Mona and Other Tales (4 page)

Foreword by Daniel Sakuntala

A PECULIAR BIT OF NEWS APPEARED in the international press in October of 1986. Ramón Fernández, twenty-seven, who had come to the United States in the Mariel exodus from Cuba, was arrested at the Metropolitan Museum of Art as he “attempted to knife” the Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci's famous painting, valued at a hundred million dollars.

Most of the newspaper reports offered basic information on the artist and his masterpiece, then speculated that Mr. Fernández was one of the many mental patients who were expelled from Cuba in the 1980 Mariel boatlift. The museum's exhibit of the famous painting would be extended until the fifteenth of November 1986, by special permission from the Louvre. That was all they said, and whether it was for reasons of diplomacy or out of ignorance they omitted a minor detail: Mitterrand's French government would pocket five million dollars for the “courtesy” of having allowed the Mona Lisa to cross the Atlantic. It is interesting to note that the press— especially that in the United States—emphasized the fact that the suspect, a presumed mental case, was a
marielito.
Also of interest is the media's reference to an attempt to knife the painting, when according to all the evidence, including the suspect's confession, the assault weapon was a hammer. . . . A few days later, on October 17, the
New York Times,
deep in one of its back pages, printed a brief account of the strange death of the detainee Ramón Fernández: “The young man from Cuba who attempted to destroy Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece was found strangled in his prison cell this morning. He had been waiting to make his first court appearance. Oddly,” the reporter added, “the suicide weapon is still a mystery.” Aware of the detainee's mental condition, the authorities had deprived him of his belt and shoelaces. The prisoner seemed to have strangled himself with his bare hands. No one from the outside had visited Mr. Fernández, who, according to the warden, had spent his six days of incarceration in a highly agitated state, writing what appeared to be a long letter—which he subsequently mailed to one of his Cuban friends in exile. The warden declared that because this was a special case, he had taken the precaution of reading this document (obtained through a policeman who had pretended to befriend Mr. Fernández), and it confirmed the inmate's state of extreme mental disturbance. After photocopying the letter, he had it mailed to its addressee, “since it added nothing (sic) to the evidence.” Two days later, while the front pages gave coverage to Mother Teresa's suicide, only a few newspapers reported that Ramón Fernández's body had mysteriously disappeared from the morgue, where it was awaiting the arrival of the forensic physician and the district attorney. Thus ends the more or less hard news regarding the case, news that began with a confused bit of information (the so-called knifing of the Mona Lisa) and ended similarly (with the apparent suicide of the suspect). In the confident wisdom so characteristic of ignorance, the yellow press sniffed a crime of passion behind all this. . . . Needless to say, a flock of magazines and New York tabloids—those called liberal because they are ready to defend any enemy empire against the American empire—headed by the
Village
Voice,
reported the events differently: Ramón Fernández was an anti-Castro Cuban terrorist who, in clear opposition to the socialist French government, had attempted to destroy that country's most treasured work of art. And as if this were not enough to grant us Cubans the status of troglodytes, a libelous Hispanic rag published in New Jersey and funded by a Cuban extremist, Luis P. Suardíaz, wrote a blazing editorial in praise of Fernández's “patriotic deed,” saying that his “action” had served to draw the French government's attention to the case of Roberto Bofill, a Cuban who had gained political asylum in the French embassy in Havana and had repeatedly been denied an exit permit by Fidel Castro.

Six months have passed since the mysterious death of Ramón Fernández.
La Gioconda
has returned to her home in the Louvre. The case appears to be closed.

There is someone, however, who won't easily accept the hasty closing of this case, particularly after twice having had the privilege of gracing the pages of the
New York Times,
as well as being published in several other journals. That person is none other than the author of these lines, Daniel Sakuntala, the recipient of the long testimony produced by Ramón Fernández. The police handed it to me, a week after Ramón's death, in an attempt to find out if there had been any compromising or murky dealings between the “suicide suspect” and myself. They intended to watch my reactions and follow my every step, and I am sure they did.

As soon as I received the manuscript from my friend Ramoncito, whom I had met in Cuba, I tried to publish it in a serious newspaper or magazine, but all the editors agreed with the dull-witted police, saying that this testimony was the product of a hallucinating or deranged mind and that anyone who dared publish it would be ridiculed. Since I found no serious publication willing to make the text known, I contacted Reinaldo Arenas, as a last resort, to see if he would print it in his magazine,
Mariel.
But Arenas, with his proverbial frivolity
³
and in spite of the fact that he was already very sick with AIDS, the cause of his recent death, laughed at my suggestion, saying that
Mariel
was a modern magazine in which there was no room for this “nineteenth-century tale.” To compound the insult, he told me to take it to the director of
Linden
Lane Magazine,
Carilda Oliver Labra. . . . My guess is that Reinaldo had met Ramoncito in Cuba, and Ramoncito, who was attracted only to real women, had completely ignored Reinaldo. But that is another story, which reminds me of the time when Ramoncito, my friend and brother, slapped Delfín Proust in a crowded bus in Havana because Delfín had suddenly grabbed at his fly. . . . Well, no respectable publication was willing to print my friend's desperate testimony. Perhaps if it had been taken seriously from the start, his life would have been saved.

