The Death of Che Guevara (60 page)

I sat on a split log, part way up the hill, sucking on my pipe. It was out; it tasted stale. But my hands felt too heavy to light it again. I tried to remember what Growald’s face looked like, then realized that I’d never seen him, only heard about him from Joaquin. But I knew people like him, boys who at first are so ardent for the armed struggle they have to show it in some way, having their toenails extracted or their chest tattooed, or doing some ritual, like Camba’s. But this need just shows how weak their feeling is. I had even killed a boy like that. He had strangled a policeman in the city, without help, then walked to the Sierras with the man’s gun. Later he committed a rape, telling a peasant girl that he was Che Guevara, the doctor, and wanted to examine her. He begged me to have him buried with his uniform on. I couldn’t allow that. And he, too, died praising the Revolution.

“From then on,” Joaquin said, “everyone knew that going on was pointless. But we went on, marching around. Our radio was broken. We had no contact with the outside. Masetti, our commander, became withdrawn. No one could speak to him. He didn’t speak to anyone, only gave orders, that’s how it was. Men began to desert. The army caught the deserters, and got information from them, and shot them. The army sent infiltrators to join us and lead us into traps. The army infiltrated our city network. They sent soldiers dressed as peasants into the zone, so they knew all our movements. We were betrayed constantly, over and over. Three of the guerrillas were captured when they surprised our camp. Some of us escaped, but without any food. We went deeper into the jungle. Three died of starvation. I saw this. We were so hungry that I saw men eat fruit that caused convulsions, and they ate it even though they knew it caused convulsions. That is how it was. Masetti and I were the only ones left. He left me one night and went deeper into the jungle. I wouldn’t follow him there—a wild place, with jaguars, and vegetation so thick that you couldn’t see the sun. It was a way of killing himself. I’m sure of that. He wanted to die. I made my way back into Bolivia, shooting monkeys and birds for food. I was the only one that escaped.”

The men nodded, or stared at the ground, or looked very grave, suitably impressed. Stiff little masks of mourning; they were tempted to break into smiles. A sham, a false internal dialectic, a failure of the imagination. At the mention of each difficulty they said to themselves, Would I act like that? I would never act like that! And then it was as if the difficulty had been overcome in fact as well as in fantasy. Their pride in themselves increased proportionately. They were ready to face the next problem with their new pride, certain now that they wouldn’t give in to it. Illusory, suicidal dialectic.

My limbs, too, were heavy with grief. I and Joaquin (he was heavy too; he continued to stand rigidly by the table), we were the only ones moved by his talk.

1/7/67: I send the men out each day in small hunting parties, for birds. This will train their eyes. The farmers (Jorge, Coco, Aniceto) purchased additional food in Camiri.

Groups from the vanguard (under Ricardo) cut more trails for escape. We now have trails on both sides of the Nancahuazu River.

1/8/67: Our neighbor came to the Tin House to talk to Jorge again. (Jorge has a full mustache now. Still nothing immediately under his nose. But he leaves it alone. I think I’ll call him Jorge.) Our neighbor is a very nervous fellow, Jorge says. Ran the brim of his black felt hat through his fingers, over and over, with great dexterity, turning a wheel. “He has a long nose, and a thin face that slopes backward, the nose is like the tip of a pyramid. He’s got long flowing black hair that he combs backward. And he’s missing his two front teeth. His teeth are all rotten and brown. He reminded me of some animal, but I couldn’t think of the name of it.”

“A ferret,” I said.

“A hawk,” Ponco said.

“A fox,” Inti said.

“A bloodhound,” Camba said.

“Please go on,” I said.

“Well, I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t want him getting too chummy. He stared at his shoes for a while, asking if the shooting was good, how the game was running. He said, ‘There are certainly a lot of hunters, a lot of men with rifles around here, a lot of hunting going on, unh-huh, unh-huh, unh-huh.’ He said ‘unh-huh’ over and over after every few words. And in between sentences he would whisper things to himself very fast.

“ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we often have friends up to hunt. I told you we would be using this place as a hunting lodge for our friends, as well as doing a little farming. Don’t you remember?’ He was very oily with me, very obsequious. I acted like he was a piece of cow dung that I didn’t want inside, so he’d know his place and leave us alone.” Jorge paused, to see if I approved.

