History and fiction of power in a novel of public whispers, two narrators, and an intruder
*Las palabras y los muertos* (Mario Vargas Llosa International Prize, University of Murcia, Spain; Seix Barral, 2007), by Cuban writer Amir Valle, deals with the death of Fidel Castro and the moments when the head of his security detail, Facundo, recalls much of the dictator’s life and his own existence alongside a man who intoxicates and subjugates him to the point of taking over his every thought, his way of seeing and feeling things, and making his surroundings the center of the world.
*Las palabras y los muertos* is, therefore, a work that falls within the genre of the so-called “dictator novel,” but with the distinctive feature that this dictator—recovering from his secret illness and showing supposed signs of improvement, as his spokespeople, writings, and the occasional public appearance emphasize—belongs to our time, to our very present moment; and so the novel speaks to the here and now, to the historical present of Cubans, unlike the well-known novels that came before it, which always dealt with the life of a tyrant—whether fictional, such as Alejo Carpentier’s *El recurso del método*, or Gabriel García Márquez’s *The Autumn of the Patriarch* (though both are drawn from very real experiences), but rather of flesh-and-blood figures who are ever-relevant history, such as the novels *I, the Supreme* by Augusto Roa Bastos, or *The Feast of the Goat* by Mario Vargas Llosa, among many others.
In this sense of History (with a capital “H” to distinguish it from narrative “history”), with that distinction between the past and the present, Amir Valle’s novel takes the risk of not waiting for time to pass in order to work within criteria already established by critics, and ventures to highlight—through a work of fiction grounded in current History—the opinions and reflections that arise from the popular consciousness, from what every family and every person discusses at home, among their closest circle. Thus, the comments that swarm through the town find their way into this novel through the magic of imagination, achieved by means of a collective intrusion that, while engaging in literary speculation, establishes that the inner workings of power are like this and not like that—as decreed by the official narrative. And this is one of the strengths of *Las palabras…*, as it establishes its own vectors of “historical reality” and develops them in the present tense through the lens of popular rumor.
Here, fictional narrative serves as a tool for understanding and corroborating a specific historical figure (a public figure, the “leader”) through another character who, according to the author himself, “exists, though under a different name,” and thus creates the possibility of gaining a deeper insight into the fictionalized historical account:
“She’s someone I know very well, and many of the words and phrases I’ve put in her mouth are things I heard her say during our meetings. I once heard him say that Facundo was one of his many code names. For a reader eager to uncover the truth, it will be quite easy to discover his identity if they read the novel thoroughly and take the time to observe those figures who surround Fidel, like shadows. He is there, always by his side, with those same little eyes I depict in the novel, with that same fierce loyalty, with the fanaticism of someone who gazes upon a god up close. He’s nothing like many of those who used to protect Fidel and now, from exile, recount anecdotes very similar to those found in *Las palabras y los muertos*. Facundo will never betray him—I know that well—because he doesn’t even have the intelligence to understand that a human being can make a mistake. I had no trouble writing about Facundo’s private life—and, through him, the moments we don’t know about in Fidel Castro’s life—because he was simply there, within my reach, long before I even knew I would write the first of my books [excerpt taken from the interview the author gave to La Opinión digital, published on October 7, 2007].
Facundo is thus also a concrete, very real character, but because of his fanaticism, he can sometimes give the impression of having been invented. However, he is not; the author’s own confession leads us to conclude just how complex objective reality is—a reality that, under certain circumstances, rivals fiction. For those unfamiliar with the true and essential reality of the island, I can assure you that these characters are entirely plausible, due to the fact—and this is well known in Cuba—that those who orchestrated (and later corrupted) the Revolution (the Leader et al.) established the security and and military mechanisms for the creation of these eloquent figures, so that they would grow up with the idea of Castro ingrained in their very bones (remember that in addition to the young people of the Commander’s Support Group, there are his bodyguards, as well as many who have been thoroughly indoctrinated since they were “Pioneers” in kindergarten)—not only with the sacred duty of protecting him in the most obsessive and meticulous way possible—in the case of those trained to be bodyguards, that is—but also as appendages capable of feeding his ego. Among countless such individuals—now adults—there is always one who leads the other bodyguards and is the most devoted and the most trustworthy among the trustworthy; to the point where he merges so completely with the Leader’s existence that, in fact, he becomes his shadow. This particular bodyguard, defined by his psychological makeup, will serve as the literary device that paves the way for an exploration of the mysterious (hermetic, so to speak) inner life of a dictator who has always sought to prevent any crack that might reveal his loneliness.
