TRAVELS (and more) WITH CECILIA BRAINARD: Fiction: Cecilia Brainard's "Remembering Che Guevara"

Dear Readers,

I'm a fan of Che Guevara and was once inspired to write a short story about him. I'm sharing my story, "Remembering Che Guevara" for your enjoyment. It's part of my third short story collection, Vigan and Other Stories (published by Anvil, and also available in Kindle and Nook).

I've included a few pictures from a trip to Peru.

Enjoy!

REMEMBERING CHE GUEVARA

by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

I WAS NINETEEN when I met Che Guevara. This happened in Cuzco long before he was known as Che, long before he was killed in Bolivia. It was 1952; he was twenty-three; I was nineteen. I was in Cuzco with my cousin Tita. Cuzco had not been my first choice for a vacation. I had wanted to see Miami, or Barcelona, or Madrid, or Mexico City, places I couldn’t afford but instead of some glitz, I got a sleepy town in a valley, an arid cold place riddled with Inca ruins, some 3,500 meters above sea level.

“Three nights in Cuzco is just right,” Tita said in the bus, “there are museums I want to see, then we’ll take the train to Machu Picchu.” She was an anthropology major and had been wanting to visit this part of Peru.

“Will the museums in Cuzco have pointed skulls and mummies?” I asked, referring to the ancient malformed skulls and mummies wrapped in baskets, displayed in the museums in Lima.

“I hope so,” Tita said.

I sighed. “Skulls and mummies just aren’t fun, Tita.”

“You know how they shape the skulls? By tying boards on babies’ heads—isn’t that interesting? It’s all interesting. Cuzco is the oldest inhabited city in the Western Hemisphere. It’s the capital of the Inca World.”

“You’ve already told me that.”

“Will you quit being a wet blanket?” she said. “Just because Antonio two-timed you doesn’t mean your life has ended. You’re only 19; you have your whole life ahead of you.”

I sat back and sulked even more. We were in the back of a crowded bus. I didn’t want to hear about Antonio again. For most of the 24-trip from Lima to Cuzco (via Nasca and Anbancay), we rehashed what he’d done to me: that is, he dumped me for a socialite in Lima. Tita thought she was being funny when she talked about his new girlfriend. “Antonio says she’s the daughter of the Minister of Health, and that her mother is the descendant of Mansio Serra. She could be a descendant of Pizarro himself, but you know what, her buckteeth are so large, she looks like a horse.”

“I don’t understand why anyone who’s anyone in Lima society is either descended from a Spanish conquistador or Inca royalty— or both,” I said.

“She is full-blooded Española, but you know why her teeth are so large? From inbreeding—cousin marrying cousin. And you know why they did that? Just to keep wealth in the family,” Tita said.

“I heard she’s very pretty.”

“If you like horses.” She parted her lips, stuck her upper front teeth out, and whinnied like a horse.

I had to laugh but later as I glanced at my reflection on the glass window and stared at my thick black hair and my brown skin, I realized how Indian I looked, just like my grandmother.

“Carolina, don’t be insecure. You’re pretty, so stop this whining,” Tita scolded.

Sighing, I twirled my hair and touched my cheek, not feeling pretty at the moment.

When we arrived Cuzco, Tita and I immediately felt light headed and nauseous from the high altitude. My mind was in such a fog, I almost forgot my purse in the bus. My grandmother, who came from this part of the world, had told us to drink coca tea before we made our ascent. We didn’t, and consequently we spent our first day in our hotel room with the runs. I felt like I’d traveled straight to purgatory. Tita rang the front desk and ordered coca tea. “We should have listened to your grandmother,” she said.

The coca tea was steaming hot and comforting. After the second cup, I could walk around our hotel room. I opened the balcony doors. Our hotel was at the corner of Avenida del Sol and Almagro, facing the Plaza de Armas and the cathedral. The Plaza was larger than I expected and surrounding it were two-story colonial buildings, now turned into hotels, restaurants and shops. Against the walls, Indian vendors rested on their haunches; they were selling weavings, knick-knacks, ears of corn, bags of coca leaves, live chicks and ducklings. The women were short and pudgy. Their long braided hair hung down their backs; and they had bowler hats perched on their heads. Their full skirts ballooned out around them; and their brown legs stuck out from underneath the voluminous skirts. They looked like my grandmother who lived with us and who spent most of her time in the kitchen and garden. She had been so happy about our visiting the Andes. “When I was small,” she had said, and had proceeded to tell us stories about her growing up in Puno.