I smiled. “Go on.” Jorge was a good mimic.

“Algaranaz said, ‘Unh-huh, unh-huh.’ He was drunk, I think. He smelled boozy and rank. And he was leaning up against one of the door jambs as if to steady himself. While I was talking he started sinking down. He stopped turning his hat and gripped it till his knuckles were white. He braced himself
against the door, and stared at me. We were only a few feet apart. He said,
‘I
know you’re not a hunter.’ His eyes were going unfocused; I thought he was going to pass out. ‘No, I know what you’re doing, unh-huh, unh-huh. I know a lot of things about you.’ He started whispering again while I stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘I know a lot more than you think I do. And I’m willing to collaborate in the cocaine business, unh-huh, unh-huh. The cocaine business, isn’t it? Isn’t it? That brings in a lot of money, doesn’t it? You have to be more even-handed with your gains. We’re not all as rich as you are, you know.’

“I told him he was crazy, and just walked away. Left him in the doorway. After a while I saw he had clamped his hat down really hard on his head and walked off.”

I instructed him to tell Algaranaz that we’d be happy to have his “help with the farm,” his advice on “how the game is running.” Offer him a small bribe, and add that if he makes any trouble for us at all, if he goes to the police, if he tells anyone, even a friend, you’ll find out about it and you’ll have him killed.

I know Algaranaz’s type well, and we’re in no real danger. The peasant farmer who has done all right for himself, a shrewd, cunning man. A mixture of short-lived belligerence, petty daring, and deep subservience. Courage enough for a little blackmail, a little black-market dealing, but not enough essential dignity to see how petty his schemes are, that he’s just about as badly used as the poorer peasants, his occasional employees. The small landowner’s vanity is immense. But it’s just vanity, not pride. There’s no way for it to become revolutionary anger. The oppressor sits in his heart, a fierce fat little god, and exhales dread. Algaranaz has no character except what he apes from the class above him. He tries to make out his idol’s words, but when Algaranaz speaks them they appear all mangled, comical. He knows he sounds like a clown, and he hates himself for it. So he takes revenge on anyone more powerless. Greed, resentment, and dread are the substance of his little life. Jorge’s contempt was just the right tactic to remind Algaranaz of his place. The threat will be enough, when coupled with a sweet little bribe, to take care of him completely.

1/11/67: Three days ago Jorge Vasquez paid the bribe to Algaranaz. Today three policemen came to the ranch to demand a bribe for themselves as well.

The bug felt the touch but jumped in an unexpected direction. Algaranaz was more daring than Che thought. Or he couldn’t help boasting.

We had to pay the bribe to the police. Soon the whole countryside will be on our payroll, and we won’t have to make a revolution. We’ll order them to become Communists, and fire the ones who don’t.

Does Che, I wonder, underestimate the courage of the petite bourgeoisie? He has too many theories, sometimes, to see what’s right before his eyes. But it’s hard anymore to talk about these things with him. I’ll save it for my book,
My Comrade, Che
. (Or perhaps,
My Difficult Comrade, Che
. Or,
My Pigheaded Comrade, Che.
)

1/14/67: Coco returned from La Paz, where he’d gone to get the recruits from the youth wing of the Party. I met him in the Bear Camp, overlooking the farm. He was still wearing his business suit, a thin blue fabric, worn through and too small for him. His black shoes were dusty from his walk, his face, usually so amiable-looking, was red, angry.

“I got them all right. As planned. Then
he
popped up at the bus terminal.”

“Who popped up?” I said. “Slow down.”

“Monje,” Coco said. But he didn’t slow down. “He was waiting at the bus by the door, by the bus to Camiri. He stood right in front of the door and said,
‘I
won’t allow you to take these men with you. They’re Young Communist militants, and they’re under Party discipline. I can’t allow them to go with you.’ You know, as if it wasn’t his idea, but a Party decision that he had to carry out. Well, two of them said they were going anyway, they didn’t give a fuck about Party discipline. They were good kids. They were brave guys. One of them said he was a Party member, and wanted to remain a Party member. One of them didn’t say anything at all. He was too confused. I thought he was going to faint in the middle of the bus station. He would have been a big help! Monje said that if any of them went with me on the bus he was going to give their names to the police, and tell the police all about them. I couldn’t believe that! I had loved Monje, you know, and he would kill us all! I said, ‘If you do that, I’ll kill you. I swear to you, Monje, that Inti or I will kill you.’ But I had to leave the men with him, and get on the bus, didn’t I? I didn’t have any choice, did I? I just couldn’t take the risk of his informing on us. The whole thing upset me a lot. I have to sit down. Why did he do that?”

