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I believed what Castro said to me that day. I won’t go so far as to say I trusted him, after a single meeting. He’s a dictator, and dictators are a strange breed. In my opinion, they tend to become victims of their own power. They can never be fully honest. I don’t think they dare to be, because there is always paranoia about someone waiting in the wings to take over. Maybe after he decided to retire, and put his brother Raul in place for good, and headed for the beach—without the pressures of being a dictator—then you could truly trust him. As it is, he needs to have informants everywhere. He has no choice.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to talk with Fidel about Che Guevara. I’d have wanted to get to know him a bit better anyway, to bring up something as politically sensitive as Che might be to him. I’ve read different accounts that they had fallen out somewhat, before Che was killed in 1967. I don’t believe that, because if Fidel did have a problem with Che, why has he allowed Che to become such a figure in Cuba? You don’t see Fidel’s picture on the side of the most massive building in downtown Havana. You see Che Guevara’s.

Che is a very interesting individual to read about. I respect him because, as much as I oppose communism, Che believed in it with the same fervor that I have for capitalism. I respect the fact that he would die for his convictions. How did a man as bright as Che develop the hatred for the United States and all that we stood for? I’ve eliminated jealousy as a reason. He was a medical doctor, a healer. It clearly had to be that he saw the results of what we did to other countries, in the name of freedom and capitalism. Which, in many ways, was not pretty if you were on the wrong end of it.

So, a mirror of Che Guevara has a profound place in my house. I’m not the least ashamed to say that. When I go to wash my hands, I look at Che.

Whenever I did a trade mission, I’d try to stay up late the last night so that I could sleep on the plane ride home. I love to get on the plane bright and early in the morning, conk out, and only wake up as the wheels were touching down. It’s not that I fear flying, it’s just that sleeping on flights is more entertaining.

So, that last night, I turned to my Cuban bodyguards and said, “Well, take me for a night on Havana.” They didn’t seem to understand quite what I meant. “Well, where would you like to go?” they asked.

I said, “I don’t know, it’s your town. I’ll leave it to you.”

They took me to the infamous Club Havana. It’s a beautiful nightclub, maybe the biggest one in Cuba. It’s not a strip club; I would classify it more as a Las Vegas type of entertainment show. In a way—and I’ll date myself here—like the Spanish version of Ed Sullivan. They bring out Latino comedians, a variety of different musical acts, and have beautiful Cuban girls who dance in their feathered native costumes.

It’s also a unique place, in that, in a corner, they had a vintage Knucklehead Harley Davidson motorcycle. I went over and looked at it. If you look down at where the V-twins are on the opposite side, the first two numbers are the year, stamped into the serial number of the motorcycle. All bikers know that. This was either a 1936 or 1937. It was original Marlon Brando, with the big headlight, the handlebars out to the side, vintage. I told my Cuban bodyguards that, in America, it would sell like hotcakes. I said, “Guys, if we can smuggle that out, I can guarantee you $60,000 to $70,000 U.S. without an argument.” I think they were considering it.

While we were there, the MC set up a contest. First they went table to table finding out where everyone was from. Of course, there was our table from Minnesota, as well as a table from Canada; one from, I think, Israel; a table from Australia; and a table from California. What the Californians were doing there, apparently illegally, I didn’t bother to ask. Anyway, every table then had to designate someone to participate. I didn’t think either of my own bodyguards, or Fidel’s three, or my