The sun was setting by this time. From the balcony, Tita and I watched the lights that flickered on as the darkness grew. The way the plaza nestled against the hills, the quaintness of the buildings and people made me think of a nativity scene. I have always loved Christmas, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a quiet inside, a calm.

I was almost asleep when Tita shook me. “I’m hungry,” she said, “let’s go find food.”

“But I’m sleepy,” I protested.

“You can sleep in tomorrow. Remember we’re on vacation.”

It was past ten when we changed and left our room. The hotel manager suggested their restaurant, which did not have a single customer in it. Tita declined, saying, “We want authentic Andean food.” What she meant was, “We want something cheap.” The hotel manager pointed down the street and said the Inka Grill served guinea pig, rabbit and alpaca steaks. Outside the hotel, Tita made a face and said, “Guinea pig? I hate guinea pig. There’s hardly any meat on them. They make me cry,” she said.

I was annoyed that she brought up the matter of guinea pigs, knowing precisely that my grandmother fixed and ate guinea pigs. I said, “I like guinea pig, especially the way my abuela fixes it.”

It was a lie, of course, and she called me on it, “You do not. You’ve always told me you hate it.”

“I like it sometimes.”

“No guinea pig tonight, besides we can have your abuelita’s grilled guinea pig anytime. Now where’s the Inka Grill?” she asked.

“Over there,” I said.

“Then we’re going the opposite way,” Tita said, and she extended her arms and danced down the cobbled street. Near the old Jesuit Seminary, she twirled around, “Here, in this place, Pizarro captured the great Inca, Atahuallpa. Think of it, Carolina, we are walking where important historical events happened. Can you feel the history? Can you hear the voices of Huacar and Tupac Amaru? I can hear them, calling: come find your roots, know who you are.” She raced down the street, and I ran after her. I envied Tita’s excitement. For weeks, I’d been feeling as if I were crammed tightly into my body, like a flame tree crammed into a flowerpot.

It was chilly that night, and I buttoned up the alpaca sweater that my grandmother insisted I bring. It was gray with black Indian zigzag patterns; it was my least favorite sweater; but here in Cuzco, the soft fuzzy material felt warm and cozy. The moon rose above the hills and Tita said the fortress of Sacsayhuaman was out there someplace and tomorrow we would see it. The moon was large and yellow, and the old town of Cuzco seemed to glow from the moonlight. It was a Spanish Colonial town, with narrow streets that meandered here and there. We followed a group of around six students who walked past the cathedral and up a cobbled street. They were loud and noisy and full of life. I hated how happy they were. They reminded me of the times Antonio and I went to movies or bars with friends. The students entered a crowded small restaurant-bar. Inside people were drinking chicha corn beer and smoking. I started to walk past the place, but Tita held me back and said, “Let’s go in.” Without waiting for my reply, she walked in.

That was another irritating habit of Tita, she always dismissed what I wanted. Begrudgingly I followed. “What are we doing here? I thought you’re hungry. This is a bar.”

“They’ll have some food, empanadas or something. Sit down, relax,” she commanded.

“I don’t want to be in a noisy bar. I thought we were going to a small restaurant with home cooked food,” I shouted, above the noise.

“We’ll have a couple of drinks then leave,” she said.

I sat down beside her, feeling grumpy. It didn’t take long for Tita to start a conversation with two Argentines, Alberto and Ernesto—Che, that is. They said they were doctors traveling through South America. Tita had her eye on Alberto and she asked him questions about Argentina, about Eva Peron whom she thought was beautiful. The two of them soon acted as if they’d known each other since elementary school. “From here, we’re going to the Urabamba Valley,” Tita said.

“Ah —Machu Picchu! We’ve just seen it. You’ll love it! It’s the most fabulous place in the entire world,” Alberto said.

“You’ve been there! Tell me about it,” Tita gushed.

He leaned toward her ear and started talking. Tita’s eyes glistened as she listened. He stared at her with rapt attention, and again I recalled how Antonio used to do that to me, treat me as if I were the center of his life. I felt lonely, out-of-place.

