Fidel Castro lifts both arms to the sky to enjoy the pleasing morning zephyr fanning him dry and doesn’t flinch when the towel loosens and drops to the floor. It was nothing they hadn’t seen before, thinks Fidel, as he waves to Raúl who is scurrying across the courtyard with a straight razor in his hand. At peace with the world, Fidel then folds the Cuban-flag Adidas tracksuit which he’d let to dry on the balcony and returns to the bedroom.