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  PRAISE FOR ROBERT ARELLANO

  for Don Dimaio of La Plata

  “Arellano has created a brilliant novel of political satire … His over-the-top debauchery is both comical and charming … and never lets the reader down. Recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  “Fear and loathing with Don Quixote at your side! Herein another savage journey to the heart of the American dream—but with sabor and saber latino.”

  —Ilan Stavans, author of

  Spanglish: The Making of a New American Language

  “This book is like a good fistfight: You get punched and kicked but you still want more.”

  —Daniel Chavarría, author of Adios Muchachos

  “A raucously funny satire of machine politics wrapped up in a parody of Don Quixote …” —Chicago Reader

  “Robert Arellano’s new book is one of the bawdiest, dirtiest, rowdiest, and raunchiest novels I’ve come across in a long time. And it is hilarious. Hurling words like tainted pitchforks, he pursues his wanton prey as if on speed himself, snort by snort, sexual escapade by sexual escapade, as Don Dimaio lays waste to the city he’s supposed to govern … This boisterous cartoon of a book captures the obsessions and mad fantasies of men running amuck, Dimaio on power, Arellano on language … Don Dimaio is an anti-hero for all ages …” —Providence Sunday Journal

  “I hope that the author is not killed for writing this book. A municipal fornicator (pot) shines a waterfire light deep into the more-than-half-full actions of a civil servant (kettle). So between the writer and his protagonist, a new meaning of ‘black’ power arises.”

  —Will Oldham of the Palace Brothers

  for Fast Eddie, King of the Bees

  “The main story here is the author’s style, which takes its cue from William S. Burroughs, Philip K. Dick, Charles Dickens, Jack Kerouac, and Tom Robbins. This may be the first postapocalyptic novel in which the apocalypse was created by a public works project … [A] funny and surprising book.”

  —Library Journal

  “Robert Arellano is that rare thing: an exceptional creative talent perfectly in tune with his own rapidly changing times.”

  —Robert Coover, author of Noir

  “A rollicking, over-the-top, not to mention weird, odyssey … Fast Eddie is a Dickensian journey on speed, several years into this new century, where society is decayed, deregulated and Darwinianly desperate … Deliriously funny …”

  —Providence Journal

  “A tight close-up, mile-a-minute monkey-cam filled with more wordplays and puns than an Eminem rap.”

  —Arthur Nersesian, author of

  The Swing Voter of Staten Island

  “Fast Eddie is an Oedipal story with a twist … This is surrealist fiction, a bit Kafkaesque …”

  —Columbia Chronicle (Chicago)

  ROBERT ARELLANO’S parents fled Havana in 1960. He has been working on Havana Lunar since 1992 when, as a student in Brown University’s graduate writing program, he visited Cuba on a research fellowship. He has returned ten times, chronicling the Revolution in journalism, essay, and song. He is the author of two other highly acclaimed novels, Fast Eddie: King of the Bees, and Don Dimaio of La Plata, both published by Akashic Books.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The author is grateful for permissions from the Indiana Review and the Believer, who published early versions of excerpts from this novel.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2009 Robert Arellano

  eISBN-13: 978-1-617-75003-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-68-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008925931

  All rights reserved

  Akashic Books

  PO Box 1456

  New York, NY 10009

  [email protected]

  www.akashicbooks.com

  For Tom & Jane Lee Carr

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  14 August 1992

  31 July 1992

  12 August 1979

  1 August 1992

  2 August 1992

  3 August 1992

  12 August 1989

  4 August 1992

  5 August 1992

  6 August 1992

  12 August 1980

  8 August 1992

  9 August 1992

  10 August 1992

  11 August 1992

  12 August 1992

  13 August 1992

  15 August 1992

  16 August 1992

  12 August 1979

  18 August 1992

  22 August 1992

  23 August 1992

  24 August 1992

  14 August 1992

  It’s Friday, and when I get back to the attic I see that Julia hasn’t returned. I sit on the sofa, light a cigarette, and turn on the radio, tuning out the noise of the neighbors with the hollow metronome of Radio Reloj. “Did you know that good nutrition can be obtained from greens you can grow in your own solarium … ?” I don’t want to be up in the hot attic with the tedious banter and the beginning of a migraine, so I go downstairs and let myself into the clinic to lie on a cot. When my grandmother Mamamá died, the Reforma Urbana “reallocated” the lower floors of my father’s house: the first to a family from the provinces and the second to Beatrice, the block captain for the Comité de Defensa de la Revolución, whose eye, as the CDR symbol suggests, is always open. I had to set up a community polyclinic in the basement just to dig my heels in and hang onto the attic. Three weekends a month, legitimate cases of arthritis and herpes vie for attention with the usual complaints of mysterious pains and aches from patients who believe the only remedy is a shot of painkillers. It makes them feel a little better when they hold a doctor’s attention. I listen, letting them speak for the adrenal rush it gives them, and then I explain for the thousandth time that it is the Special Period: There is no more morphine, not even aspirin.

  Alone in the empty clinic at dusk, I am resting in one of the curtained compartments when a thunderstorm breaks the heat. The shower passes quickly, briefly taking my migraine away and leaving the street outside quiet, clean, and fragrant of motor oil and rotting leaves.

