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In the autumn of 1959, my father and I were quite a pair: at forty-six, he was recovering from his first heart attack, and I, at the age of eight, after having contracted a near-fatal kidney disease during a journey I'd made to Cuba with my mother, a few years earlier, was still being carefully watched over, particularly when it came to what I could eat. During that trip, perhaps on my aunt Maria's farm, in Oriente, I had ingested something--a piece of undercooked suckling pig (lechon) or a sip of contaminated water--that had left me passing blood and bloated with edema. Back in New York, at St. Luke's Hospital, I was given a diagnosis of nephritis and packed off to a ...