Facundo is, therefore, the shadow—as he himself has proudly chosen to be—who, now without his body (the novel begins with the news that “Fidel has died”), gives way to a dual narrator who—through the magic of literary imagination— in one instance, the implicit narrator (Facundo’s inner monologue), manages to penetrate the dictator’s thoughts and memories. And, on the other hand, an explicit narrator (semi-omniscient, because he narrates from the outside, speaking about Facundo and penetrating his innermost thoughts) guides the reader through the characters and events. But this explicit narrator also frequently becomes the voice of the people, revealing what people know by assumption—and which, at the same time, has already become popular truth—about the many things that surrounded and continue to surround the Leader. Thus, this explicit narrator facilitates the author’s interventions, which echo that popular assumption.
The assumption here is both literary speculation and objective reality; it is the discursive logic of people’s feelings; it is the factual force of the collective murmur; and, therefore, it is an impeccable imagination that underpins the fine literature of *Las palabras y los muertos*.
Speculation is what characterizes this intimate chronicle as a well-conceived work of fiction, one that is closely tied to history and, in fact, offers us the best insight into what is always suspected, discussed, but never published. One could say it is a threshold novel: between history and fiction, so that memories flow based on secret and/or public facts that are undeniably real events, yet which then reveal their inner nature, allowing their essence to be drawn out through the application of a literary imagination that is speculative, suggestive, and incisive. At this threshold, the historical, in turn, blends with the psychological—with emotion, suffering, hatred, and sympathy; in short, with the subjective weight that always lies behind any event, whether private or not, and makes it credible. In truth, this narrative is and is not history; it is and is not fiction.
The fact—well known to everyone—that the dictator Castro has always been surrounded, in his political, social, and family life, by an enigmatic context, full of hidden matters that do not correspond to the transparency expected of a public figure; that everything about him has been (and still is) a “state secret”; this characteristic, I repeat, is what entitles the author—while also being the only possibility, given the secrecy with which everything operates in Cuba—to employ speculation and suggestion, two categories of the imagination at the novelist’s disposal in his critical approach to unraveling the world and the underworld of a charismatic dictator, with theatrical expressiveness and, in general, a highly complex personality.
The high level of realistic imagination (because all this fiction does is publicly corroborate what has always been suspected and known behind the scenes), combined with a well-woven tapestry of objective facts, characters (some historical, others less so, but well-known), situations, and palace intrigues—all of which the author masters—make this novel an intense, action-packed story, full of surprising revelations, and, due to its psychological baroque style—with intertwining ideas in the discourse of the two narrators and the intruder—an essential resource for gaining an in-depth understanding of the way of being and thinking of the oldest and longest-reigning tyrant in history—one who is still with us today.
There are moments that belong specifically to the explicit narrator and that serve as subtle hints, gradually revealing a satanic portrayal of Castro, such as the passage on page 54:
“”I have my own pact with death, Monsignor,’ Fidel began to say, but he stopped when he noticed the change in expression that cast a sullen seriousness over Pérez Serantes’s face.”.
“—Watch what you say, boy,” he heard him say to the archbishop. “Whoever makes a pact with death is not a child of God.”.
The explicit narrator is sometimes confused with the author's intrusions, which stem from the vox populi, as when the narrative states:
“Ramiro can’t forgive her [referring to the late Vilma Espín, supposedly recognized as the government’s first lady, married to Raúl Castro] for leaving him for a faggot who likes to pick out husbands from among his personal guard. That’s what they said. Whether it was true or not—and he found himself thinking about it again—Facundo couldn’t say for sure. The only truth in all of that was that the young men in Raúl’s personal guard rivaled any of those heartthrobs in American movies in terms of bearing and physique, though he still didn’t understand such a fixation on a woman—if she even existed: Vilma, in his [Facundo’s] eyes, was every bit as bad as the witch in Snow White. She was wrinkled, freckled, and old, despite the expensive creams and exclusive outfits she had people buy for her—or bought herself on her hundreds of annual trips abroad” [page 58].
We find that, even though they are Facundo’s bitter eyes, the idea of a harshly critical consensus among the population also shines through (and we know full well that when it comes to the hidden, ever-subversive currents of popular opinion, views are very blunt and show no mercy for the missteps of the public figure in question). There is thus a convergence between the implicit narrator, the explicit narrator, and the author as a representative of a large part of that public opinion (it is well known that Cuban public opinion has only the sad defense of double standards left as a means of survival).