What
is
Monje’s game? First his offer to Fidel, and now this. His duplicity? Or perhaps even Soviet pressure?

1/15/67: This evening a disastrous session of criticism, self-criticism. Coco’s report has made the Bolivians edgy. They wonder why the Party is so adamant? Is it good sense? Betrayal? Power politics? A reading of history on a level they are not yet initiated in? They are picking at a scab.

The talk soon degenerated further. Benjamin, a serious young medical student from the city, part of Ricardo’s vanguard group, said Ricardo is playing favorites. (I have the vanguard group staying at the Bear Camp, keeping watch over the farm area.) “He makes Bolivians do all the shit jobs, all the carrying, all the cleaning up.”

Ricardo was sitting near Benjamin, his long legs sprawled out. He did not defend himself at first, or even seem to notice, but remained relaxed, hardly moving. No one spoke. Ricardo said, “Benjamin, stop whining.”

This stupid response infuriated Benjamin. As if against his will, hypnotized, he got up and walked towards Ricardo. He didn’t know what he was doing, he was so enraged, his anger pushed him forward, like a wind, until he was facing Ricardo. He shouted, nearly screamed, “You told me Bolivians aren’t worth shit!” Benjamin was shaking.

Ricardo ignored him, turning away slowly, and looked at me. “I punished some of the Bolivians, Che, because they showed disrespect towards me, and towards you, Che.” He paused (as if he were trying to decide whether to break some slight to me or protect me; or perhaps for invention), “They called you … they called you a pompous fuck.”

Benjamin emitted a screech, “That’s a lie!” His body leaned towards Ricardo in a little weaving motion. Then an extraordinary thing happened: Benjamin spat at Ricardo, but just as he was spitting, Camba put up his palm and caught the spit in his hand. He wiped his hand off on his pants, and gave Benjamin a sweet understanding smile.

Everyone looked over at me. I was inappropriately smiling, too, at the unexpected grace of it. I ordered Benjamin to sit down, and talked a little of the difficulties of waiting, of the unity we would find once the march began. But I spoke cursorily, quickly, I couldn’t wait to dismiss them. Such petty difficulties make me nauseous. At that moment, despite my smile, I despised them all.

1/17/67: Ricardo is a stiff arrogant brutal courageous temperamental prick. I respect him but I hate him. He smokes a pipe and looks down at the end of it, so his eyes are together at the end of his nose. He wears thick glasses too, so his eyes look huge and watery. He has long thin fingers that he curves over the bowl of the pipe, and he moves very gracefully. Not like me. The way he moves is very smooth and attractive. Then he stops, like he’s remembering something, and becomes all jerky, the way I am.

1/31/67:
Monthly Summary
. Monje’s actions cloud the picture. We cannot expect support from the Party until we win victories.

The soldiers and police may soon tumble to what we’re up to, no matter what bribes we pay.

We will sooner than expected have to enter the nomadic phase.

We must form the guerrillas into a nucleus of steel.

The arguments with Ricardo, and between Bolivians and Cubans, show that more speeches from me will not help.

Only shared hardships can now speak.

2/4/67: Tania, in complete violation of the instructions I gave her, has come to camp. I did not think that such carelessness and disobedience were characteristic of her! There is always the possibility she was followed. If she was, not only will the army have found us, but our liaisons will be trapped here with us. She brought Debray, who will be the contact with Cuba, and Bustos, the Argentine liaison. They will be followed, Regis says, by Moises Guevara, bringing six men that he has recruited from the mines.

2/5/67: A few groups of soldiers, small patrols, have been seen here and there near the Tin House, nosing about, even as far as the river. What are they
looking for? and why? They are like some progressive disease, the first sign red spots here and there on the patient’s arms, legs, trunk.