"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Read Online Free PDF Page A

little-girl games.
    Once, a year earlier, she’d insisted he dress up as a 1930s Chicago gangster while she costumed herself as his flapper girl in a short skirt of the type worn by women in Hollywood movies depicting that era. Had they reflected the truth about the jazz age? Who knows, who cares! The idealized world up there on the silver screen was so preferable to its real-life predecessor. On yet another occasion, Lorita had arrived with a box containing a pirate outfit for him, harem girl costume for herself. Their Arabian night had followed, lasting until dawn crept in through a thin crack between the drawn shade and the window's bottom.
    That night, their bedroom transformed into a rediscovered Bagdhad. Not as that city had ever been but as recreated by Hollywood as a garish fantasy for mass consumption. The suite could be any alternative-world they chose to imagine. During technicolor nights, reality virtually disappeared, replaced by Tinseltown fantasies Lorita conjured up and Castro shared.
    Often, Lorita had insisted that her Brute Man, as she half-jokingly referred to Fidel, play out with her some elaborate scenes from specific films she had watched as a child. Lorita, having long since memorized the dialogue, now committed it to paper, insisting that Fidel learn his lines and not deviate from them. Magic reigned supreme, at least until the morning when he would put on his fatigues and return to the office.
    â€œWhat do you most want from life, Lorita?”
    â€œYou’d laugh if I told you.”
    â€œNo, no. I promise not to."
    â€œAlright, then. Everything I’ve ever seen in the movies. American movies, that is. Not those horrid 'realistic' ones the European filmmakers now choose to produce.”
    That was then. This, now. Things change. Loyalties are tested. Love dies. Or does it? She did come back—
    â€œAgain, Lorita. Why are you here? To forgive my rash act, which I’ve already apologized for, and return to me, or—”
    â€œâ€˜Or’ what, my ‘brute’?”
    Moving without realizing he was doing so, mesmerized by her presence in a manner he remained unaware of, Castro followed Lorita into the bedroom. If he had carefully thought through what could follow, Castro might have held back in doubt. His mind, though, was not at this moment the organ that controlled Castro. Dutifully, he trudged along as Lorita danced off ahead of him, a wood-sprite from some fairytale. Castro felt drawn as if by a magnet, his cumbersome feet helpless pieces of metal, pulled by some invisible force he could not control...
    â€œSo, Lorita. Now: Do you kiss me or kill me?”
    Already, Lorita had slipped out of her silk sheath, this crumpled in a shimmering heap on the floor. She wore only her Midnight Black lingerie, presenting herself to Castro as he had most loved to gaze on her. By the time he finally stepped into the room, Lorita was curled up on the huge bed like some smug, self-serving Persian cat. She even purred with superiority.
    â€œTell me, Fidel: which do I appear about to do?”
    â€œPerhaps first one, then—”
    â€œCome,” Lorita whispered, stretching her slender arms out invitingly. “Either way, accept your fate.”
    â€œDust be my destiny, then?”
    â€œYou, and every man who ever lived.”
    *
    â€œSo,” Lorita asked after they were, at least temporarily, finished, “are you alive or dead?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” Castro responded with a half-hearted laugh, “dead to the world.”
    â€œBut your great worry has not materialized. There may not be much of you—or any man—left after I ravish my lover. Still, Fidel, your heart beats. You breathe.”
    Even in the darkness of the bedroom, just enough light from outside trickled in a window where the shade had been less than fully drawn that Lorita could make out his frown of concern.
    â€œThe night is still young. My guess is