Here we’ll see another snippet of text as an extrapolation that bridges the gap between fiction and non-fiction, and which at the same time may be yet another intrusion—something that, in the name of popular rumor, the author takes the liberty of inserting into the novel. And the literary merit lies in the fact that this intrusion is well integrated into the logic of Facundo’s discourse.
“Fidel looked at him, as if waiting for him to finish his answer, so [Facundo] added what he was really thinking: ‘The day you stop thinking for them, Cuba is going to hell, Boss, and forgive my frankness’” [page 63].
Likewise, on the next page (64), this sentiment is reiterated: “The day you’re not here, Boss, this ship is going to hell, and I’m sorry if I keep thinking the same thing.”.
In fact, Castro’s ego (which is the most ironic part of the story) serves as a leitmotif throughout the novel: “—Don’t mess with me, Boss— [Facundo] blurted out, unable to control his outburst—. ”If you die, this whole thing goes to hell. Take care of yourself and stop messing things up” [page 95].
As you can see, this is one of the recurring passages in the novel, and in fact, even when Facundo says it—because he feels it, of course (what more could you ask for!)— it also stems from that constant flow of clandestine commentary, from that collective consciousness which, in this case, aligns with the Shadow’s belief that there is no one else who can replace Castro as someone skilled—we might say—at staying in power.
If this were to actually happen in the future—as is likely—the novel would broaden its realistic scope through the thesis that “The Cuban Revolution ends with Fidel Castro”; which might lead some to regard it as a thesis novel. In fact, the book could be viewed, to a certain extent, as a sociological and political document. From these last two perspectives, many of the issues raised in *Las palabras y los muertos*, through the lens of speculative fiction as a literary device—if they were to be proven true in the future—this novel might experience a fate similar to that of Sarmiento’s *Facundo*, which has been classified in various genres, including that of the novel, and went on to transcend its literary form as a historical and sociological document against the tyrant Rosas. But here there is the caveat that Amir Valle’s narrative would gain value as a document without losing its novelistic qualities.
A side note
In my personal view, one of the key factors behind what has happened in Cuba should not be attributed solely to Castro, the Batista dictatorship, and the historical relations between the United States and Cuba, but also to his entire generation and the anthropological characteristics of Cubans, which took shape within the global context of the 1960s—in the case of the island and from a political perspective, Castro was the leading figure of that generation—when a series of economic, political, social, and technological factors converged at the very height of that particularly dominant generation. We should therefore study this phenomenon from a generational perspective as well (what were the reasons that this generation was so strong?), and perhaps in this way we could go some way toward explaining the process of Castroism—amid a series of phenomena that emerged during that decade: among the positive developments and in music, we have rock and roll, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones; on the other hand, the baby boomers in the U.S. economy and society; the moon landing by three American astronauts; the rise of the hippies and the sexual revolution; the first satellite launched into orbit by the USSR; the “miracle” of the Japanese economy; and on another front—hailed by some and denounced by others—May 1968 as a social upheaval; the Bay of Pigs invasion in Cuba, the October Crisis, the start of the Vietnam War, among many others. All of these events, in one way or another and to a greater or lesser extent, shook the world—.
Let’s remember that Castro’s own generation split in Cuba: the strongest remained under Fidel’s leadership and took control of the island; and the other group, supposedly weaker at the time, went into exile and eventually regrouped to form a very strong opposition in Miami, New Jersey, and California—from where they have even been able to influence U.S. politics and, specifically from Miami, develop South Florida through capital and labor. It has even been said that Florida—not to mention Miami in particular—is now considered the nerve center of commerce in Latin America. With this in mind, one might consider the possibility that only when this generation on the island and in the United States passes away due to old age, or is already completely biologically weakened, only then—I repeat—might the problem of Cuba begin to be resolved, although, of course, it would still take a few more years in social and political terms… In fact, in this regard, we find in the aforementioned interview with the author some of his own words that might bear some relation to this last line of thought:
“I sincerely believe that there is no longer any need for a revolution in Cuba: the first priority is to save what little remains of the island, and to that end, it is becoming clearer with each passing day that we will have to wait until Fidel (and all his influence over the current ruling elites) dies.”.
But all of this is part of a broader story, a digression for another project, which, of course, is not the case here.
