He waxed enthusiastic over what I had just said. He felt the same way, he told me. He thought that the success of the ICAIC was the result of teamwork. A film was not the work of one person alone. It was a collaboration between artists, writers, technicians, and manual laborers and required effective political oversight. The filming of The Brothers Karamazov had been a joyful task for the Soviet artists who took part in it, whereas the novel cost Dostoevsky untold suffering, since he had to write it within a system of exploitation. Fidel told me that, politically, the cultural arena was an extremely delicate subject for any leader. The conflicts that arose came out of rivalries that were inherent to culture.

Fidel paused, but I said nothing.

"And then you have the case of Jorge Edwards," he went on. "He did praise your thorny, even capricious personality, but still believed you to be a revolutionary. Afterwards, he wrote that book where he stated in so many words that State Security was right; it was more generous to you and to others than he had been. That is a phenomenon typical of all writers. None of the journalists or professors who have interviewed me until now has literally reproduced on the printed page what I have said to them. They invent everything, twist everything, even when they want to make you look better. I remember an answer which Jean-Paul Sartre attributed to me when in fact the question was just as imaginary:

"'And if the people were to ask you for the moon, what would you do?'

"'I would give it to them, because I am sure that they would be in need of it.'

"That's not bad, but if all famous phrases have the authenticity of that one, we'll have to find the third party who invents them. Same for historians. The books of Hugh Thomas on the Spanish Civil War and on the Cuban Revolution are loaded with errors."

He drew closer as if to confide a secret. "For a long time now, I have been recording all my conversations with journalists and diplomats. When I get around to writing my memoirs, I will do a separate chapter entitled 'Versions.' I think that it will be an excellent'contribution to history."

An hour had passed, but he did not seem tired. He said to Chomi, "What happened to the coffee and the water?"

Suddenly the door opened to reveal a young man dressed in white, standing at attention next to a cart with the coffee and the water. He hadn't dared to knock at the door; the coffee was cold.

Fidel got up. "If you ever describe this conversation in the future, remember that I've got it on tape. Look, what I didn't do with Edwards I will do with you. Your version will have to compete with mine."

Before leaving, he said, "That Chilean diplomat gradually convinced himself that the good days of the Cuban Revolution had ended. The one who ended was poor Allende, who died with a courage that none of his enemies possessed. But when they ask you abroad about this revolution, tell them it will keep on going, and that other revolutions will break out throughout Latin America, because that is where the exploitation and the hunger are. Even though you will never admit it publicly, I know that this revolution will grow in your memory, and you will find out that the best years of your life were lived when you were supporting it, before you got sick and embittered." And Fidel turned his back on me and disappeared into the adjoining office.

At midnight Belkis called to tell me that Jan Kalicki, an aide to Senator Edward Kennedy, had called to tell her that the Cuban representatives in Washington had told the senator that I had been given permission to leave Cuba. García Márquez called later to say that he was about to arrive in Cuba and that he wanted to talk to me before I left.

The next morning, he called to arrange a meeting in the cafeteria of the Havana Riviera. He said he was delighted that my wishes were being fulfilled, although he was not in favor of any Cuban leaving his own country. He wanted to ask me one question, "because I cannot hide from you the fact that it is annoying to be always walking around with a list of names for me to bring up when I see Fidel. One day he'll get sick of me; but my question is this, Heberto: Why do you think it is that the Cuban government has the same problems with writers that the Soviet Union had in the past?"

I was surprised by the question. I thought he had already answered it a long time ago in his probing articles written during his visits to the Eastern bloc countries and to the Soviet Union.

He noticed my surprise. "I can assure you that I will keep whatever you say confidential. I know how to keep a secret."

"But, Gabriel, those words of yours are already a part of the answer.

Smiling, he said, "I guess that for a time these dilemmas will not be resolved in any socialist country. The Soviet Union has not found a solution in sixty years.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4