Extract from Child of the Revolution by Luis M. Garcia

Extract from Child of the Revolution by Luis M. Garcia
Original full-length version published by Allen & Unwin, Sydney
Condensed version © copyright Reader’s Digest (Australia) Pty Ltd, 2007

Sure, things are getting tougher. It’s true that since last year when those Yankee-backed invaders failed in their attempt to land at the Bay of Pigs—which in revolutionary Cuba is called by the much more heroic name of Playa de Girón—the Revolutionary Government has become even less tolerant of anyone who may have fancy ideas about elections. Nowadays, you watch what you say, which means it’s almost always better not to say anything that might be misunderstood by your family or your neighbours as being somehow against the Revolution, let alone critical of El Maxímo Líder. But right now, all this business is far, far away from our little paradise here in Morales. Or so we think.

Every morning my father leaves for Banes, catching a ride with our neighbour, so he can open up the shop. Then, in the afternoon, he comes back from work. It only takes him about half an hour because it isn’t that far and because the number of privately owned cars on the road is rapidly diminishing. There is no petrol around and no spare parts from the United States to keep the cars going the way they are supposed to. Instead, the roads are full of military trucks and jeeps, always rushing somewhere in the service of the People.

Finding food is a problem, but then again, this is always a problem in Cuba now. My father brings food from Banes, whatever he can find, and there is always someone coming around offering to sell something, or to exchange it for something else. But this is done on the quiet because, as we all know, there is no such thing as a black market in Cuba. Yet when you least expect it, someone knocks on your door, trying to exchange some plantains for a pair of trousers. Pork meat is a problem, though. Cubans love pork. It’s the national dish, which may be why it is strictly controlled by the government. The theory is that no one in egalitarian, socialist Cuba should eat more pork than their neighbours, so the government controls supply and demand. It means you have to be careful when someone knocks on your door and offers to sell you a chunk of pork, because if you get caught selling or buying meat on the black market—if you get caught in possession of half a cow, say, or with half a well-fed pig in the boot of your car—you are in big, big trouble. You can go to prison. Every child in Cuba knows this. You get caught with meat, you can kiss your family goodbye and go straight to prison.

Today someone knocked on the door at Morales and offered to sell us pork. And not just anyone, but a miliciano who lives near Morales and is supposed to be one of the big military bosses in this area. My father knows him well enough to invite him in but not well enough to trust him when the miliciano says he has some pork left over and is happy to sell it. It’s quite an offer. Meat! Tempting, but in the end caution wins the day and my father tells him, Muchas gracias, compañero, pero no necesitamos carne. Thanks but no, we do not need any meat, he lies. In Cuba, he says later, when the miliciano leaves, it pays to be careful. My mother nods in agreement.

Now, at night, my father is sitting on the narrow veranda at the front of the house, facing the beach, which is all dark, though you can hear the slow rhythm of the tropical waves, a sound that makes me want to go to sleep right there and then. My father sits there smoking one of his cigars and talking to our neighbour Felelo. My father says, You won’t believe what happened today—that miliciano from up the road came to sell us meat. Can you believe that?

Felelo says, Did you buy any?