Irony as a Dual Form of Language
One of the devices used in speculation, or by the confidant, is irony:
“…a gesture that showed him the true esteem, the true place that he—a mere soldier, a mere shadow—held in the heart of such a towering man (…) All that mattered was that the Chief had saved Cuba and was now dead, and beyond that door—which stubbornly remains closed before his eyes—misfortune could only be brewing. ‘Only a mind like yours can save this country, Commander,’ he once told him, as if he knew he were speaking an absolute truth” [p. 93].
The character’s ego continues to be flattered from the perspective of the implied narrator, Facundo. It cannot be any other way for the Shadow, because Castro thrives on constant flattery; and this occurs throughout the novel because it is the reason for Facundo’s servility exclusively toward his Boss—he is well aware of the leader’s narcissistic personality and seeks to please him. This naturally transforms into an absolute irony that, in its meaning—in the subtext, so to speak—gives way to negativity and causes the figure of the “President” (who was never elected by popular vote) to come crashing down. In other words, Facundo, as the shadow that he is—despite being a flesh-and-blood character—is a being who cannot think for himself; someone who, “in his delusion, justifies everything, seeks explanations where a sane mind would find none, and attempts to impose a just order on what is by nature unjust and irrational” [cited interview]. The “unjust,” the “irrational” is what lies behind Facundo’s words of flattery. His entire line of reasoning is like a grand metaphor that implies the opposite.
In fact, Facundo’s discourse carries a double meaning, one that the bodyguard himself does not realize because he is so caught up in believing the surface meaning of what he says: his support for Castro; whereas, in the context of the rational reality surrounding his words, they convey the opposite meaning—one of negativity.
When irony reveals itself as a paradox
The perspective of the implied narrator is—as I have already said—the flow of Facundo’s thoughts, a character within the narrative and History itself, which takes shape in the Chief’s innermost thoughts. Facundo thus reveals his pro-Castro ideology. But his perspectives constantly clash with the framework of real-world thought—free, objective, and, even within Cuba, clandestine and subversive. Frequently, the bodyguard extols the figure of the Chief—for his actions, his way of solving everything, his ability to do everything, and so on. And that is when we sense the irony of who the Leader really is and that his worldview has nothing to do with the coordinates (and, let’s also say, the principles) of the objective world. Thus, the figure of this “leader” gradually becomes—as is the case in real reality, if you’ll pardon the redundancy—tremendously hostile, sadistic, and cruel, and the fact is that the clash between the Castro-like mirage created in Facundo’s mind and the system of factors that constitute legitimate humanist thought causes the image of the “leader” to crumble and turn into a perversion, a distortion, a nonsense, and an absurdity. So we could say that the narratives of the two narrators—the implicit and the explicit—converge at a certain point between the lines, resulting in the paradox of a boomerang effect; into something that returns with its burden of negativity against the very character being praised, and shatters any shred of conviction one might have had regarding the figure of the leader. It is as if the lives of Cubans, in addition to being hell itself, were a bad joke, in which the existential irony of the people (celebrations, support, marches, slogans, etc.) is nothing more than a pathetic dance of zombies applauding the grand sorcerer.
The Shadow and the Boss
It’s well known that Facundo is, in an obsessive way, the “shadow.” That doesn’t mean he’s a coward or an opportunist who hides behind his role as the Boss’s protector for his own gain. Facundo possesses the mindless devotion of a dehumanized robot because he believes in his destiny: his mission in this world is to care for the Boss above all else, and he does not hesitate to give his own life for the one who means everything to him (we must remember that at age 14 he began preparing to serve him). It is certainly a problem of intellect and soul. In truth, Facundo is subservient only to his Boss; he is a fanatic, passionately devoted to the one he cares for, to such an extent that his daily relationship with him is so all-encompassing that it far surpasses the relationship he has with his wife Nora, with whom, even during intimate moments of sex, he never stops talking about Castro (In this sense, Facundo’s life is morbid, completely out of balance—a strange existence that seems to find more pleasure at the dictator’s side than at his wife’s). Nevertheless, it is a sane, conscious fanaticism that is convincing both because of its sincerity and because of the human ignorance that leads him to see things only through the prism of the Leader. Thus, this fanaticism leads him to reveal Castro’s innermost thoughts, even regarding his closest collaborators—and even his brother Raúl, who comes off very badly in this story.
Another of the novel’s achievements—along with the character of Facundo—is its power of persuasion, which convinces us of the dehumanizing nature of the Boss as a key supporting character. This does not prevent the reader from identifying with the dictator—an identification that, though adversarial, is an identification nonetheless: the reader as a key figure (thanks to the flow of Facundo’s thoughts). Despite the brazenness and distortion of power, one comes to sense the hypocritically paternalistic nature of the Leader’s relationship with Facundo (though, of course, this is the paternalism of every autocrat), while conversely, the portrayal is passionate and, in fact, rapturous. Thus, Facundo is the shadow, and as such he is fiction (intangible), but as a shadow he is also concrete reality, the reflection of a living body.
