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There was Che's smile, bright and charming, then his laugh, and it gave Fidel that familiar feeling of warmth in his chest that it always had. They were in Che's office in the Ministry of Industries. It was 2am, and Fidel was leaning against Che's desk, watching his comrade talk. On the desk, beside some papers neither paid any mind to, was a glass of orange juice they had been sharing. It was the kind Che liked. A small smile played on Fidel's lips. In public Fidel was always the talkative one. It was only among small numbers of comrades that Che spoke so freely, and there was nobody he spoke more freely with than Fidel. Fidel liked that. It felt good to have Che's approval, his affection. Not that Fidel would ever admit that.
This vision of Che, of his office, their conversation, was so clear, so vibrant, that when Fidel awoke moments later he felt the hollow ache of Che's absence like new. For it wasn't 2am in the Ministry of Industries. Che was not talking to Fidel. And they were not together, sharing a glass of the orange juice Che liked. No, it was 2012. Fidel was in his bed, next to his wife Dalia, and Che Guevara had been dead for 45 years. Awake, it was more difficult to bring back that recollection of Che's voice. The memory was faint and slippery, escaping the grasp of his aging mind. There were recordings and videos of Che, sure, but it wasn't the same. There was no videotape in existence that could bring back what it felt like to be with Che.
Dalia was still asleep, and Fidel turned away from her. Something made him want to be alone right now. From the early morning sunlight that crept in through the gap in the curtains, he guessed it was about 6am. He sighed, and it was shaky. He was growing old, but he would never know Che older than 39.
***
It was a terrible shame to be in Havana, when Che's mausoleum was in Santa Clara. Fidel had not gone there for some time, and he decided he would make a plan to visit. He was sitting outside the main residence of Punto Cero, alone finally, when he decided this. By now it was late morning, nearly midday, and the sun radiated a pleasant warmth from its place in the cloudless sky. Such a degree of calm would have been surreal to his younger self. He still wondered sometimes how well the revolution had done. What he could — and should — have done better.
Vilma Espín and Raul's daughter Mariela visited Fidel a little later. She sat by him outside, and they talked about all manner of things. It was easy to become lonely, retirement left Fidel's days far emptier than he was accustomed to, so he was glad to see her. Soon, Fidel asked her about politics, about her work— something he compulsively could not keep his mind off. Mariela was the directer of the National Center for Sex Education, and the National Commission for Comprehensive Attention to Transsexual People. She sighed, and began to speak.
"We still face too many issues. The center plans to launch a new education program on the effects of homophobia on youth, but there's been resistance from the more conservative Christian groups. What concerns me most is the well-being of the children — the gay children — in those hostile environments. They grow up in fear of hell, or else they grow up not knowing themselves at all. In some cases they kill themselves. And when they're told it is counterrevolutionary to be homosexual or bisexual, or transgender, well, it causes the exact division we all want to prevent. But we're going to go ahead with the program regardless."
Fidel knew what kind of environment Mariela was referring to. He was comfortable with religion; indeed, he admired the social vision of Christianity. But he knew that environment well, and he still remembered. Unconsciously Fidel was frowning. He didn't like what Mariela had said about the children growing up ignorant to themselves, but he couldn't put his finger on why.
Perhaps Mariela noticed his distraction, for she smiled reassuringly and told him, "Maybe we shouldn't talk about all these political problems. You've had your fair share of them, anyway. How is Dalia?"
***
The photographs of Che were in black-and-white, they didn't hold all the vibrancy of Che's spirit, nor did they really encapsulate the reality of knowing him. But in his bedroom that night, Fidel looked through them with trembling hands. Through the years he travelled in moments, seeing Che in Mexico, in the Sierra Maestra, in Santa Clara and Havana, the Congo, then Cuba again. He paused when he came to the last photograph of disguised Che before he left for Bolivia. If Fidel had tried harder, could he have stopped Che? Convinced him not to stay, he could never do that, but to wait? To go somewhere else? Thinking back to the look Che had given him, after they embraced and looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, Fidel knew the answer was no. When Che had told Fidel that if he died away from Cuba, his last thought would be of him, it was not only a precaution, but a premonition. Che was never going to die in any other way. He had known that, Aleida had, and so did Fidel.
"Fidel?" came Dalia's tender voice. She walked up behind Fidel and caressed his shoulder, looking over at the photographs he held. "Are you alright?"
