To The Revolución

103.

Time stands still in the moment of truth. There exists no regret for past deeds nor anxiety for those yet to become. There is this. 

Mr Big looks so deeply into the eyes of the Queen of Hearts that she shudders from the intensity of his stare. Even Cyrus, sitting four feet to her left, can sense the electrons slowing their relentless rotation as the question lingers in mid-air like smoke. 

In the room next door I watch through the lens of a hidden camera and listen with dramatic anticipation inside a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. There is not another sound in the room, even the sixty-cycle hum of the air conditioning system is holding its breath. 

I am watching Her Majesty closely. “Do not look away, hold his gaze,’ I offer as silent encouragement. 

I see that Cy is the first to crumble from the dynamic tension as he coughs into his fist and adjusts his posture on the couch, sitting straight-up like a stretching feline and inhaling deeply. 

“Don’t let him wiggle off the hook,’ I warn once more. I notice that Drysdale has rejoined us in the room, He also watches on the small computer screen with equal interest, his lips pursed. 

The silence is finally broken as Mr. Muscles, totally unaware of the precariousness of the situation, loudly enters the room asking is anyone is interested in more coffee or a nightcap. 

The Queen of Hearts ignores the distraction and maintains her visual hold on Mr Big. She has come too far to back down now and is set to win this battle of wills at any cost. She is a marble statue of resolve. 

“Well, yes then, please another round of champaign and, if you don’t mind,” he says looking at her for approval, “two of those Castros” 

I am cheering wildly for her. She is phenomenal; powerful, unwavering, strong and perhaps most importantly in this role, believable. She is a natural. She has it. I feel a surge of positive electricity pulsate as my hunch is validated in one incredible scene. If there was ever doubt, and there was, all has been removed after this real-time performance. She has it. So much so that I consider for one fleeting moment a more fitting moniker might have been the Queen of Spades. 

And she isn’t done. As Muscles returns from the kitchen with the Dom Perignon, three flutes and two dark brown cigars, she stops him cold.

“If you are having a Castro then I would like a Guevara please.” She says with the slightest hint of a Spanish accent. 

Muscles, dumbfounded, looks at Big for instructions. Big frowns a ‘well OK then’ head and shoulder scrunch indicating that whatever she wants is fine. He leaves to fetch the Havanas returning momentarily. He clips and offers them to the three holding a heavy crystal lighter. Once they are satisfied with the draw, she stands with her cigar and raised flute in hand. 

“To The revolución.” 

I look at Drysdale. He is as awed as I.

“She’s in.”