CUBAN TRANSITIONS

The contrast between Mario Conde and Yoyi Pigeon in Leonardo Padura’s “Havana Fever” highlights the generational divide that arose with the onset of Cuba’s Special Period. Conde, who is almost 50 years-old, grew up at the height of the Revolution and was raised under the communist promise of a “shining future.” Pigeon, who is only 28, grew up under the dire conditions of the Special Period and maintains a youthful skepticism towards the Revolution’s ideals. A casual conversation between the business partners exemplifies this difference:

Conde: “They made us believe we were all equal and that the world would be a better place. That it was already better…”

Pigeon: “They fooled you, I swear. Everywhere you go some people are less equal than others and the world is going to the dogs. Right here, if you don’t have any green’uns you’re out of the running…”

Conde: “It was nice while it lasted.”

Pigeon: “That’s why you’re all so fucked up now: too long spent dreaming. What the hell was the point of it all?”

Most of Pigeon’s life has been defined by the current social and political situation: illicit activity, corruption, drug deals, prostitution, and a growing income gap between those who have access to dollars and those who do not. He is part of the youth movement ready to question Castro’s utopia, whether that be through music and art or capitalist practices and black market activity. While Conde lives the day-to-day reality of the black market, he is much more hesitant than his partner to accept modern conditions. He is torn between two worlds: “the life he’d known in his youth, [and] the one he was now contemplating in his mature, illusion-free years.” He feels somewhat lost in this new Havana, which now seems to be “an unknown city, one that didn’t belong to him, and one moving him on, shutting him out.”

Conde is part of the “Revolutionary Generation,” a generation that believed communism would raise Cubans above the evils of the capitalist outside world. His contemporaries would have been soldiers who, inspired by revolutionary solidarity, fought in Africa in the 1970s. During this time, Castro’s regime urged support for revolutions abroad to help cultivate the revolutionary zeal back home.

Pigeon, on the other hand, is the product of another time; his contemporaries are more wary of communism’s potential. He explains to Conde that in his current business, he sleeps “until midday with air-conditioning, and stealing from no one, I earn more money than if I worked for a whole month as an engineer, getting up at six and struggling onto the bus (if the damned bus actually came)…putting up with a boss set on clearing up at the expense of everyone else…” To him, the Revolution is full of lies and his business and everyday reality are a testament to that conviction.

Despite Conde’s understanding that the Revolution never lived up to its promise, that “they dazzled us with all that glare and we walked past the future and didn’t even see it,” he speaks of a “romantic insistence on keeping [the past] intact.” While he dropped out of the police force and actively contributes to the underground private sector, he is morally conflicted about his behavior. Padura thus underlines the psychological toll that the Special Period took on romantic idealists of the 1960s and 70s. In a daily fight for a survival, members of Cuba’s middle-aged population must reconsider their understanding of the Revolution when confronted with the pressing question of where to find their next meal.