Fidel didn't know the answer to that. He studied Che's expression. What was he thinking? How about when he was faced with the barrel of a gun? Did he really think of Fidel after all? Fidel hoped he did. He was overcome by this emotion. God, how he missed Che. Fidel feared he would cry, and put a hand to his eyes. His grief for Che was always coming back like this, in ebbs and flows, sometimes lingering in the back of his mind, but never gone, never absent. Che had never left his side.
***
Cuba was plastered with pictures of Che's face, far more than Fidel's own. He never did like to be worshipped. But part of him wanted the entire country to become a memorial to Che, and certainly it had. Sitting alone in the back of the car, the rumble of the road beneath him and the ache of grief within him, he looked out the window at the streets of Havana. They passed the Ministry of the Interior and there was that great memorial to Che, his face on the side of the building, immortalised in steel.
As the car drove through the city, on its way out, to Santa Clara, Fidel watched the people outside. The signs of the embargo were ever-present in the worn down buildings and roads, the old cars. But the city was alive, and the people carried joy with them. In front of a street-side cafe, two men were laughing together, holding each other, and kissing. At the beginning of the revolution this would have been unthinkable. It wasn't the first time Fidel had seen homosexuals, of course, but it moved him more than he had expected.
One day in late 1956, Fidel had kissed Che. Not on the lips, no, but he had taken Che's face into his hands and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, before turning away so fast so as to not see Che's expression. It had happened after the disastrous Granma landing. Che was injured and upon their reunification, Fidel had exploded with anger— yelling at him about the stupidity of abandoning his weapons. Later that night, Che suffered an asthma attack, and Fidel would have been an idiot not to see why. Alone together in Che's tent, Fidel apologised softly to his comrade. The words came out frail, he felt guilty for having to say them. But Che refused to accept the gesture, declaring that Fidel was right to reprimand him, that he had been foolish and should be punished. Fidel shook his head. And before he could really think the impulse over, he had leaned forward and kissed Che's forehead. The act had paralysed them in time for that brief, sweet moment. Neither said anything of it then, nor did they ever.
In the present day, 2012, Fidel realised his cheeks were wet with tears. He was crying. He looked away and wiped his face in the hopes his driver would not notice and ask him what the problem was. Fidel didn't think he could answer that question even if he wanted to.
***
Fidel's security team had cleared the mausoleum and the surrounding area of visitors in advance. Fidel preferred to be alone, and told his security to stay at a distance, but he wished they did not have to do the job. On most days, a group of women in green skirts would stand watch to ensure nobody tried to damage or disrespect the memorial. In Fidel's hands he held a small bouquet, and he looked up at the reliefs carved into the first part of the memorial. Captured in the white stone was the narrative of Che's revolutionary history. Most striking was the depiction of his time in the Sierra Maestra with Fidel, and Camilo— and in the mountains on horseback. Fidel's gaze tracked every inch of the relief. He walked alongside it feeling a lot like a wife come to visit a late husband.
The rest of the world became irrelevant when Fidel stopped in front of the pillar atop which was the statue of Che. In the stone below it, an inscription read 'HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE'. Near the monument was Che's farewell letter inscribed in full, and a short distance away from the whole memorial in a small garden there would be the eternal flame that Fidel had lit in Che's memory. But his eyes and thoughts were firmly on the statue. Awash in gentle sunlight, the bronze held Che's fierce expression and he carried his gun, forever continuing onward.
Thinking of his comrade now, Fidel's hands began to shake. On the day he discovered that Che had died, the world had darkened, and no matter how long he stood in the sun, that light would never come back. He slowly leaned down and placed the flowers at the base of the monument. They left his hands and he felt weak. Here in Santa Clara laid the most loyal, the most intelligent, and the most dedicated and brilliant man that Fidel could ever have known. It had been almost half a century since Fidel had gone to Che's office late at night to talk, since they had whispered to each other during meetings, or smiled at each other, or shared a cigar, or embraced. But there was one thing Fidel had never done. For thinking of his comrade now, Fidel knew everything he had been oblivious to for so many decades. His heart was mirrored in the fears of those children Mariela spoke of, and in the laughter-filled kisses of the men he had seen in Havana. It always had been. Now Fidel lowered his head, and placed a hand against the sun-warmed stone. He was crying again.
The words came out a whisper: "I love you, Che. I'm sorry."
He was only 45 years too late.