The Foreign Service Journal, December 2007

there, and below it a series of letters that I took to be initials: PPR PRR JPC SWR ARS. Behind me, Ignacio began reciting the names of the fallen heroes — Prieto, Ramberto, Palomino, Walsh, Rodriguez — all commanders in Castro’s rebel army who later turned on him when they realized that his revolution was taking a turn toward communism. They had taken refuge in these mountains, fought and even- tually died here, heroes to a people who had believed in the original dream of the virgin — a pure and unspoiled country — and her chil- dren, the patriots who wanted to lib- erate her. I turned to address Ignacio. I had questions that were still seeking answers, but found that he was already making his way slowly down to the boat. I returned to the lake twice more before my departure from the island. Both times I requested Ignacio as my fishing guide, but he was not available. I never did see him again. I asked about him at the front desk of the hotel, and I asked the other guides. Everybody just lowered their heads and muttered something about him or his wife having taken ill. So I fished and chatted with the replacement guides, and from the middle of the lake I sought out and sometimes spotted that great old ceiba tree that reminded me of how much of the island — its people, its humor, its history — lay buried. Suddenly my reverie was inter- rupted by the flight attendant. She asked if she could get me anything. I couldn’t find the words to answer her, so I just shook my head and offered a weak smile. When I looked out the window, all sight of Cuba was gone, buried in a bank of clouds. D E C E M B E R 2 0 0 7 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 47