Murdered in Havana

After the Catholic Church banished him, Cuba welcomed him. But the vibrant new life George Zirwas created for himself soon ended in tragic death.

Comments (0) By KATHY GLASGOW, LISSETTE CORSA Thursday, Apr 17 2003

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Zirwas wasn't averse to breaking out a bottle of rum in more intimate settings, and he liked to do some slumming -- shopping at farmers' markets (with Cuban pesos) or riding the occasional guagua (maddeningly overcrowded buses). But he was not a habitué of Havana's gay gathering spots of the time, such as the Yara cinema or the Bim Bon ice cream parlor on the Malecón. Instead Zirwas's home was literally his castle. He even called himself the Grand Duchess (among other things), affixing titles such as Princess, Dame, and Her Highness to various confidants, figuring everyone into his royal scheme of things.

"George was a monarchist," posits an American friend by e-mail. "He could be extraordinarily bitchy and grandiose.... Doesn't that self-importance explain why he called himself The GRAND Duchess? It's obvious why a gay mama's boy of that generation went into the Roman Catholic priesthood. The Papacy is a kind of kingdom, after all."

Polly Becker

WTAE-TV PITTSBURGH

Zirwas as the young priest, circa 1981; Zirwas, the Green Screen's El Juez, found Cuba wanting, but fascinating

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Ulises, the royal consort, child of Cuba's godless Communist revolution, never absorbed enough English or Catholicism to appreciate all the nuances of Zirwas's elaborate realm, though he was happy to join in the pageantry. "George used to say we were kings in our past lives," he relates. "You know how people like to read magazines about movie stars and singers? George read magazines with pictures of the royal families. He loved royal weddings. He would say, 'Someday we're going to be in a royal wedding.' One time we saw a video of the Princess Di wedding and he was thrilled."

Another video brought to Havana by a friend of Zirwas -- a Pittsburgh-area priest and former schoolmate -- also impressed the Calle Mazón inner circle. This one showed Zirwas in his ecclesiastical robes, swinging the censer and chanting in Latin, presiding over a candlelit mass and other church activities back at one of his Pennsylvania parishes.

Most of the time, Zirwas was worlds away from the religious life depicted in the video. But he wasn't going to act as if the first 40 years of his life had no meaning. "On one of my birthdays," Ulises remembers, "George gave me two small paintings, one of Jesus and one of Mary, and a large gold cross. I didn't really believe in God, but I didn't want to argue and say He doesn't exist. Then, after what happened, I asked God over and over: 'Where are you?' And I never got an answer. I might have believed in some of George's religion when he was alive, but now that he's gone, there's nothing left in my heart."

Ever since the two men met, Zirwas had been trying -- or talking about trying -- to plant Ulises on U.S. soil, though the legal options were negligible. "George would always say, 'I've got to find a way to bring you to the United States with me,'" Ulises recounts. "He told me about his condo in Florida and how beautiful it is there. He'd always say, 'Ulises, if something happens to me, who will take care of you?'"

That caregiver might well be the same Cuban man with whom Ulises was romantically involved while living with Zirwas. The existence of this other man, alluded to by some friends of the couple, has not been confirmed by Ulises and could be mere gossip or fabrication. But given the open, uncomplicated promiscuity of Cuban society in general and gay Cuban society in particular, it would be surprising if both Ulises and Zirwas had not taken other lovers.

What romance they did share was necessarily tempered by the realities of modern-day Cuba, where tourism has become the nation's number-one source of revenue, and sex-tourism, both gay and straight, a major component. Relationships of convenience between young, beautiful Cubans and older foreigners serve many purposes for both parties, but true love isn't one of them.

"It is expected by all [Cubans] to be given some kind of compensation for their time, whether gay or straight, and the older a foreigner is, the more he pays," explains Emile Armand, an American who met Zirwas on the Internet. "It's reciprocal exploitation, ultimately blameless."

"As I always say, love was deported a long time ago," snips Osmany Perdomo, crossing his lanky legs and taking an insouciant draw on a Marlboro. Perdomo, still in his early twenties, gave Spanish lessons to Zirwas and was one of his closest friends. He's lolling about his family's third-floor walkup on a busy Centro Habana street, where the din of cars, buses, and vendors rises to the open windows along with exhaust fumes and faint whiffs of roasting peanuts and pork, and that sweetish smell of decay and ancient dirt that pervades Havana's aging structures.

"When it comes to Cubans and foreigners, love can't be seen," Perdomo elaborates in near-perfect English. His wiry black hair is brushed back from his long, doe-eyed face, and his attire is fashionable -- sporty clothes and new sneakers. "A young Cuban needs the dollars -- things are very bad here. He will never be attracted to some old man, but he'll go out with him because he can benefit from the relationship. Sure, plenty of foreigners fall in love with Cuban boys. Well, they think they're in love. But believe me, it's just business."