!
You found that heroin. Admit it-you suspect us of smuggling
the drug into your country!"
I nodded, for he did not pause long enough to permit a verbal
reply. What a talker he was! "I know they call me the Horse-but
I do not smuggle horse!" He laughed, but I noticed that not one of
the guards cracked a smile. "No, that shipment was not of my
doing." He blew a cloud of cigar smoke at us.
I thought he was going to elaborate, but abruptly he was off
on another tangent of oratory "We have done well, but we have
had help. The Soviet socialists have made many loans." He paused,
then added musingly: "Soon we shall have to repay them, with
interest, and how we shall do that I do not know! You see, I admit
my mistakes. Even I can commit a mistake!" This was obviously
humor; he was the perfect megalomaniac. "But it takes more than
money! I told Allende that; 'Chico,' I said, 'you can not make a
revolution with democracy and without controlling the army. Those
fascist officers will turn on you, they will destroy you!' I told him,
'They will betray you the moment you interfere with their comfort
or their real sources of power. Do not trust them. You must
take over the army yourself, or you are doomed!' But he would not
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listen." Fidel shook his head sadly, wisely. "The military mind is
dangerous. It is paranoid. My friend Che discovered that in Bolivia.
A hard lesson!"
Che Guevara had died in Bolivia, fomenting revolution there.
They had executed him. A hard lesson indeed.
"No one pays attention to the problems of the world. There
has been drought in Africa; the Sahara is being blown into the sky,
and that dust is wafted across the great Atlantic, and it lands on
Cuba, polluting our skies. But nobody cares, nobody acts!"
On and on it went, punctuated by that cigar after the food
was gone: Fidel's view of the world, its politics and customs. We
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