“That’s a sad and happy story,” Quinn said to Renata. “Now you must marry me and my Changó beads. Did you just hear what Changó did for your favorite Orisha, Babalu Aye?”
“I heard,” she said, “and will you always do that for me?”
“I will,” he said. “And will you give me such love that the gods will be jealous?”
“I will try.”
“Then it is time to marry,” Quinn said, and he put her arm in his arm and he walked her to the table with the bowls of Oshun and Changó, and he looked to Moncho, who called Epifanio, his driver, and one of Arsenio’s daughters, Encarnita, as witnesses, and then Moncho spoke from memory the civil ritual that made Quinn and Renata man and wife. Felipe Holtz gave the bride away.
Arsenio’s old wife brought many plates of food to the table, and the wedding feast carried on until after midnight when a messenger arrived and talked to Moncho, and together they told Quinn that it was time for him to meet Arsenio in the forest. His bride would not be going with them. She should see a woman in Havana who would find a meaningful connection for her in the revolution, and Moncho would tell her that woman’s name. Quinn passed this on to Renata who said if I go back to Havana they will arrest and kill me. I will go back with Felipe to his house and wait for you. Then she kissed Quinn, her new husband, and went alone to their marriage bed.
Quinn and two of Arsenio’s people went out the back door of the house and walked through a black forest, mostly uphill, and after the first hour Quinn was short of breath, his knees aching, his arches ready to collapse, why the hell did you wear these shoes? Because they’re the only tough shoes I own and what’s more I’m hungry, I should’ve brought a sandwich. At his wedding Quinn had eaten a forkful of tortoise stew (Changó’s favorite), a quarter of an aguacate, and the bread pudding he publicly designated as the wedding cake—one mouthful, with which he kissed Renata, and food then became irrelevant. But, listen, sometimes the only thing the Mambí troops had to eat was sour oranges and tree rats. Quinn blocked the hunger nag and focused on the light of the large, almost full moon (the same moon his grandfather saw—he was with the Mambises in March, and beyond). Its light filtered at times onto the path Arsenio’s men were following through the dense foliage; but when the blackness resumed they still moved with great certainty, eyesight being only one of their navigational tools.
They walked without speaking, not a word. The burlier of the two men was the leader and carried on his back something like a bedroll wrapped in straw, which, Quinn would see when it was delivered to Fidel, was not a bedroll but a Thompson machine gun and cartons of ammunition, a gift to Fidel from Arsenio who got the Thompson and a Garand from two of Batista’s soldiers, killed after they left a whorehouse in Bayamo. The Garand was strapped over the shoulder of the second man, Omar, a son of Arsenio who was joining Fidel, and that was possible only if you brought your own weapon.
Omar had been driven off his land by the army, which was clearing out all villages where Fidel had gotten, or might get, help or supplies, creating a no-man’s-land where friend or foe would be shot on sight, and which opened great areas to the bombing raids the air force was planning. This was a replay of 1896 and ’97 when Capitán-General Valeriano Weyler, the Spanish commander of all Cuba, emptied villages to isolate rebels who lived in them invisibly. He herded 300,000 peasants, maybe more, no one kept count, into reconcentration camps where hundreds of thousands died of hunger and disease, earning Weyler his Cuban sobriquet, “The Butcher,” and establishing his reputation as one of history’s great villains.
In the seventh hour of their journey Quinn and Arsenio’s son waited at a small creek while the burly man went ahead to confirm that they were near their destination. He returned and they walked thirty more minutes into the sunrise, feeling the onset of the intense morning heat, and found the Comandante at his headquarters of the moment, a primitive hut whose occupants had been evacuated by the army. He was sitting on a stool, two men with him and four more circulating around the hut watching for danger. Quinn would count another twenty-some men at rest among the trees.
“Mr. Quinn,” said Fidel, standing up and confirming that he was six-feet-three, three inches closer to the moon than Quinn, “they tell me you interrupted your honeymoon to come here.” There was that noted beard, black as the forest night, and an amiable smile. He wore fatigues and a cap he kept on throughout the interview.
