Next came the river, where he cleansed himself and felt somehow repaired, or at least improved in spirit. By then it was the middle of the day.
"Time to rest, my friend," said the Russian.
"Where? We need shelter."
"If we seek shelter, we alert someone who in turn mutters something to someone else and before you know it, you're before the wall, only this time, I'm standing beside you. Oh, and neither of us has any eyes. No thank you. You rest here, by the river. You keep low. Sleep if you can. We have a long journey ahead of us."
"To where? I should be with my men."
"Your men are dead. Your task is to survive and consecrate their sacrifice. We won't comment on the stupidity of it all, and if you win in the end, you can order the historians to portray last night as a triumph instead of a folly. If they refuse, shoot them and find new historians. Now rest."
Speshnev thanked the truck driver, and bid him off, and when he had gone, led the young revolutionary down closer to the river. Here, he was invisible yet had a view across the water to the city, and a view down the dirt road that ran atop the crest. In the distance lay some peasant bohios, thatched-roof huts, surrounded by broken fencing, donkeys and chickens.
"You wait. Go nowhere. Shit in your pants. You don't need to tell anyone about your heroism. You wait here. I have arrangements to make."
"You can get me there," Castro said, gesturing to the beckoning mountains that seemed to be just yards away but were still miles off.
"To do what, live in a cave? Just wait."
And with that, he vanished so quickly that Castro had a sense that he was magical. Could he be an angel? Castro didn't believe in God, but he believed in God's angels, paradoxical or not. Possibly this man was such an angel. Whoever he was, he was a capable fellow. He certainly knew a lot of things. He had a gift for suddenness, either in the appearance or the disappearance department.
The young man lay and tried to sleep. But he was too agitated. He kept seeing bodies shot and sloppy, arms and legs flung out, blood spattering everywhere. He kept hearing the sound of the bullets ripping into the car. He kept feeling the spray of glass whizzing at him as a bullet shattered a windshield. He kept thinking of what he could have done that he had not or what he had done that he wished he hadn't.
He turned his vision to the city across the muddy river. One could tell that El Presidente was quite upset by the little adventure of the night, as police squad cars, the unmarked black cars of the secret police, and the jeeps of the military were everywhere, stopping cars at roadblocks, yanking occupants out to examine their documents. He watched them from across the water, nestled down deep, close to the bank. Even some airplanes buzzed overhead, old Mustangs the Americans had given their little Cuban brothers. But the planes stayed high and seemed to be merely for show; the police cars never came close, all in all; it was quite comfortable by the river, as the noon elongated into afternoon. He found a comfortable way of wedging himself into the vegetation so that crushed rushes cushioned his backside; it was like a very nice bed. He wished he had a cigar. But he saw that a cigar would be of no help in his current predicament.
A few hours later, near nightfall, an old peasant wandered the road. He seemed in no particular hurry to get anywhere and no one would pay him the slightest attention. But at a certain moment, he disappeared into the bushes. And when Castro next saw him, he was quite close; but he had taken his old hat off, and Castro saw that he was the Russian.
"Say, you are a tricky fellow."
"I may know a thing or two. Here, I bring you some treats."
He had food and a bag of clothes, for Castro a short-sleeved shirt to wear over his army pants. The young man took off and squirreled away his army fatigue shirt. He drew the cream-colored shirt around him, buttoned it, and it hung over his belt, partially obscuring the military nature of his pants. It wasn't much of a disguise but it certainly was better than the sergeant's uniform, which all of Cuba was hunting.
He wolfed the food ravenously, for he felt as if he hadn't eaten in days. It was a cold pork sandwich and a bottle of warm beer, but still delicious.
"What is the word? What have they done to the men?"
"I told you. Forget the men. The men are gone. They rounded them up and took them to the barracks and Ojos Bellos cut their eyes out and they were shot. Such is life. Such is war."
"All of them?"
"Most, it is said."
"It shouldn't have turned out like this. We didn't even make it into the barracks. We were hung up outside and―"
"I saw. Someday I will teach you how to plan and administer an attack on a fortification. You don't just drive up to it, you idiot. What did you think would happen?"
"I thought the soldiers would be drunk. And I did not think they would fight for Batista."
"They were drunk but not drunk enough. And they don't give a shit about Batista. These are bored country boys in dull garrison duty. Give them a chance to shoot something and you make them happy. You gave them the best day of their lives. They will tell stories of the heroic defense of the one thousand against the one hundred for a century."
"They were lucky. I―"
"No, you were stupid. Now stop it. Don't argue with me. You don't know enough to argue. You need your rest. We will move in a while."
"The mountains?"
"You didn't have a plan for this?"
"No. I thought we'd succeed."
"You are truly an idiot child. You should have yourself neutered so that you don't pass your simpleness on."
"I already have a son."
"Not that you've seen him in months."
"Where are we going?"
"It's all arranged."
"Havana! Yes, Havana!"
"Let's survive Santiago first."
"But the future is―"
"The future is the next three days, or there is no future. I've made arrangements with certain people. We'll get you out. You will go into exile. You will learn, read, study, master tactics and training, absorb organization and administration, broaden your mind and meet people."
"I could have done that before. Why now such a generous scholarship offer?"
"You don't know, do you?"
"No."
"You're famous."
"What?"
"Right now, you're the most famous man in Cuba. Your picture is in all the papers."
"I am famous?"
"Absolutely, though for differing reasons. To the police and the military and El Presidente, you are a monster. To the Americans you are a threat. To the people you are a hero."
This genuinely pleased the young man. A broad smile crossed his face, unbidden; he seemed to glow in the knowledge of this new thing. He was no longer a street-corner orator, a voice occasionally on the radio, an essayist for little radical papers like Alerta. No, he was famous. He forgot to ask about his wife and child, his parents, his men. All no longer existed.
"What do they say of me?"
"Vain boy! What, do you think this is going to get you a movie contract?"
"No, I care only for my country and my people. I have no need of this fame except as a tool to save my country. But…"
"But is it a good picture?"
"Well, yes."
"Yes, it's a good picture. It happens to be your wedding picture. You and Mirta. They've cut her out of it, of course, so all the girls will like it. But it means that if you are seen, you are a phone call away from losing your eyes and getting a bullet in the skull. So we must move quickly."
"Off, then. But…where? How? They are everywhere."
"You leave it to me, sonny. This is what I do."