Smile, Sorrowful Tyrant

As history's dustbin of discarded lies brims over with the dross of five continents, as the quivering thundercloud of extermination looms above our heads, as daily routine becomes a nightmarish drone-like trudge of the dead, it's nice to laugh once in a while, to relax, to see that even in these troubled times, there's fun to be had.

Personally, I prefer to enjoy myself in Havana, Cuba, where the dollar is gold, the women are bronze and the mojitos are extra-sweet. Life seems better here, as I pointed out in America Is Evil And Wrong, the independent press book that I hastily threw together after Sept. 11. The fruits of the Cuban Revolution are only now becoming evident. Plus, as a journalist, I can head down anytime I want. That's why I found myself on a Cuban beach recently, under a rich sun, playing chess with an old man in authentic clothing.

"Checkmate!" I said.

My opponent's friends applauded. The woman I'd hired for the day rubbed my neck even more efficiently. In the distance, a merry son began to play.

"Great writer, you have defeated me again!" Eduardo said.

"Perhaps you'd like to double the stakes?" I said.

"But I don't have two dollars to spend!"

I pulled out my wallet and said, "Here's a five. Now we can play chess all afternoon. Long live the revolution!"

"Yes," the sad man said sadly. "Yes."

Suddenly the son turned martial. Down the boardwalk marched a phalanx of soldiers, diplomats and photographers. At the rear of the column was the great caudillo himself, the man with whom I'd hidden in the mountains so many decades ago.

The old man and his friends dropped to their knees.

"All hail Fidel!" they said.

I ran to the nearest cabana and hid. Whenever Fidel knew I was in Cuba, he made me come to his palace and watch videotapes of old World Series games. He's especially fond of the work of Bob Costas, whom I find excruciating.

Still, I love to watch his parades, to admire the power and pageantry of the last truly great man alive today. Alongside him walked a familiar figure.

"Holy shit," I said. "What's Jimmy Carter doing here?"

Behind me a voice said, "He's betraying American democracy."

I whirled. There, in a rattan beach chair, wearing his vacation casuals, sat Vice President Dick Cheney.

"What?" I said.

"I keep a house here," he said. "Off the record."

"But?"

"The government needs you, Neal."

"Not again!"

"Yes," he said. "The warning of a threat of another terrorist attack on U.S. soil may or may not be imminent."

"So I've heard," I said. "But what's in it for me?"

"We're going to invade Iraq, and we need someone to tell us where Saddam Hussein is."

"And?"

"And you're the best journalist we've got. Or at least the best we've got who'll let us pay him."

Once again, as in so many other times of conflict, duty had crawled into my bed and died. Yes, I believed in the revolution, but I also appreciated the freedoms I had as an American. And I needed the frequent-flyer miles. Like all the best gigs, this assignment had chosen me.

"I accept," I said.

"Great!" Cheney said. "Let's go get some hookers."

?The tyrant lives in fear of being discovered. It's hard for him because he's moving around all the time. He cannot sleep in the same bed more than five minutes in a row. He cannot eat more than three meals a day. He constantly has to pee, but he rarely has the time. One hour he's in one place, the next hour another place. Sometimes it takes him three or four days to finish watching a movie. The tyrant is lonely. He has company. He gets horny. He feels sated. His children are like ghosts to him, and his ghosts like children. Sometimes he feels sad being a tyrant, but other times it makes him happy. Though he's not fully human anymore, it doesn't seem to bother him. He likes being the hunted. It makes him feel important. The tyrant is worth writing about in short, self-important sentences. He's going to fall soon. This he knows for sure.

Walking through the streets of Baghdad, I'm struck by how clean they are, and also how empty, and also how many pictures of Saddam Hussein are up all over the place. Why, it's almost like an American city, with a slave trade, and without any personal or political freedoms. I buy an Oh Saddam! candy bar and a tall cool glass of Husseinade from a street vendor and stroll through the downtown theater district, where all the plays are about the life of Saddam Hussein. The headline of the Baghdad Sun reads, "Saddam Still President. U.S. Still Satan."

To myself I wonder aloud, "Hmm. If I were a ruthless dictator, where would I hide?"

Guns point at every inch of my head. I hear the triggers click.

"Before you shoot me," I say to the soldiers, "allow me to produce my ID card."

The one with the fanciest uniform spits in my face and takes my card. His face cools from homicidal down to worshipful.

"Oh dear, Mr. Pollack," he says. "We apologize."

"No problem," I say.

"I saw your piece in Details. It was funny."

"Thanks."

"So?" he says.

"Yeah."

"You wanna meet my Uncle Saddam?"

?Saddam Hussein is swimming. I sit by the pool, waiting for him to finish. His nephew, who is also named Saddam Hussein, informs me that Uncle Saddam swims "at least five minutes a day." This makes him appear healthy and vigorous to his subjects, who once a week, on Sundays, must watch Saddam Swims! on television or face public execution.

Saddam emerges from the pool, which is shaped like his head. His mustache drips chlorinated water. He extends a hand.

"It is a pleasure," he says, "to meet a man as hairy as I."

Deploying the greeting that sources have told me Saddam likes to hear, I say:

"Blessed be Saddam! Glorious ruler of Arabia! May the prophets sing your name from the mountaintops for a thousand years!"

He waves his hand.

"Let us dispense with the formalities. Have some Husseinade."

"Thank you."

"Now then. You have questions?"

"Yes. Do you have nuclear weapons, and where are they?"

"I can't answer that."

"Of course. Are you prepared for an attack by the United States?"

"Yes. We will repel the Western hordes just as we did last time."

"But you lost last time."

"No we didn't."

"Okay. Um, do you have any other projects you're working on?"

"I've got this screenplay," he says.

"Really?"

"About my life."

"I can get you in touch with someone in Hollywood."

"Great!" says Saddam Hussein.

"Just give me your cellphone number and I'll have her call you."

Saddam takes my notebook and starts writing down a number. He laughs.

"Wait a second," he says. "I know what you're up to."

"Who, me?" I say.

A helicopter appears overhead. It lands on the roof of the house. Saddam apologizes, says he has to go. He lives in a different house every hour, and sometimes houses are destroyed as soon as he leaves them. It's a sad life, he tells me, but a necessary one.

"This was a true honor for me," he says.

"Same here," I say.

"Listen," Saddam says. "One more thing."

"Sure."

"Do you know Jonathan Safran Foer?"

"He's my godson," I say.

"I loved his book. Tell him I said hi."

"I will," I say. "Let me give you a present."

With that, Saddam climbs the rope ladder, an autographed copy of Everything Is Illuminated tucked under his arm. These days, I carry one around with me everywhere, as brilliant young Jonathan's fans are multiplying.

The chopper blades whirl, and in a column of dust Saddam vanishes from my life. Suddenly, seismically, I feel my politics shift. The change is quite rapid; I can barely keep down my lunch. I think:

Oh, you may not have answered my questions, Saddam Hussein, but the homing device is in place now, and soon the greatest empire the world has ever seen will unleash the fearsome might of its gathered armies upon your gilded palaces. Our unstoppable arsenal of technology and steel cannot be matched; our will to victory cannot be quenched. We are marching toward victory and ultimate world domination, and we will brook no opponent. Quake before the power of America, Saddam, for we approach. We are coming for you, because we always vanquish our enemies, because we are the rulers of the globe, because, in the end, we will not be denied. No terrorist, socialist or tinpot dictator dare challenge our noble mission!

Onward to victory! Onward to destiny! Death to our enemies! Hail, hail, the almighty United States!