Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [8]
“Get with it, Alberto,” Blair pressed one day. “It would be a huge public relations coup for you guys if the MURC rescued an endangered species. I could help you across the board with that, like as an environmental consultant. You know we’re really on the same side.”
Alberto started to speak, then broke off laughing as he studied the wild gringo in front of him. Blair was dressed in scruffy jungle fatigues—his civilian clothes had worn out long ago—and with his gaunt, weathered face and feral beard he looked as hardened as any of the guerrillas. New recruits to the camp generally assumed that he was a zealot from the mythical suicide squad.
“Joan Blair, you remind me of a man I once knew. A man of convictions, a real hero for the cause. Of course he died in Bolivia many years ago.”
“Doing what?”
“Fighting for the Revolution, of course!”
Blair winced, then shook off a spasm of dread. “So what about my captive-breeding program?”
Alberto chuckled and patted Blair’s shoulder. “Patience, Joan Blair, you must learn patience. The Revolution is a lot more complicated than you think.”
“They’re negotiating you,” Hernan said a few weeks later. “Some big shot’s supposed to be coming soon.”
“Bullshit,” Blair said. The camp was a simmering cesspool of rumors, but nothing ever happened.
“It’s true, Joan Blair, I think you’re going home.”
“Maybe I’ll stay,” Blair said, testing the idea on himself. “There isn’t an ornithologist in the world who’s doing the work I’m doing here.”
“No, Joan, I think you should go. You can come back after we’ve won the war.”
“What, when I’m eighty?” Blair chewed a blade of grass and reflected for a moment. “I still don’t have my photo. I’m not going anywhere until I get that.”
The rumors persisted, gradually branched into elaborate subrumors. Just to be safe Blair got all his data in order, but it was still a shock to see the helicopters come squalling out of the sky one day, cutting across the slopes at a sassy angle and heading for camp. Blair and Hernan were walking back for afternoon chores, and if there was ever any doubt about Blair’s intentions his legs resolved it for him, carrying him down the trail at a dead sprint. At camp the helicopters were parked on the soccer field, two U.S.-surplus Hueys with the sky blue Peace Commission seal on their hulls. Campesinos and guerrillas were streaming into the compound; Blair had to scrum his way through the crowd to get a view of Complaints and Claims, where some kind of official moment was taking place on the steps. Several distinct factions were grouped around a microphone: Alberto and the subcomandantes were on one side, along with some senior comandantes whom Blair didn’t recognize, while to their right stood a sleek delegation of civilians, Colombians with careful haircuts and tasteful gold chains. Blair spotted the American delegation at once—their smooth, milky skin was the giveaway, along with their khaki soft-adventure wear and identical expressions of informed concern. Everyone was raked toward the microphone, where a Colombian was saying something about the stalled peace talks.
Why didn’t you tell me? Blair almost screamed. A Tele-Nacional crew was filming the ceremony; photographers scuttled around like dogs chasing table scraps. What about me? he wanted to shriek, say something about me! He tried in vain to make eye contact with the Americans, who’d arranged themselves into distinct pairs. The two middle-aged men stood