2025: EL AÑO DE LA INCAPACIDAD ENERGÉTICA (2025: The Year of Energetic Incapacity)
Cuba has its own Ministry of Love, which, after decades of efforts at persuasion, has descended into decrepitude. The guards take the lucky souls chosen for re-education to our version of Room 101. It looks like a sort of visiting room with a crudely cut sheet of plastic hanging from the ceiling by bits of rope or wire. The acrylic curtain is suspended above a table with chipped corners. The guards sit you down and make you wait a few minutes for the interrogator to arrive. Today it is Lieutenant Colonel Francisco, our Ministry of Love’s head honcho, who has accumulated the most experience in catching and breaking traitors to the revolution.
He first tries, albeit unsuccessfully, to turn on a nearly nonfunctional Chinese air conditioner that has lost its buttons and lacks part of its front casing. Lt. Col. Francisco takes a blue pen out of his pocket and tries, over and over again, to insert it into the corroded hole where the POWER button on the device used to be. He tries one more time, but nothing happens; his feet are not long enough to maneuver properly. He stands on tiptoe, but still cannot turn it on. He removes the cap from the pen and attaches it to the tip to try to lengthen his makeshift tool. He juggles on tiptoe, trying to maneuver inside the precarious hole to no avail. He tries again but fails once more.
Suddenly, he looks at the chair used for interrogations, as if thinking of climbing on top of it, but decides not to, probably imagining how embarrassing it would be to be seen performing such a balancing act in front of a counterrevolutionary.
He starts to feel uncomfortable because his failure at a simple task undermines his all-powerful persona. He goes out into the hallway and calls out for a lower ranking officer, but no one answers. He tries again, until… Beep! A start-up beep sounds and the device finally starts to blow cold air. Already somewhat agitated, but relieved to have achieved his goal, he resumes his interrogation routine and sits down in front of me.
“There are some pieces of fingernail here,” I say, referring to some clippings that were on my seat and on my side of the table.
“Those are the fingernails we cut here,” he says sarcastically. “Those are the fingernails we cut here, just like you people out there say we do in this place.
He laughs. I can tell he’s enjoying this.