“They are right,” said Quinn, “but my pilgrimage here is part of the honeymoon. Without coming to talk to you about revolution I wouldn’t be married.”
“Then you are in my debt. You are wearing beads of Santeria. Are you a follower?”
“My bride is, but I am learning. A babalawo gave me these beads. They represent Changó.”
“My mother was a Catholic but also followed the Santeria. When she was pregnant a babalawo told her I was the son of a warrior god. She initiated me with a ceremony when I was still in the womb and she said Changó put in an appearance.”
“Wherever I go in Cuba I run into Changó. But the womb is new.”
Fidel was thirty-one, a year and a half up on Quinn, and he looked fit, sanguine, and on edge, which Quinn thought was probably his permanent condition. He talked softly and told Quinn to do likewise, for the moisture of the morning carries words great distances and who knows who might be passing by out there? He spoke in Spanish, with one of his soldiers interpreting in English. Quinn identified himself as Daniel Quinn the Second, grandson of Daniel Quinn the First who came to Cuba to prove Carlos Manuel de Céspedes was not dead, as the Spaniards were claiming; and Herbert Matthews did the same for you. Now you’re famous for not being dead; and Fidel agreed. Quinn said he would point out in his story that during an interview one month after Matthews, the Comandante still showed no symptoms of death.
Fidel thought he remembered the americano Quinn’s book on Céspedes from his University days. Quinn said the Cubans called his grandfather El Quin. Fidel remembered an American called El Inglesito, fellow named Reeve, who had been a Union soldier in the Civil War and then came down and fought four hundred battles with the Mambises.
Quinn said he had found parallels between Fidel and Céspedes, who told El Quin, We survive off the enemy. We take their guns, their food, their clothes, their horses, even their guitars and bugles. “You did that at La Plata, no?”
“Yes, but only a few guns, some shoes,” said Fidel. “We need many more guns.”
“My wife sent you that batch of weapons Arsenio delivered yesterday,” Quinn said.
“Your wife?”
“Renata Suárez Otero. She runs guns in her spare time. She was close to the Directorio but most of them are dead from the Palace attack.”
“You must send her my deep, deep gratitude. That attack, it was useless bloodshed. We don’t want to assassinate Batista. We want to abolish the system. We are fighting against reactionary ideas, not individuals.”
“Spain sent six sets of assassins to kill Céspedes,” said Quinn, “and all of them failed. He survived the war for five years.”
“Assassination is at large on the streets of Cuba,” Fidel said. “When Grau was president there were a hundred political assassination attempts in four years, and more than sixty of them succeeded. I was at the University and I survived one myself.”
“Your survival,” Quinn said. “How do you explain it? You didn’t die in combat at the Moncada barracks, or in Batista’s jail, or shipwrecked in the swamp, or being hunted up here by half the Cuban army? This smacks of a scripted life, Achilles without a fatal heel, your mother giving birth to a divinity. Do you think that’s the reason you don’t die? Or are you just lucky?”
“Luck reduces the merits of a man,” Fidel said. “When I was captured at Moncada they were ready to cut me in pieces and fry me, but a lieutenant in Batista’s army would not let his men shoot me. He even refused to give me to his superior, who was a famous killer. ‘You can’t kill ideas,’ the lieutenant said, and he turned me ov
er to the police for trial. Batista tried to poison me in jail but people handling the food sent me warning notes, so I went on a hunger strike. Later I got food from elsewhere.
“When Batista visited the prison, I sang the Twenty-sixth of July marching song to him, and he put me in solitary for forty days without light. He is not a music lover. I read books by the light of a liquid olive oil candle with a match for a wick and it lasted three hours. Then I had to get out from the mosquito net to make another candle, and the mosquitoes would follow me back under and torture me until I killed them all. People sent me books and I also asked the jailers for José Martí’s writings, but they said he was too revolutionary. So I asked for Marx’s Das Kapital. I told them I wanted to become a capitalist when I got out of prison, and they gave it to me. Until then I had read Marx only to page 380.
