An old frail man snaps awake, and stares: there’s a stranger seated next to the bed, a long, unlit cigar in one hand. He leans back and smiles.“Don’t be alarmed,” says the stranger. “It’s just me, the Angel of History. I like to have a chat with men of your stature at times like this. Good run, old chap; dying in bed. Well played! A little advice? Pretend to die just as you’re telling them the secret Swiss bank account numbers. Drives them mad, and it’s most amusing to watch. Mind if I smoke?”
The old man’s eyes are wide and frantic; the uninvited guest leans forward. “What’s that? Right, right, your funeral. You want to know. Oh, next week, next month, hard to say. There’s the usual jostling for power right now. Odd, really: in this democratic, egalitarian nation, the only man you saw fit to follow happened to be your brother. What are the chances of that, eh? Most people in America don’t know a thing about him. ‘Another Castro?’ the Americans think. ‘They had a spare?’
“When it all shakes out, and enough people have been put against a wall, you’ll get a funeral. Second-tier diplomats will attend, mostly Europeans who will privately complain that you didn’t have the dignity to die in a cooler season. The show will be stolen by Chavez, of course. He’s rather like you, without the iconic facial hair and rhetoric that was stale when Woody Allen was funny. He has money, too. Good suits. I have my eye on that one. But we were talking about your funeral, weren’t we? The general consensus will be simple: at least it wasn’t as long as one of your speeches.
“After that? Ah. Well. You know how it goes. . . . "
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