Since I hope it will save the lives of many other young and handsome men, such as he was, I am taking it upon myself to promulgate this document, using all the means at my disposal. Here is the text, with only a few clarifying notes added. I sincerely hope that someone, someday, will take it seriously.

DANIEL SAKUNTALA
New York, 1987

 

Editors' Note

Before presenting this testimony by Ramón Fernández, it seems advisable to clarify a few points. Daniel Sakuntala was unable to publish this document during his lifetime in spite of tenacious efforts. In the end, it seems that his economic situation prevented him. We have a copy of a letter from Editorial Playor, asking two thousand dollars in advance for the “printing of the booklet.” The text was published in New Jersey more than twenty-five years ago, in November 1999, after Mr. Sakuntala's mysterious disappearance (the body was never found) near Lake Ontario. The publishers were Ismaele Lorenzo and Vicente Echurre, the editors then of the magazine
Unveiling Cuba
—who themselves have recently also disappeared, together with most of the copies of the book. (Unconfirmed rumors indicate that these senior citizens returned to Cuba after the invasion of Havana by Jamaica in alliance with other Caribbean islands and, of course, Great Britain.) As for Reinaldo Arenas, mentioned by Mr. Sakuntala, he was a writer of the 1960s generation, justly forgotten in our century. He died of AIDS in the summer of 1987 in New York.

Because of the number of printing errors in the first edition of this document and then its near disappearance, we are proud to present this edition as the true first edition. For that reason, we have left unchanged Ramón Fernández's idiosyncratic expressions, as well as Daniel Sakuntala's notes and those of Messrs. Lorenzo and Echurre, even though by now they may seem (or be) anachronistic or irrelevant.

Monterey, California, May 2025

Ramón Fernández's Testimony

This report is being written in a rush, and even so, I am afraid I won't be able to finish it. She knows where I am and any moment now will come to destroy me. I am saying
she,
and perhaps I should say
he,
though I don't know what to call
that
thing.
From the beginning, she (or he?) ensnared me, confused me, and now is even trying to prevent me from writing this statement. But I must do it; I must do it, and in the clearest way possible. If I can finish it and someone reads it and believes it, perhaps I could still be saved. The authorities in this prison are certainly not going to do anything for me. That I know very well. When I told them that I needed not to be left alone, that I wanted them to lock me up and have someone watch over me day and night, they broke up laughing. “You're not important enough to deserve special security,” they said. “But don't you worry, you won't be able to get out of this place anyway.” “My problem is not that I want to get out,” I told them. “What worries me is that someone might be able to get in. . . .” “Get in? Here no one gets in of his own free will, and you'd better be quiet unless you want us to put you to sleep right now.” I was going to insist, but before opening my mouth again, I looked at one of the officers and saw in his eyes that sneering attitude of a free human being who looks down upon a madman, an imprisoned one at that. And I realized they were not going to listen to me.

The only thing left for me to do is to write, to describe the events, to write the whole thing up quickly and in a logical manner, as logical as my situation allows, and see if someone finally believes me and I am saved, though that is very unlikely.

Since I came to New York—and that was more than six years ago—I have worked as a security guard at the Wendy's on Broadway between 42nd and 43rd streets. It is open twenty-four hours a day, and since I had the night shift, my job was always very lively, dealing with many different kinds of people. Without overlooking my responsibilities, I had the opportunity to meet many women who came in for a snack or who just passed by, and from my post behind the glass wall and in my well-pressed and gold-braided uniform, I beckoned them in. Of course, not all of them took the bait, but many did. I want to make very clear that I am not bragging. One night, in just one shift, I managed to have three women (not including the Wendy's cashier, a very solid black woman I made it with in the ladies' room). The trouble came at quitting time: the three of them were waiting for me. I managed somehow, but this is no time to go into it. I left with the one I liked best, though I was really sorry I had to give up the other two. I have no family in this country, and all my lovers and even friends have been these nameless women whom I spotted while at my post at Wendy's or who (and I say this without any false modesty) spotted me and came in with the pretext of having a cup of tea or something.

One night I was on the alert, watching the street and looking for a woman worthy of a wink, when a truly extraordinary female specimen stopped outside. Long reddish hair, ample forehead, perfect nose, fine lips, and honey-colored eyes that looked me over openly (a bit shamelessly) through long false eyelashes. I must confess, she struck me instantly. I straightened my uniform jacket and took a good look at her body, which even under bulky winter clothes promised to be as extraordinary as her face. I was fascinated. Meanwhile, she came in, took off the stole or cape she had around her shoulders, and uncovered part of her breasts. That same night we agreed to meet at three o'clock in the morning, when I finished my shift.

She told me her name was Elisa, that she was of Greek ancestry, and that she was in New York for just a few weeks. This was enough for me to invite her to my room on 43rd Street, on the West Side, only three blocks away. Elisa accepted without hesitation, which pleased me enormously because I don't like women who play hard-to-get before going to bed with you. These are the ones who later, when you want to get rid of them, make your life unbearable. Since I didn't want to have that kind of trouble at Wendy's, I stayed away from these kinds of “difficult” women, who later, when you are not interested anymore, become quite a nuisance, capable of following you all the way to Siberia if necessary.

But with Elisa—let's keep calling her Elisa—that was no problem. From the start, she laid her cards on the table. She obviously liked me and wanted to go to bed with me often before returning to Europe. So I did not ask her any more personal questions (if you want to have a good time with a woman, never ask her about her life). We went to bed, and I must confess that in spite of all my experience, Elisa surprised me. She possessed not only the imagination of a real pleasure-seeker and the skills of a woman of the world but also a kind of motherly charm mixed with youthful mischief and the airs of a grand lady, which made her irresistible. Never had I enjoyed a woman so much.

I noted nothing strange in her that night, except for a peculiar pronunciation of certain words and phrases. For instance, she would begin a word in a very soft, feminine tone and end it in a heavy voice, almost masculine. I supposed it was due to her lack of knowledge of the Spanish language, which she adamantly insisted on speaking after I told her I was Cuban, though I had proposed, for her convenience, that we speak English. I could not help but laugh when she told me (perhaps to empathize with my Caribbean origins) that she had been born near the Mediterranean. I laughed not because being born there was funnier than having come into this world somewhere else but because she pronounced each syllable of the word
Mediterráneo
in a different voice. It seemed you were listening not to one woman but to five, each different from the other. When I pointed this out, I noticed that her beautiful forehead wrinkled.

Next day was my day off, and at dinnertime she suggested going to Plum's, an elegant restaurant that did not concur with the state of my wallet. I informed her of that fact, and she, looking at me intently but with bit of mockery, invited me to be her guest. I accepted.

At the restaurant that evening, Elisa did something that puzzled me. The waiter, in this fancy place, forgot to bring us water. I signaled him several times. The man would promise it right away, but the water was not forthcoming. Unexpectedly, Elisa grabbed the vase adorning our table, removed the flowers, and drank the water. She quickly replaced the flowers and continued our conversation. She did this so naturally that anyone would have thought that drinking the water from a flower vase was the normal thing to do. . . . After dinner we went back to my room, and I enjoyed again, even more than before, the pleasures of her incredible body. At dawn, half-asleep, we were still kissing. I remember at one point the strange sensation of having close to my lips the thick underlip of some animal and quickly turned the light on. Next to mine, fortunately, I had only the lips of the most beautiful woman I had ever met. So fascinated was I with Elisa that I accepted her idea of my not going to Wendy's that night, which was a Monday. She claimed that it was the only day in the week that she could spend with me, and proposed taking a ride on my motorcycle (a 1981 Yamaha) out of the city. Across the Hudson, on the New Jersey side, Elisa asked me to stop for a look at the New York skyline. I knew that for a foreigner (and a tourist, given her carefree manner), the panoramic view of Manhattan, its towers like sierras, today mysteriously disappearing in fog, had to be impressive. Even I, so used to this panorama that I seldom took the time to look at it anymore, felt the enchantment of the view and seemed to perceive an intense glow radiating from the tallest buildings. This was rather strange, since at that time, close to eleven in the morning, the skyscrapers had no reason to be lit. I turned to tell Elisa, but she, leaning on the railing, facing the river, was not listening to me: she was as if transported, looking at the strange luminosity and muttering unintelligible words that I assumed were in her mother tongue. To bring her back from her soliloquy, I approached her from behind and put my hands on her shoulders, which were covered by a heavy woolen stole. A chill ran down my spine. One of her shoulders seemed to bulge out sharply, as if the bone were out of joint and in the shape of a hook. To make sure there was a deformity that inexplicably I had not discovered until then, I felt her shoulder again. There was no deformity, however, and through the fabric my hand caressed her warm, smooth skin. Then I thought that surely I must have touched a safety pin or a shoulder pad, now back in place. At that moment Elisa turned to me and said that we could go on whenever I wished.

