Free The Color of Summer: or The New Garden of Earthly Delights by Reinaldo Arenas Page B

to death
and I’m dying of loneliness, dying of homesickness.
I want to fight for that thing that is mine.
For me, no more the exile’s bitter bread,
no more sleepless nights in exile’s bed.
I do not know if you can understand me.
    Only the flowers of one’s native land smell sweet.
Here, joys do not bloom, they do not flower,
people’s eyes don’t simply look, they wound me,
the sun possesses no healing power—
it burns, it stings, it glowers.
    A VELLANEDA :
About the U.S.A. you are such a skeptic,
while I’m an incurable romantic.
    M ARTÍ :
Tula, my dear, you’re living in the past—
and when I say past I do mean past.
Here, it’s a terrible existence
ruled by the laws of planned obsolescence.
    A VELLANEDA :
Does that apply to poetry, too, by chance?
No more Zambrana, no Lezama Lima,
No more villanelles, no terza rima?
I have a sonnet I wrote for Washington—
now, I guess, a sonnet’s out of fashion.
    M ARTÍ :
I read it—and it is one
of my favorite poems of yours.
It may be a bit overdone
but you’re right to take it on tour.
    A VELLANEDA :
I’m glad you at least half approve—
It’s just a silly old thing
I’ve had for such a long time.
But I read it to a friend,
and she loved the rhyme.
    M ARTÍ :
You’re the best at rhyme of all of us.
    A VELLANEDA :
Oh, you’re too kind, you make me blush!
Of course there also has to be meaning—
I’ll read it to you again, so you’ll see what I mean.
    M ARTÍ :
No, I don’t have time, I’m late to a party meeting!
I have a small band of the faithful that I lead.
    A VELLANEDA :
Oh, but politics aside one moment, stay
and listen to the lay
I wrote for Washington.
Tonight, I beg, your trip delay;
you and I’ll have so much fun—
here, rest upon my breast till break of day.
    (Martí remains unmoved)
Do my pleas and tears no longer persuade?
Have you no pity on this poor maid?
    M ARTÍ :
Pity? Who dares speak of pity?! .
My life’s the one that’s shitty!
And it always has been . . .
    A VELLANEDA :
Each one of us our burden’s giv’n . . .
    M ARTÍ :
Oh, but the burden that you’ve chosen
is to be feted at hommages
and in salons
to wear couturier gowns,
to have men kiss your hand—
and be the showpiece of a tyrant!
    A VELLANEDA :
How dare you! I am eagle, foe of tyrants!
Of course I have my weaknesses.
All of us are human.
You, for instance,
betrayed a friend:
you slept with the wife
of a man who saved your life.
    M ARTÍ :
Friend? Oh, please!
Look—I’m leaving because I want to die in peace.
I am not the man I was—and not the man I want to be.
    A VELLANEDA :
But there is still your poetry.
It is for the ages; it is undying verse.
You still possess the entire universe!
    M ARTÍ :
Which I will never see.
    A VELLANEDA :
How can that be?
    M ARTÍ :
Don’t you realize
that if I am to be immortal
I first have to die?
I am no longer a man of this world,
and the cause of liberty needs martyrs—
I’m returning to Cuba to be crucified.
    A VELLANEDA :
But in Cuba you can’t be crucified;
now there’s only crucifuckingfixion.
    M ARTÍ : (under his breath)
Damn! I’m going to have to rethink my mission . . .
    A VELLANEDA :
What if you lived for many years yet?
    M ARTÍ :
I’d die of disappointment,
of weariness and disillusion.
So I’m off.
Really, I’ve had enough.
    A VELLANEDA :
Enough of what, Martí?
What, I wonder, are your true reasons,
your real complaints,
that lead you to set out to sea
in the season of hurricanes?
    M ARTÍ :
My true reasons? Did I not make them plain?
Besides having to deal with rogues and rapscallions,
my reasons
are autumn’s yellow leaves, winter’s bare trees and freezing rain,
living in a borrowed house and a foreign tongue—
bitter winters, itchy long johns.
I am out of here—I’m gone!
I am naught but the fruit’s bitter rind.
Does that answer your question?
    A VELLANEDA :
Have you, then, nothing here to live for?
    M ARTÍ :
Life here is a wound there is no cure for.
    A VELLANEDA :
Listen to what I’m