Tita and Alberto became so engrossed with each other, it was as if they both vanished from our table. Tita had done this to me in Lima, but in Lima, it wasn’t a problem because I had other friends to talk to or who could take me home. But in Cuzco, I only had Tita. I peered out the door and tried to remember how to get back to the hotel. I wondered how safe it was to walk around Cuzco

I was trying to decide what to do when Ernesto started coughing. “I have to leave,” he said. He was wheezing badly.

“Go, make sure he’s fine,” Tita ordered.

“My friend gets asthma attacks,” Alberto explained, “if he gets worse, call me.”

It was now my job to baby sit this sick Argentine. I wanted to go back to the hotel, but as I looked up and down the street, I didn’t know which way to go. Ernesto was near the Inca wall, bent over, trying to catch his breath. I thought that if my grandmother were there, she would take care of him; my grandmother was always taking care of people. “Are you all right?” I offered.

He nodded, coughed and wheezed some more. He waved his hand, as if to send me away.

I shook my head. “I’ll wait until you feel better. I don’t know where to go anyway.”

He coughed and wheezed a bit longer. After a little while he seemed better. He took some deep breaths. “It’s the smoke,” he said, straightening up and regaining his composure

“It was bothering me too.”

“I’ll take you back to your hotel,” he said. “What’s the name?”

“Plaza de Armas, across the cathedral.”

“It’s down the hill.” He led the way, and as we made a turn, he stopped and pointed out a stone wall. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

“I shook my head. We’ll go sightseeing tomorrow. We got in today, but we were sick most of the day.”

“The altitude,” he said.

I nodded.

He spread his arms, as if to embrace the wall.

“The Incas built this wall,” Ernesto continued. By now, he was well and was very animated. “Each piece is carved to fit the other pieces exactly. Look at how tightly the stones fit; you couldn’t slip in a blade. It’s a wonder how they moved them, and how they cut them. The Incas were fantastic engineers. The walls the Spaniards built don’t survive earthquakes. These have. They’ll continue to stand when you and are under the ground,” he said.

Another romantic glorifying the Inca past, I thought, just like Tita gushing over skulls and mummies. It was a waste of time, I thought, focusing on a past that was no longer around. They made it exotic; they analyzed it from all angles, they dissected matters to the smallest minutiae. They spent their lives with their heads turned back, instead of pointed forward to the future. The things and people they talked about were no longer around. They were dead, gone. It was all academic.

“What do you think of it?” Ernesto said.

“It’s old, from the past,” I muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

The wall he studied was made of huge pieces of gray stones, of different sizes, some of them with jagged edges, but all fitted together, like a giant puzzle. “This wall, this culture is from the past, and it’s finished, over. There’s no point mulling over the past. When one is focused on the past, one cannot look to the future.”

He scrutinized me and said, “Ah, you are talking of something else, of something close to your heart. It’s true that simply looking at the past can turn one into a fossil. In that case you wouldn’t even be living in the present. But the past can teach us about ourselves, which in turn can influence how we live in the present, and in the future. Consider that the Spaniards tried to destroy this civilization. Consider how poorly they treated the Indios, and yet, this wall proves that the people who built it were superior engineers, better than the Spaniards.”

“But what good is it to spend so much time learning about ourselves—we’ll get left behind by the train, as the saying goes.”

“I see what you’re saying,” he said, “if one dwells in the past—period—then it is indeed a waste of time and energy. One has to apply the knowledge gained to improve the present and the future. Without knowing history, one would be groundless. It’s a balancing act. Am I making sense?”

I pursed my lips, nodded, and started walking down the hill. I understood what he said; I understood it in a deeper way than he imagined.

He caught up with me. By this time we were near the cathedral. “Here is another Spanish structure built on top of Inca foundation,” he said, pointing at the great cathedral. “Do you want to go in?”

“Isn’t it closed at this time?” I said.

“I know a way in,” he said. He led the way to a side gate, reached over and opened it. He entered and I followed. We were in the dark corridor that led to a side altar. Some lights shone on the old statues and huge silver crosses. Against the walls were huge oil religious paintings.

He stopped near a small altar with an elaborate silver altar. “Look up there,” he said, pointing at a painting that hung near the ceiling.

There were numerous paintings hanging on the wall; he was pointing at the painting of the Last Supper of Christ.

“Do you notice anything unusual about it?”

I stared. It was like any other Last Supper scene, with Jesus and the apostles around a table. “It’s old?”

“From the 1700s,” Ernesto said. “Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“Look at the platter on the table.”

I moved closer so as to get better lighting, and what I saw made me hold my breath. There on the platter was cooked guinea pig, on its back, with its paws sticking up. I was shocked. “Roasted guinea pig!”

I wondered if he was ridiculing me or the Andean culture and I quickly turned to look at him. He was beaming. “In the 17th and 18th centuries, there was a flourishing school of art here, and the artists created images that combined Andean and Spanish cultures. There are more paintings of the Cusqueña School at the pulpit of San Blas and the church of La Merced.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. I was not the type to pay attention to history and art but now I felt curious to see more paintings like this strange one with the guinea pig.

“We better go,” Ernesto said, “before the watchman finds us.”

Before we left I gave the painting one last lingering look. Something about the guinea pig painting touched me. It made me think of my grandmother, of her Indian-ness, of my Indian-ness—and for the first time I felt proud of this heritage.

Outside, as we were walking toward the hotel, I said, “My grandmother cooks guinea pig. We live in Lima but she came from Puno”

“In the Andes?

I nodded.

Ernesto continued: “The people from the Andes get a significant portion of their protein from guinea pig. Guinea pigs are linked with food, celebration, and myth.”

“Sometimes she cooks black guinea pig.”

“Black?” he said.

“It’s a cure for arthritis. She fixes it for my father.”

“It’s a good thing he lives in Lima. Cuzco would not be good for him.”

“Why is that?”

“The cold,” he said, pointing around. By this time we had walked past the Plaza the Armas. “Ah, here’s your hotel,” he said.

The neon light of the hotel sign shone on his face and I saw that when he smiled his eyes sparkled and his entire face lit up. He was not a bad-looking man. In fact he was quite a nice-looking man. And back then, young as I was, I paused to wonder what sort of future Ernesto Guevara would have. “Will you be a doctor, or a professor?” I asked.

He tilted his face upward, as if searching for the answer in the starlit sky. His words were measured. “Before leaving Argentina in January, I was certain I would become a doctor and that I’ll marry and have four or six children. Before, life seemed simple, laid out in a straight line. But now I’m not sure. I can feel the direction of my life taking a curve. I can sense it in my bones, in my innards. I did not know it until now that life can do that to you, that is, that life can lead you, rather than you leading life. And you? What will you do with yourself? Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, who will Carolina be?” He smiled and chucked my chin.

Embarrassed, I turned my face and looked out at the darkness. “I don’t know. Like you I’m not sure what the future holds for me. This was what I had wanted: to be married, like Mama, to live in an upscale neighborhood in Lima, and yes, have four or six children. But now, I am not so sure.”

How did the evening end? Tita and Alberto appeared, laughing and singing, drunk, in short, and then we found a bar where the four of us drank some more chicha and wine. But eventually the sun rose and dawn came to Cuzco and we had to say goodnight—no, not just goodnight, but goodbye because despite the promises of letters and seeing one another again, I knew Tita and I would never see Alberto and Ernesto again.

And so we parted and I can still see clearly the two young men walking drunkenly down the street toward the cathedral, and beyond I saw the outline of the hills with the ruins of Sacsayhuaman, and Tita and I returned to our hotel room and went to bed to catch some sleep.

It was many years later when I came across a picture of Ernesto in the newspaper. He was now Che Guevara the Minister of Industry in Cuba. And then more news about Che but none more shocking than the one about his assassination in Bolivia. When I read this, my mind went back to that night in Cuzco when I was nineteen and he was twenty-three, and we had walked and talked about the America we loved.

~end~

BIO: Cecilia Manguerra Brainard is the author and editor of 19 books, including the novels When the Rainbow Goddess Wept and Magdalena. Her recent books include Vigan and other Stories and Out of Cebu: Essays and Personal Prose. Her work has been translated into Finnish and Turkish; and many of her stories and articles have been widely anthologized. She is the recipient of a California Arts Council Fellowship in Fiction, a Brody Arts Fund Award, an Outstanding Individual Award from Cebu, Philippines, and several travel grants from the USIS. She teaches creative writing at the Writers Program, UCLA Extension. She is busy working on her third novel.