  I am listening to the dripping trees when I hear the crack of glass. A gentle pressure like a cold hand causes the hairs on my neck to stand, and I experience a surge of obscure fright. I part the curtain to peer at the front door of the clinic, where a gloved hand reaches through a broken windowpane and releases the lock. ¿Qué carajo? It’s common knowledge the neighborhood doctors don’t have any more drugs, but a heavyset man in a dark overcoat is breaking into my clinic. He makes straight for the metal file cabinet, and I lie still, watching around the edge of the curtain. The man flips through the charts for a few minutes and leaves the clinic without taking anything, closing the door behind him. I go out through the alley and come around the front of the building to see him walking away up Calle 23. I follow him at a distance through the rain-slicked streets.

  There is a hush over Havana. The moon, almost full, is rising above the bay. It is high summer, when the palms drop curled fronds that pile up on side-walks like brittle cigars. Sidestepping them, I keep the overcoat in sight. I follow the man up Infanta all the way to La Habana Vieja and down one of El Barrio Chino’s narrow, nameless alleys. He disappears through an unnumbered entrance. No light leaks from the door glass, painted black.

  I slip inside the corridor and push apart the dark drapes onto a small drinking establishment. A black bartender pours beer from a tap. Sitting at the bar with his back to me, the man in the overcoat says, “Give Doct
or Rodriguez one on me.” Surprised, I step out of the shadows. The man who broke into my clinic casts a glance over his shoulder to confirm my identity, looking blandly at the contusion beneath my right eye, a port-wine stain the size of a twenty-peso coin. His deep lines, pale complexion, silver hair, and mustache mark him as an autocrat of the Fidelista generation. The gray eyes and dark brow could almost be called handsome if his expression were not so stern and inscrutable. “Please have a seat, doctor. My name is Perez.”

  There is nobody else at the bar, but I keep an empty stool between us. “That’s very humble of you, colonel. Anyone who reads Granma knows who you are.”

  “What will it be?” the bartender asks.

  “Do you have wine?”

  “I’ve just uncorked a very good five-year-old Chilean Cabernet.” The bartender shows me the ornate label. “Or if you prefer I’m chilling an excellent Pinot Grigio de Venezia.”

  “The Cabernet will be fine, thanks.”

  The bartender places a glass before me and pours a generous serving. I take a taste, but the pounding of my heart and a sour flavor in my mouth keep me from enjoying it. “Tell me, Colonel Perez, what interest could the chief homicide investigator of the PNR possibly have in a pediatrician with the national medical service?”

  He sips the fresh-poured beer. “I’m looking for a teenage girl wanted in connection with the murder of a chulo named Alejandro Martínez.”

  “¿Cómo?”

  “The young woman in question spent a week at your apartment, and the victim came over and threatened both of you a few days before his body got tangled up in some fisherman’s nets at the mouth of Havana Harbor.”

  “Could it have been accidental, a drowning?”

  “There were signs of struggle: lesions on his arms and chest. Of course, the exact cause of death has been difficult to determine as we still haven’t found his head.”

  “Carajo …”

  “He was not especially popular among the girls.” Detective Perez takes off his gloves. His fingers are exquisitely manicured. Only once before, when I was starting medical school, have I seen such hands on a man. They belonged to the cadaver inside which I saw my first organs.

  “Severing the cervical vertebrae requires both the right instrument and great force,” I say, “not to mention a strong stomach and a lot of nerve. A girl couldn’t have done that.”

  “Young ladies come from all over the island to work in Havana, doctor. Some will spend a few months, others a year or two, do a few dirty things, and usually they will go back to their villages and shack up with campesinos, have kids, lead normal lives. But there is another type. Surely you know the constitution: the solipsist. No matter what she gets in this life, she believes she deserves more.” Perez swallows the last of his beer and rises to go. “If you see the girl again, I’d like you to contact me. Come back and talk to Samson, the bartender.”

  “You choose unusual locations to conduct your inquiries, colonel.”

  “Stay reachable for a few days, doctor. Don’t leave Havana.” Perez parts the drapes and is gone. I wait a minute before leaving, neglecting to finish my glass of wine. Samson does not look up.

  I return home to Vedado and pull Aurora’s old rocking chair close to the French doors, parting the curtains onto the corner of 12 y 23: the bored soldiers, the old Chevys, the people going by and, across the street, a black Toyota with dark windows, a curl of smoke emerging from the passenger side. Taking the service stairs down, I back the Lada out of the garage and leave it parked in the alley. When I check on the basement clinic, the broken window-pane has already been replaced.

  31 July 1992

  Two weeks ago, my Friday shift at the pediatric hospital was almost over when Director González stepped around the curtain and handed me an envelope with my week’s pay. “Rodriguez, you have tomorrow off, don’t you?” Director González has always cultivated a studied, comfortable air toward my mark.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Would you stay over? Portuondo’s bus was canceled.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  The admitting nurse briefed me on the next patient. “Una niña, ten years old, complaining of fever and an earache; high temperature, blurry vision, and slightly slurred speech.”

