During one of my assignments in Havana I heard an anecdote that takes on a certain poignancy in the light of Fidel Castro's declining health. A visiting VIP presented the leader with a tortoise of distinguished pedigree as a token of esteem.
"And what," he was asked, " is this creature's life span?"
"A hundred and fifty years."
"That's the trouble with pets," sighed the bearded recipient. "You no sooner get to know them than they go and die on you."
In the current climate, with Cuban Americans already partying in Miami's Little Havana, and with the invalid himself declaring that it will be "many days before a verdict can be given", it must surely be the tortoise that should anticipate prior bereavement. Intestinal disorder, it seems, may put an end to a political regime that has endured for more than 40 years despite the determination of the world's mightiest power to overthrow it. You don't have to believe stories of poisoned chocolates or explosive cigar boxes to accept that CIA agents, along with Cuban exiles in the United States, and oppressed opponents within the island itself, have sought repeatedly to terminate Fidel Castro. What is truly astonishing is that their best efforts over so many years have failed.
In the course of my own travels in Cuba as a television reporter, I gained a few insights into the thoroughness of the security apparatus which surrounds the leader and the mindset of those whose chief concern throughout every working day is keeping him alive.
One vital feature, it seems, of the blueprint for protecting him is that virtually no one should ever know what Fidel is planning to do next, where he might be doing it, or when. One of my trips coincided with a visit to Havana by Eugene McCarthy, former US senator and presidential candidate. His was an unofficial, low-key mission to explore the prospects for some mending of fences between the two countries. Over coffee one morning I asked him if he would be meeting the top man. He said he had been led to believe so, but had been given no clue as to when it might happen.
In the lobby of our hotel a few days later McCarthy approached me, smiling. The encounter had indeed taken place, he said - a frank and good -humoured encounter, but at the shortest possible advance notice. He had been swimming in the hotel pool when two army officers showed up and politely asked him to get dressed. There was a jeep waiting outside and in less than half-an-hour he was in the presence of the president. Effectively under armed escort, he had had neither time nor opportunity to let anyone else know where he was going.
Then there was the strange affair of the party where all the lights went out. In the mid-1970s the British embassy in Havana organised a cocktail reception for a group of visiting businessmen from Britain. As usual Castro was invited and as usual there was no reply. It was assumed that, also as usual, he would not show up. The party got going around dusk and was in full, convivial swing, with Cuba libres and mojitos circulating freely, when suddenly the lights went out. One of the ambassador's staff ushered him towards a window and pointed to an army truck in the street below.
"I believe, sir, we're about to have an important visitor." He explained that the embassy had been disconnected from Havana's unreliable public electricity supply and was being reconnected to a military generator. The important visitor must never be caught in the dark. Seconds later the lights came on again and very soon after that the back door bell rang. There he was, Fidel himself, with the usual entourage of grim-faced men. Even then, he did not join the general throng. A private room was requested where he received small groups of two or three guests at a time. No mixing with unknown foreigners in a crowded gathering.
Nor has he ever been too keen to give interviews to television reporters from the Western media.The nearest I ever got was a day in the company of one of his brothers. Not Raul, the armed forces commander, who is for the moment Fidel's stand-in, but Ramon, the eldest, a wonderfully warm bear of a man, who has always cared more for farming than for politics and has been sensibly allowed to occupy himself with agricultural projects. I spent a day with him in the Picadura valley, trying to look as if I understood as he explained the details of a genetic cattle-breeding programme. I told him I was hoping for an interview with his brother. Would he put in a word? He roared with laughter.
"Me? He never listens to me."
Probably not. The only people we know for sure Castro has been listening to, for decades, are his security chiefs. And now, presumably, his surgeon.