“Also, this wonderful peasant bandit, a Precarista who helped us survive when we first came up here, went home to see his mother and betrayed us to the army, taking ten thousand dollars to kill me. He rejoined us, and that day I decided we should move our camp. Why? Not because of luck, but because he had asked questions about where we posted our sentries. I still trusted him, but nevertheless we moved to a higher point that we could control and conceal. That night the traitor slept with his pistol under a blanket, right alongside me. He could have killed me but his cojones had shriveled. The next morning B-26 bombers and F-47 fighters bombed and strafed the area we had abandoned. We survived, but not by chance. My moving us was instinctive, not lucky.”
“What happened to the traitor?”
“He died with lightning. We shot him during a thunderstorm.”
Quinn made coded notes on all that was said, as brief as possible. He would rely on memory for reconstituting this talk, for if he was caught by the army, explicit notes could be a death warrant.
Fidel offered him a plate of congri—rice and beans cooked together—but Quinn said he could not take food out of the mouths of the rebel army. Fidel insisted and said there was plenty for today, that the men had eaten their fill; and so Quinn ate with great relish. He brought up Hemingway, a perennial soldier and man of the gun, and told of Cooney’s song and Hemingway’s one-two, and the challenge. Should Hemingway fight such a duel?
“Yes, of course,” said Fidel. “He is too important to refuse a challenge. He loves war, and a duel is war on a scale of one to one. Cubans love duels. Prío, when he was president, passed a law making duels illegal, as if that would stop them. It’s like passing a law against war. Tell Hemingway he must find a way not to lose. If he can wait until we defeat Batista I will organize the duel and see that he wins. He is too valuable to lose his life for such a thing. I like the way he writes, how he has conversations with himself. His novel on the Spanish civil war can teach you about battle.”
So now Quinn would pass along the Comandante’s advice to Papa: take ten paces, turn, and put a bullet in Cooney’s heart, but shoot first and not into the air. Do not turn away as a gesture of contempt that invites him to shoot you in the back. Above all, don’t allow him to shoot you just because of your acute sense of irony. Papa always went to war for the macho thing—drink and fuck and fish and hunt and fight and kill and put yourself in mortal danger and prove your courage and be a hero of the just cause. Quinn is going through a little of this in the here-and-now, and Hemingway is watching from the sidelines. But it isn’t simple emulation by Quinn, who doesn’t hunt or fish, but he drinks and fucks and here he is in danger in a war zone because he has come to see the hero. He’s not doing it because he thinks he’s a coward, or because of a personality disorder, or a love affair with war such as Hemingway has had. He’s doing it because it’s a continuation of an earlier life choice: to be a witness, a writer, something to do while he’s dying that isn’t boring; and he will write about that, which seems his primary motive. He has a strong impulse to salvage history, which is so fragile, so prismatic, so easily twisted, so often lost and forgotten. Right now a full moon is rising on the revolution, rising on a day like none other and, if Quinn doesn’t report on it, who will? It will fade into the memory bank of those here, and if they survive they’ll tell what they remember, fragments of the actuality which they’ll skew with their prejudices (and so will you, Señor Quinn). Yet monitoring the whatness of the previous unknown, that seems to be Quinn’s job: I was there and then he said this, then this happened, and then they went that way—following the path of the machete, you might say.
Why bother?
Well, Quinn is young and his motives may be more opaque than they seem, but he has no interest in gaining power for himself. He’s fascinated by those who want to transform the day, the town, the nation for other than venal or megalomaniacal reasons. Is working for the just cause one of his motives? It seems to be on his agenda. He intuits that it’s worth his time to bear witness to people living for something they think is worth dying for. He also has another reason: he wants to escalate himself in his grandfather’s dead eyes.
“That peasant who helped you before he betrayed you, it seems bandits and gangsters become valuable players in a war,” Quinn said.
“I knew a few who were trying to make a revolution when it was not possible,” said Fidel, “and they were killed as gangsters. Today they would be heroes.”