We got on the motorcycle, but I couldn't get it to start. I inspected it carefully and finally told Elisa that I thought we could not continue our trip. My cycle had finally given out, and it would be better if we left it right there and took a taxi back to Manhattan. Elisa wanted to examine the motor herself. “I know about these things,” she explained with a smile. “In my country I have a Lambretta”—that's what she said—“which is similar to this.” Mistrusting her mechanical skills, I stepped aside to the lookout on the Hudson and lit a cigarette. I had no time to finish it. Giving its characteristic explosion, the starting motor began to roar.

Elated, we dashed off. Elisa suggested we take I-95 North to a little mountain town near the route to Buffalo. The higher we climbed, the more radiant the autumn noon became. The trees, deep crimson, appeared to be on fire. The fog had dissipated, and a warmish glow seemed to envelop everything. I kept glancing at Elisa in the rearview mirror; she had an expression of sweet serenity. It gave me such pleasure to see her like this, with her look of mysterious abandon, her face against the forest background, that I kept watching her in the little mirror, spellbound. Once, instead of her face, I thought I saw the face of a horrible old man, but I attributed this to our speed, which distorted images. . . . During the afternoon, we reached the mountains, and before dark we stopped at a town on a hill, with one- and two-story houses. More than a town, it looked like a promontory of whitewashed stones, above which rose a pure white church steeple so old that it did not seem to belong in America. Elisa cleared up the mystery for me. The town had been founded in the eighteenth century by a group of European immigrants (Spaniards and Italians), who chose such a remote location in order to be able to hold on to their old traditions. They were peasant folk, and according to Elisa, though they had arrived in 1760, they were still living as if in the Middle Ages. And it was indeed a small medieval city, despite its electricity and running water, and its location on the foothills of a New York mountain.
⁴

I was not surprised at Elisa's knowledge of architecture and history. I have always thought that Europeans, simply by being Europeans, know more about the past than Americans do. Up to a point, if you allow me, they
are
the past.

The prison bell is ringing: it's dinnertime, and I run. There, among the inmates and their shouting, and in the midst of all the clatter of dishes and utensils, I feel more secure than here, alone in my cell. To urge myself on, I vow that right after dinner I will continue writing this report.

Now I am in the prison library. It is eleven P.M. I am thinking that if nothing had happened, I would now be at Wendy's in my blue uniform with gold braid, behind the glass wall, protected from the cold and inspecting with my clinical eye every woman who passes by. But I have no time for women now. I am imprisoned here for a crime I have not committed, but given my status as a
marielito,
it is the same as if I had. I am waiting here not for my sentence, which by now obviously does not worry me much, but for Elisa, who, as soon as she can, will come and kill me.

But let's go back a few days to the night we spent in that old mountain town so dear to Elisa. After walking around for a while, we entered a restaurant that looked like a Spanish inn, something like La Bodeguita del Medio—The Little Inn in the Middle of the Block—a popular restaurant in Havana, which I, as a native, was not allowed to visit, except once, when a tourist, a Frenchwoman, invited me. . . . Elisa knew the place well. She knew how to choose the best table and the best dishes on the menu. It was clear she felt completely at home. And her beauty seemed to grow by the minute. She also knew how to pick a hotel; small and comfortable, it looked like a guest-house. We retired early and made love passionately. I confess that in spite of all my enthusiasm, Elisa was hard to please (What woman isn't!), but I have my ways, and in these matters I always have the last word—even if my companion is a great conversationalist. Yes, I think that by daybreak I had managed to satisfy her completely. She was resting peacefully by my side. Before turning off the light, I wanted to get my fill of that quiet serenity of hers. She had fallen asleep, but her eyes did not remain closed for long. Suddenly I saw them disappear. I screamed in order to wake myself up—I had to have been dreaming—and immediately I could see her eyes, looking at me intently. “I think I had a nightmare,” I told her in apology, and embracing her, I said good night. But afterward I was barely able to sleep at all.

Before dawn, Elisa got up and, without making a sound, left the room. I stood behind the window curtains and watched her vanish in the glow of the morning mist, following a yellow path that disappeared among the trees. I decided to stay awake and wait for her, even though I tried to calm myself by thinking that it was natural for someone to get up before dawn and take a walk: a European custom, maybe. I remembered the Frenchwoman who took me to La Bodeguita del Medio: she used to get up at dawn, take a shower, and, still wet, throw herself into bed. . . . About an hour later, I heard Elisa push the door open—I pretended to be asleep. She seemed out of breath. She sat next to me at the edge of the bed and turned off the light. Protected by darkness, I opened my eyes slightly. Facing the early light, her back to me, was a beautiful naked woman who would, any minute now, snuggle into bed with me. Her bottom, her back, her shoulders, her neck, everything was perfect. Except that her perfect body had no head.