"There was a law of lese-majeste against those who committed some fault against the Roman people. Tiberius grasped this law and applied it, not to those cases for which it was made, but for all those which could serve his hatred or his suspicions. Not only actions fell within the limits of the law, but words, signs, even thoughts: for what was said in the flow of the confidence of the heart between two friends can only be regarded as a species of thought. There was no liberty in celebrations, or in the confidences of parents, or in the fidelity of slaves; the dissimulation and melancholy of the prince communicated itself into all parts. Friendship was regarded as a reef, brilliance as an imprudence, virtue as an affectation which could recall, in the minds of the people, the happiness of times past."
-- Montesquieu, Considerations on the causes of the greatness and decadence of the Romans

The Observer sends its man to report from Cuba on the eve of Carter's visit. He wanders about, and picks up such gems as this, about the school system:

"The children, in pressed white shirts with red scarves tied neatly round their necks, eventually scuttle off to the call of the bell at Ruben Alvarez school - named, of course, after a revolutionary hero. ' Sin educacion no hay revolucion posible ' declares the sign at the entrance - Without education, revolution is not possible - alongside pictures of Elian Gonzalez restored to his father's loving arms. Head teacher Pilar Mejia explains that curricula are taught in strict accordance with the latest directive from the education ministry, and around five basic principles the first of which stipulates that (she reads, dutifully): 'To love our motherland should be the political goal of the educative process.'

The revolutionary catechism that began with such high hopes in Europe in the 19th century impinges itself by such low means on the children who must suffer this particular autumn of the Patriarch. Castro decays, and the country runs on liberal tourists of the Swedish variety, who can sample the delights of collectivization and still make the circuit for the prostitutes that troll through Habana -- no longer the brothel of the U.S., as it was under Batista, but a brothel with a motherland and a Che Guevara poster over the "put the quarter in the slot" bed. Remember that Pixies song?

She's a real left winger 'cause she's been down south
And held peasants in her arms
She said "I could tell you stories that could make you cry"

Well, here's some travelogue to make us all feel good:

"If there is a trinity of clich�s that brands Cuba, it is communism, cigars and libido. This third is nothing new, but it, too, has themes and variations. Sex walks the streets of Havana. Castro promised to liberate Cuba from its role as America's brothel. But by reintroducing the dollar, he has turned it into the boudoir for a new generation of clients from Europe, Canada and South America. Thousands of Havana's girls and women are for rent - by the hour, day, even by the week. Two in the morning, and the Parque Central is emptying out, but Mileydis Padrino Diaz is still on her patch, escorted by two gentlemen. One of them makes the approach, describing himself as 'a lawyer'. Milyedis, with braided hair and jeans, smiles bittersweetly. Ten dollars for the chica, plus another 10 for la casa - 12 quid the package.

The Observer's man (who, incidentally, has portrayed himself, in the best tradition of Clark Kent, resisting Mileydis' blandishments, and merely casting an objective eye over her, uh, habitus) digs up a dissident that Limited Inc can approve of (and we approve of so little, you know): Elizardo Sanchez. Apparently the Trotskyite wing of the Castro opposition. So he talks with Sanchez. But Sanchez doesn't look like a man with a lot of markers to play with in the post Castro era. Sadly enough.

Yes, the depressing thing is, Sanchez will be swept away by the deluge after the Patriarch is eaten, as is inevitably the case, by vultures. Castro has spent what? thirty, forty years? producing an island society that depends on him utterly, and will be gone, the victim of the recidivist Miami right, when he is gone.

I said, "I want to be a singer like Lou Reed."
"I like Lou Reed," she said, sticking her tongue in my ear.
"Let's go, let's sit, let's talk, politics goes so good with beer.
"And while we're at it, baby, why don't you tell me one of your biggest fears?"
I said, "Losing my penis to a whore with disease."
"Just kidding," I said. "Losing my life to a whore with disease."
She said, "Excuse me, please?"
I said, "Losing my life to a whore with disease."
She said, "Please."
Well, I'm a humble guy with healthy desire
Don't give me no shit because

I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired