8
FICTION
FEATURE
Portrait
of
a
Patriot
Inside
the
Cuban
Mission
at
the
United
Nations,
on
the
twelfth
of
October
1979,
several
men
sat
listening
to
a
news
report
on
a
New
York
radio
station.
Among
them
was
a
heavy
set
bearded
man
dressed
in
green
army
fatigues,
who
would
in
a
few
hours
speak
on
behalf
of
the
non-aligned
nations,
before
the
General
Assembly
of
the
United
Nations.
"Today
several
thousand
anti-Cuban
protestors
picketed
in
front
of
the
Cuban
Mission
at
the
United
Nations,"
challenged
the
authoritative
voice
of
a
radio
newscaster.
The
men
seated
around
the
room
smiled
at
one
another.
Then,
the
bearded
man,
Fidel
Castro,
shrugged
his
shoulders
and
asked
with
an
expression
of
pretended
incredulous-ness,
"Why
do
they
say
nothing
of
the
other
two
thousand
demonstratos?
the
ones
with
the
little
signs
which
read,
"Cuba!
So!
-Bloqueo!
No!"
In
jest,
a
thin
man
who
stood
at
the
window,
retorted
"Fidel,
you
are
imagining
again,
I
can
see
none
of
those
signs
out
there."
Click!
the
radio
fell
silent.
Fidel
walked
over
to
the
window
and
looked
out
over
the
crowds.
A
wall
of
police
divided
two
equally
large
groups
of
people.
One
group
was
draped
in
a
huge
Cuban
flat;
the
other
waved
signs
that
read,
"Fidel
Go
Home!",
someone
among
the
group
of
pro-Cuban
supporters
caught
a
glimpse
of
Fidel
standing
at
the
window.
Immediately
the
group
exploded
with
a
chant
of,
"Fidel!
Fidel!
Puerto
Rico
te
Saluda!"
As
Fidel
looked
out
over
the
crowd
below
him,
he
remembered
a
far
quieter
visit
in
1960,
to
this
same
city.
That
time
they
roamed
freely
in
the
streets
of
New
York
around
their
Harlem
hotel.
Into
his
mind
flashed
a
picture
he
had
seen
in
an
art
gallery
during
that
same
visit.
He
remembered
how
a
tour
guide
had
monotonously
recited,
"In
Emanual
Lutse's
famous
painting,
Washington
is
portrayed
crossing
the
Delaware,
while
leading
a
surprise
attack
on
the
Hessian
Troops
at
Trenton."
Fidel
remembered
the
scene
well.
The
moon
attempted
to
shrug
away
the
heavy
morning
mist.
Groups
of
men
began
to
arrive
at
the
shore
and
push
old
row
boats
out
into
the
river.
A
piece
of
debris
struck
a
dull
protest
against
the
side
of
one
of
the
boats.
One
after
another
the
men
began
to
climb
into
the
boats.
The
Commander
of
them
all,
was
the
fourth
man
to
stumble
his
way
to
the
front
of
one
boat.
A
man
at
the
front
end
leaned
over
the
bow
and
attempted
to
dislodge
a
large
clump
of
brush
which
had
been
washed
up
alongside
the
boat.
The
last
man
in
shoved
the
boat
off
from
shore,
and
seized
the
hand
tiller.
He
wore
a
tight
fitting
cap
and
clothing
of
coarse
homespun
material.
The
other
man
seized
the
paddles
and
began
pushing,
or
paddling
against
the
current.
As
they
began
to
work
the
oars,
the
mounting
tension
died
momentarily.
The
Commander
looked
down
at
the
rifle
which
lay
pinned
between
the
feet
of
one
of
his
men
on
the
damp
planking.
His
ranks
were
armed
with
few
of
their
own
weapons;
most
were
seized
in
attacks
upon
enemy
convoys,
or
simply
taken
from
dead
soldiers.
Once
more
his
mind
turned
to
the
mental
calculations
and
theories
of
war.
At
present
his
army
was
small,
for
many
of
the
people
still
felt
unsure
of
the
revolutionary
cause,
and
some
were
loyal
to
the
enemy.
The
fence
sitters
of
the
war,
were
the
deciding
force.
He
knew
that
they
would
only
be
swayed
to
join
his
tide
when
his
band
of
revolutionaires
appeared
as
the
most
likely
victors.
Perhaps
tonight
would
bring
an
overwhelming
defeat
of
the
enemy.
He
prayed
this
would
be
the
turning
point
of
the
war
that
would
send
the
enemy
scurrying
across
the
sea.
In
front
of
the
Commander
sat
two
men
clinging
to
a
crudely
made
revolutionary
flag,
which
they
hoped
would
somehow
replace
the
rifles
they
lacked.
The
inconsistent
strokes
of
the
oarsmen
had
brought
the
boat
nearer
to
shore.
The
leader
stood
up
and
searched
the
barely
visible
outline
of
the
far
shore
that
had
appeared
through
the
blanked
of
fog.
From
the
river
bank
they
would
still
have
to
march
two
miles
downstream
to
the
mouth
of
the
river.
The
Commander
thought
of
the
two
men
clinging
to
the
falg,
and
then
of
the
organized
and
well
supplied
enemy.
He
looked
again
at
the
two
with
the
flag;
for
all
the
wealth
of
the
enemy,
he
doubted
that
they
would
have
two
such
men.
The
boat
jarred
the
men
as
it
butted
up
against
the
sandy
bank
of
the
river.
All
the
men
in
the
first
boat
sat
still
and
waited
for
the
other
boats
to
arrive.
When
the
last
boat
had
been
pulled
onto
shore,
the
men
hauled
their
boats
to
safety
and
began
the
march.
The
Commander
surveyed
the
beach
and
saw
that
one
man
had
remained
crouched
down
in
his
boat.
When
the
leader
arrived
at
the
boat
he
recognized
the
man
as
an
old
farmer
who
had
once
worked
on
the
estate
of
his
father.
He
extended
his
hand
to
the
old
man
and
helped
him
from
the
boat.
The
old
man
looked
very
tired,
but
smiled
when
he
saw
the
Commander.
"What
is
the
problem
Jose?",
asked
his
leader.
"Fidel,
I
am
not
a
soldier."
The
Commander
put
his
arm
about
the
old
man
and
replied,
"No,
not
one
of
us
is
a
soldier,
but
we
must
try
to
fight
as
if
we
were."
"But
one
day
soon
I
will
be
able
to
work
for
my
country
and
my
people
as
a
farmer,"
said
the
old
man.
"Yes,"
replied
the
Commander,
"one
day
4
soon
you
will
Jbe
a
farmer
again."
,