“What makes a man a revolutionary?”
Fidel sat down on a rock outcropping beside the hut. “What a question.” He puffed his cigar and exhaled his answer.
“The passionate embrace of the vocation,” he said. “The obsession with changing the order of existence. Reading Martí, my early hero, the poet who organized a war. Listening to the voices from the French and American revolutions. The insights of Milton, Calvin, Luther, Thomas Paine, Montesquieu. I read Marx and I studied Roosevelt’s New Deal in prison. Also I was always awed and horrified by Cuba’s wars, and by the parade of tyrants who oppressed us. And then there is the absolutism of belief.”
“In what?”
“In the possibility of revolution.”
“So much revolution in Cuba,” Quinn said. “If it’s not erupting it’s being planned. It’s like Trotsky’s idea of permanent revolution.”
“We are still fighting the wars of ’68 and ’95 that Céspedes and Agramonte and Gómez and Maceo and Martí waged,” said Fidel. “But we have never in our history gotten near Trotsky’s idea of taking the country from the bourgeoisie and putting it into the hands of the workers. We are always fighting another hijo de la gran puta—Spanish villains like Valeriano Weyler, or our own despots, Machado and Batista. And we are always weakened or betrayed by Cubans who fear they’ll lose their wealth if there is a revolution. The cockroaches! Coño! They turned away from Céspedes because he had so many black Mambí leaders that they feared a black takeover. Many Cuban plantation owners would not give up their slaves. They had fought Spain in the past, not for independence but to annex Cuba to the U.S. as a slave state. De pinga!”
“But when the tyrant is impregnable,” Quinn said, “the Cuban revolutionary seems to turn suicidal. Eduardo Chibás shooting himself during his own political radio speech. All those Directorio youths facing down Batista’s machine guns. José Antonio Echevarría walking toward a police car firing his pistol. And Martí charging into battle on horseback as if his leadership skills in bringing an army together were nothing compared with the damage he’d do by galloping into the blasts of Spanish guns. He needed to die. They all needed to die.”
“I would differentiate among them,” said Fidel, “and also between suicide and challenging danger. There is a moment of transcendence, and when it rises up in you, then sudden death can be a mundane fate of no consequence. I am sure José Antonio was in that sort of moment when he walked toward the police car, shooting at it. I see him as totally unafraid to fail.
“With Martí it may have been the opposite—death becoming more important than life. Distance had come between him and the two major military leaders of his war. He had been given the rank of major gener
al, and people were also calling him ‘EI Presidente’ of Cuba Libre. But Máximo Gómez, who made him a general, said that as long as he himself lived, Martí would never be president. And Maceo, a negro general of great intelligence, told Martí to his face that he was not a fighter and not fit to be called a general.
“An unverified but enduring part of this legend is that Maceo pulled the general’s epaulets off Martí’s shoulders. If that was how it was for Martí—and we may never know the truth of this alienation—then his galloping into the Spanish guns very soon afterward can be read as a tactical stroke of recreating himself as a martyr. And revolutions need martyrs. Leaders plan the revolution, but the force grows from the tyrant’s oppression, and then come the argument and the ideas, and when you are in the season of insurrection, the momentum will overcome very great resistance. The leader sometimes realizes how minuscule he is, another energetic figure, but just a small gust of wind moving with the hurricane.”
“The palace attack,” Quinn said, “if it had succeeded would that have started the hurricane?”
“Even if they had killed Batista,” said Fidel, “it would only have been a beginning. Their backup force failed them. They did not have unity. They would have been easily defeated by the army.”
The Comandante’s tone was suddenly abrupt, edgy. He needed Batista alive for his revolution. He took two cigars from his shirt pocket.
“Do you smoke cigars, Señor Quinn?” He offered Quinn one. “A Punch Double Corona, a very old brand owned by a tobacco baron I knew in Havana, an old reactionary who made great cigars. A box of them arrived yesterday, a gift from a Santiago lawyer who supports us. I view it as a gift from the gods, perhaps from Changó, although Changó hates cigars.”