Back in February, I wrote about my birthday. Today it’s a different story: my deathday.
Every sentient soul in Cuba—and almost no one anywhere else—knows the story. At 6:01 on the evening of October 28th, 1959, I climbed into my two-engined Cessna and took off, with my pilot, on a flight-over-land from Camagüey to Havana. I’ve never seen Cuba again, and the disappearance of my plane—never a trace of it found—led to elaborate explanations from Fidel about how I’d been swept off course by a mythical storm, as well as to the conviction of most Florida Cubans that El Caballo had me assassinated.
Nope. I’m living still in Costa Rica, which that little Cessna reached before crashing into some trees on the coast. I’m here with my beautiful wife Clare—well, that’s what we say, my beautiful wife, though the truth is that Clare looks pretty craggy these days. Almost as craggy and wrinkled as I am. We are, after all, 83 and 84. Beautiful to me, I should say, and to hell with what any mirror shows—here with Clare and our kids and grandkids, living the Costa Rican dream, pura vida and all that.
I see on the Huffington Post that the Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez put up a post about me and my disappearance. At the end she says,
“The mystery has collapsed. Not because we found answers, but because we got tired of waiting for them. Right now, nothing would change because we know that Camilo Cienfuegos is alive somewhere – with his graying beard – unless it is scientifically proven that the official version is true. Nor would there be a great commotion on finding out his death was an assassination order by his own compañeros from the Sierra Maestra.
“Time, implacable, has ended up burying Camilo.”
What did I expect? Well, what I didn’t expect is that technology would allow me to read, almost instantaneously, reports of how school kids in Cuba are still throwing flowers into the sea in my memory, every October 28th. Inland, they throw the flowers into rivers. It’s such a lovely image that I almost have to agree with Clare, who doubts my idea of going back to Cuba. Do I want to return and tell the truth, and put an end to this lovely custom?
I don’t know. But I do know that I read about Cuba all the time now, and some pressure is building in me to go back—to go home, I almost wrote—and look around, and talk to people and crack some jokes (they’d expect that of me), and try to figure out for myself what so many have tried to understand over the last 55 years: Was there some worth to that Revolution? I did give my life to it, after all. My first life, before this second one took over.
–From Camilo, in Costa Rica