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Che had only been in Mexico City for ten months—and his lungs had already formed an opinion about it. The police's monopoly on violence was anything but humane, and the air was thick with corruption that made his asthma flare up.
María Antonia’s apartment was the only room in the Western Hemisphere where his conversations didn't eventually turn into nonsense. He liked it there. He liked the window; it was less dreadful than the one he had spent the last few months watching Latin America bleed through. He liked the crack in the wall.
He had seen the coup back in Guatemala—that was why he had left, more accurately escaped—after all. Political persecution was one hell of a thing. He still thought about Jacobo Árbenz. He still thought about the Argentine embassy. He still thought about his name on the CIA-backed death list.
Distantly, he remembered, 1954 was supposed to be a year ago. He could forget about it—possibly—if he tried hard enough to forget about it, which was becoming increasingly harder to do when Mexico hadn't offered him much more than Guatemala had. It was thirteen months ago, and he still woke up with the memories making a deliberate attack on his REM cycles.
He leaned against the wall, his breathing crackling—like usual. He hadn't bothered to find his medication—the action sounded tedious, like he was submitting to an annoyingly demanding body.
Goddamnit. He was becoming a cynical asshole.
He rubbed at his temples, muttering vague curses at nothing in particular. His fingers traced the lines of a headache that had probably been forming for longer than he had noticed.
Then Raúl introduced him to his brother.
Raúl, he knew. Raúl was pragmatic and organized, a survival mechanism for a man who remained a quiet introvert over the years. He'd been around the apartment here and there, yammering about Santiago de Cuba a few too many times for Che to pick up on anything concrete.
The brother was different.
Fidel had this energy to him—Che had noticed. He was about six-foot-two, a little taller than Che. He took up a lot of space, and he was recently released from a prison in Cuba—the Isle of Pines. He was thinner than the photographs from the trial—the ones that Raúl had shown him.
"This is the Argentine," Raúl said, vaguely gesturing to Che. "Ernesto is a doctor."
Fidel gripped Che's hand. His palms were rough from years of class struggle that Che silently respected. Che shook back with a grip that was admittedly more flimsy—but adequate, as far as he was aware at least.
"I am not a doctor," Che corrected, shifting his gaze to Raúl.
"You are fully qualified," Raúl said with a shrug.
"I've never practiced. Not in the traditional sense."
"He's been to Guatemala," he said, which was the real introduction—the real thing that mattered. Guatemala was more of a credential than a degree ever was. Guatemala meant you had seen—first-hand—what the CIA can and will do. Guatemala meant you had seen what United Fruit will do when you soften harsh labor practices.
Fidel sat down across from him without being invited. Che did not comment on this.
"Tell me about Árbenz," he said.
And Che told him—about the UFC, mostly, but anything that came to mind, really.
This was, in retrospect, the only time he told the story in full before. He'd told in pieces—sure—to various Cubans who cycled through the apartment, but this was the first time he had an audience that really listened. Fidel didn't interrupt unless it was to ask a question. He asked about the subsequent reforms. He asked about the organization of the unions. He asked about the specific mechanisms of how the UFC operated—which Che had not even fully understood himself. He wanted dates, and names, the structure.
When he finished, Fidel was quiet. Che watched him think, it was a deep, deliberate thing—as if he was a non-architect drafting a building under the pressure of a loaded gun.
(That was a weird thing to think. It was the first thing that came to mind, anyway. He digressed.)
"Batista does not need the UFC," Fidel said, finally. His words came out certain.
Che's head shot up, one eyebrow cocked. "Excuse me?"
"He has the SIM, of course."
Che knew what the SIM was—well, vaguely, distantly, in the certain way you figured out what words were from association. Servicio de Inteligencia Militar—military intelligence. Fidel was right—he realized. There was no need for a corporation to do all the work in Cuba when the SIM—and their new pet project, the BRAC—worked for free.
He hadn't thought about it like that before. He thought about it now.
"The SIM have people to answer to," Che continued. "Batista. UFC answered to nobody—they were, you know, their own thing. Which was—well. Almost worse."
"Almost," Fidel confirmed. "Almost." He cleared his throat. "What did you do after?"
"After what? Guatemala, or?"
"Yes. After."'
"Well," Che exhaled. "I went here. Mexico City. I worked at the General Hospital—and National Conservatory—just for a while. I liked taking pictures too. I mean—I still do." He paused. "I like taking pictures of daily life. There's something beautiful about human behavior, I think."
Fidel tilted his head. "Do you just like taking photographs or being photographed?"
"Taking. I can't stand being photographed."
"Ah, so you're an artist?"
"Maybe. I hadn't thought about it that way," he said. "It's always been more of a hobby, though, it doesn't serve a—" He sighed, vaguely gesturing because words didn't come as quick as he would've liked. "—purpose," he decided, "in my field."
"It depends on which field you're talking about. Medical? Or perhaps, revolution?"
Che snapped his gaze up. "Well— I hadn't particularly considered myself to be skilled in revolution. Not like yourself."
"You were quite the participant in the Guatemalan revolutionary scene, Ernesto."
"Thank you," Che said, after a moment. "How about you? Do you consider yourself an artist?"
"I consider myself a man of action."
A pause.
They sat there for a moment, Mexico City continued to exist loudly outside—annoyingly. Raúl had disappeared, probably bored and looking for someone else to talk to. Fidel lit a cigar.
"I find it curious how a man so photogenic hates being photographed."
Che blinked. He swallowed, deep in consideration. His throat felt tight.
"It makes what I do feel contaminated," he decided.
"Contaminated," Fidel parroted, like it was his first time hearing the word—which it certainly was not.
"Right," Che nodded.
"I'm going back," Fidel said, suddenly.
"Huh?" Che said, slightly tugging at Fidel's wrist as if to ground him. "…To Cuba?"
"To Cuba," Fidel confirmed. He said it like it was obvious. "I need a doctor."
"I have medical training," Che said, carefully. "You've noted this."
Fidel pulled something from his jacket—a booklet—worn at the edges, handled by too many people in terrible conditions.
La Historia Me Absolverá. His defense. Che had not known how he had replicated this. He did not ask. He didn't read it then—no. The paper was soft and fragile, too delicate to quickly sit down and scan. It needed to be handled with care.
"Eighty-two men, about. Give or take."
"Mhm. Give or take," Che echoed.
"I need a doctor."
Che set the booklet down on a nearby coffee table. His lungs did their wet, annoying rasp—the rasp that followed him no matter where he went in Latin America. He had not found his inhaler. He was still not going to look for it.
"So, what are the odds?" he asked.
Fidel considered this for a moment, then—
"Better than Moncada."
"Moncada failed."
"Yes," Fidel replied, pleasantly.
Che laughed. He picked up the booklet again—he read the first line, then he read the second, then he stopped noticing Fidel watching him.
History will absolve me, Fidel had written.
Us—Che had already corrected.
History will absolve us.