Facundo “Sombra” praises the Boss, encourages him, and assures him that he is alive and that he is a figure of historic greatness. Sombra lives for and by the Boss:
That spark comes back to him: someone telling the Boss, “You look like a devil, Fidel,” and making him smile—perhaps with that very same open smile that’s been captured on this piece of photo paper. He guards it jealously. He’s never had the courage to take it out and put it on the dresser, like some of the others he sees right before his eyes, because the vipers that always abound in that palace—slithering, venomous, through the hallways, would surely say that it was a very effective way to suck up to the Boss, as if he needed it [p. 284].
For a saga of power
Generally speaking, a story like this—given the importance of the subject matter and the fact that it’s well told—leaves you wanting to keep reading. It’s an engaging way to uncover hidden truths—or at least to get a little closer to the behind-the-scenes workings of a historical narrative, whose intensity lies in the systematic concealment of how that power has truly operated. That is why I dare to suppose that after this novel, another might emerge in which someone else continues this story—in its intimate, psychological, and political dimensions. Although I know very well, from the interview cited, that it would be very difficult for the author to write another novel on the subject. When asked if his work might have a sequel, Amir Valle replied:
“Maybe so, but I swear I’ll never get involved in a project as ambitious as this one again, so I’ll leave that other part to whoever wants to write it (…). But yes, there’s plenty of material to choose from—and not just in the story of our “illustrious” dictator. There are quite a few of those who cling to power who have enough stories to fill a saga in the style of Galdós or Balzac.”.
*Words and the Dead* was the intelligent rage that drove out Amir’s demons as a form of exorcism, and which right now—I suppose—grants him, literarily speaking, an enormous sense of peace with himself. But it’s true, the saga could be endless, since there are still countless things left to say. It is the story of the negativity and fascination with power embodied in this emblematic figure of power himself—prominent in provoking global crises, a charmer of crowds, a master of international politics, a brilliant divider who promises what he has never delivered, and a master of spectacle, among so many other facets. And so, the novel gives us the opportunity to delve into the inner workings of that power. It allows us to develop our imagination to better understand the daily abuses committed with complete impunity for nearly fifty years.
Perhaps it could be Nora who comes up with the new story—Facundo’s faithful wife?—because she presumably must have followed her husband’s life and that of the Boss step by step, and therefore she is the one who has much to say about her family’s and society’s drama. Or from another angle: the woman scorned for having been passed over?; the woman who is also fanatically devoted to the leader?; the woman in her role as the new servant, whose name was changed to “comrade”?; I mean, a perspective through which so many other instances of corruption and the excesses of power could be uncovered.
The Nature of the Body and the Shadow
Finally, I think the ending is predictable, but also because it’s legitimate—an ending set in an indefinite time, which feels like an eternity in fiction and a mere moment in the objective realm of real circumstances, always in the same space near the Commander. While he waits… what is this man waiting for?… his turn, let’s say; “—You couldn’t afford to die, Boss,” he says, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out the Makarov“… The footsteps coming for him—already approaching—those echoing boot steps drawing near, heralding the precise moment of reckoning… He sees Rubén ”standing motionless in front of the desk, followed by the three soldiers, his eyes glassy, stiff, his hands hanging limply at his sides, like a lifeless puppet, like a statue“… Throughout the novel, his decision has been building in intensity, gaining strength in his own memories… ”He hears only the light, the crackling sound of the light, a whisper tangled in those swirls of luminosity that flood his brain. He also manages to hear the metallic click of the firing pin. And the shot” [p. 298]…
Facundo either had to kill himself or be killed. There was no other way. Even though his suicide is different from that of cowards. Facundo takes his own life out of the conviction that he was no longer anyone, and also as a way to outwit those who were going to kill him—those who were “enemies” of his Boss. If there is anything to be said in his favor—even with a certain admiration—it is that by taking his own life, he denies the palace “traitors” the chance to buy him off or destroy him. But also because, above all else, Facundo is loyal to Fidel Castro, as the author has already described him.
The fact is that if the body leaves, the shadow must disappear. This is the most compelling reason why the novel’s ending must be a fundamental principle that must be fulfilled: the shadow can never—by its very nature—betray its body.
