The irascible one
By Varela
After our exiled militant, obligated by circumstances, stops killing diplomats, young athletes and tourists, he empties the Molotov cocktail and fills it with Cuba Libre to toast to the cause, next to his sponsor. Then he joins the world of his godfather, which is everything that shines and is worth anything in the community, because, even though the protector may be accused of fraud or blackmail, he is always a Gregor Samsa in an eternal Kafkian metamorphosis toward the local politics.
Then our warrior’s struggle turns to the establishment press – which has flogged him before – to either convert or pervert it. That feat is accomplished when the staffers in newspapers or broadcasts studios have been won over by the excretion of their own enemy, the traditional malcontent who deserted while on tour, was a corrupt ministry flunky, or was expelled from some brigade and arrives ready to promote himself as a fertilizer of Florida’s marabú.
Covered by the docile journalistic press (yellow, to boot), our combatant proceeds to smash CDs, burn books, shut down concerts and film showings all around Miami-Dade County. To do that, he waves signs with slogans whose spelling would make illiterates proud: “Les ban Los Van Van,” “No admitens for Benizio del Toro,” “Rocita is komunist.” And in none of these antipopular chores does he stain his guayabera or soil his 18-carat gold ring because he resorts to his shock troops, the legion that – ever since the drug boom contracted – found itself without a yacht and an art-deco apartment.
As an attractive element, our activist changes his description from “militant” to “historic,” makes his debut as a landscape painter and, dressed like a social grandfather, attends patriotic benefit luncheons whose menus include the Manuel Artime aperitif and the Yoani Sánchez dessert, depending on the current etiquette.
Thus our gladiator celebrates his 50th anniversary in a country not his own. Half a century of triumph painting shit white so that it will blend with the color of the toilet seat. And, no doubt, his Spartan technology has evolved, thanks to his traditional benefactor. From the C4 explosive that can bring down a department store in Havana and the armed-to-the-gills speedboat that can shoot up a provincial fishing cooperative, he has gone to the BlackBerry and the iPhone to tweet or get into Facebook with a digital rendition of “to the arms bravely run.” Always the latest model, bought on credit.
Still, (and this is the way life goes) his image of yesterday – landing on a beach under fire and being traded for fruit jam – is slightly altered by his image of today: seated in front of a laptop, nursing a headache, in a cyberstrategic site sponsored by a breakfast cereal. And on top of it all (oh, the shame) his heroic cry has degraded from “Long live Christ the King!” to “Forward, saintly blogger!”
Born in Cuba in 1955, José Varela was an editorial cartoonist in Miami for 15 years, for the magazine Éxito (1991-97) and El Nuevo Herald (1993-2006). A publicist and television writer, he is a member of the Progreso Weekly/Semanal team.