  Holding her mother’s hand, the girl sat on a bench in the sala de examinación, a four-by-five compartment partitioned by plastic curtains strung up in the hot, drafty lobby. “First the earache,” said the girl’s mother. “Then the fever started. We waited a few days to come in.”

  “How many days, exactly, since the onset of the fever?”

  “Four.”

  “Cuál es tu nombre, amiguita?”

  “Me llamo Tonia.”

  I asked Tonia’s mother, “Does your daughter have a speech impediment?”

  “No.”

  “Tonia, can you tell me how many animals you count on the curtain there?”

  “The light hurts.” Her slur was pronounced. She focused on the mark beneath my right eye. “What’s that on your face?”

  “A bird dropped it on me.” I turned and asked the mother, “Is anyone else with you?”

  “My husband is in the waiting room.”

  My first task of the second shift was to convince Tonia’s father that the girl’s ailment was a lot more serious than a simple ear infection. Both of the girl’s parents sat across from me at the desk I shared with four other pediatricians. “Your daughter has to stay here tonight.”

  The father stared suspiciously at my mark. “Come on, doctor. Just give the girl a shot and we’ll be gone.”

  “She might have a cerebral abscess. She needs to be under close observation. This could require massive antibiotics.”

  “We live right around the corner in the Máximo Gomez apartments.”

  “You can spend the night in her room, if you’d like, but Tonia has to stay.”

  The father stood up and left the office, slamming the door behind him. The mother looked at me. “Do you have any children, doctor?”

  “No,” I said. I try to take care of every patient as if she were my own child, but to tell a parent this would just irritate the situation.

  “If you let my baby die, you will be killing me too.”

  “I will do everything in my power to help your daughter.”

  “Imagine if your own mother had lost you, how she might feel.”

  There is no more powerful antidote than a mother’s will for her child’s survival. Sometimes this takes the form of a bitter pill, a country woman suspicious of all the gleaming machines and of their handlers, the doctors and nurses. Then there are those who trust modern practices. Either way it is a welcome medicine when a parent’s stubbornness overpowers a child’s fear.

  I gave the nurse instructions to admit Tonia to intensive care and asked an orderly to set up a cot for the mother beside the girl’s bed. Then I walked down the hall to the physician’s lounge, a small, windowless closet with a bare bulb on the back wall and a dusty jug of water for refreshment. The coffee-maker had been stolen during the second week of my residency, and nobody had bothered filing a report because it had been a year since they had stocked coffee. Sometimes, in the middle of a double shift, I’ll go there to stretch my legs across two plastic chairs and catch a short nap.

  Tonia’s father pushed the door open without knocking. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Taking a siesta.”

  “Nothing is happening. Why can’t I take my daughter home?”

  “Please, get some sleep yourself. They made up an extra bed in her room.”

  “I don’t like a bed. I sleep on a bench.”

  A nurse interrupted. “Doctor Rodriguez, venga pronto.”

  I pushed past the father and ran down the hall to Tonia’s bed. I had been planning to order a CT scan in the morning, hoping there would still be time to go with a sequence of antimicrobials, but now Tonia’s condition had become critical. The abscess was hemorrhaging. I told the head nurse to p
rep the OR for emergency surgery and went in to scrub up.

  After the anesthesiologist put the girl under and the intern shaved the area over the abscess, I made an exploratory incision with the scalpel. Fortunately, I found the mass near the surface and completely encapsulated by membrane. Excision was completed quickly and without complications. I took a culture of the residual fluid with an aspirator and asked the intern to sew the patient up and send her on to post-op. Then I requisitioned the biopsy exam and wrote up a preliminary convalescing plan, treatment to be adjusted upon identification of the infecting microorganism.

  By the end of the shift, Tonia was stable in the ICU. I informed Tonia’s parents that surgery had been successful and that I expected the girl’s complete recovery in a matter of days. Candelario arrived to relieve me for the graveyard shift.

  When I left the hospital toward midnight, there was a teenage girl in new blue denim jeans and a powder-blue top standing beneath the neon sign outside. She had a pretty face, light skin, and the dirty-blond hair of a true rubiecita. Our eyes met and she walked over to me. Casually overlooking the mark on my cheek, she handed me a sack. “It looked like you were never going to get a break, so I brought you something.”

  Inside the sack was a malted milk and a sandwich. “Where did you get this?”

  “At the Habana Libre cafeteria.”

  “They let you in?”

  “A friend picked it up for me, a foreigner.”

  “Thank you. Let me pay you.”

  “I won’t take your money, doctor. That girl you operated on tonight is my closest cousin.”

  “Please, share this with me.”

  “No thanks. I already ate.”

  I bit into the sandwich: ham and cheese on bread that wasn’t stale.

  “You’re a lifesaver. I haven’t tasted anything in twelve hours.”

  We talked about the heat while I finished the sandwich and the malta. Then she looked me in the eyes and said, “Pardon me, doctor, but a girlfriend told me you have a clinic where you can do the HIV test and keep the results secret.”

  I looked over my shoulder—nobody. “Yes, but when it’s necessary I recommend treatment and counseling.”