[Only in Beijing] The Revolutionary’s Son古巴的“红二代”

Yesterday, I met Camilo Guevara, the son of Che himself. Mr. Guevara was in Beijing helping curate a traveling exhibit of his father’s photographs. The day before the grand opening, he held a press conference at the art gallery hosting the collection.

I rode the bus to the nexus of Beijing’s art scene, the 798 District, whose abandoned weapons factories now house art in every medium. As I signed in, receiving a gift bag with a 750ml bottle of Havana rum, the receptionist told me that the event was delayed 30 minutes to accommodate late arrivals. “In the meantime,” he added, “please have a drink and enjoy the beautiful weather!”

Having arrived early, I had nearly an hour to people-watch. Several embassy bigwigs showed up, the Cuban flag pins and diplomatic license plates dead giveaways. I heard one Hispanic photographer use broken Mandarin to tell a Chinese woman that his father fought in the revolution alongside Che. All of the Cubans were impeccably dressed. Figuring one mojito from the open bar wouldn’t leave me incapacitated. I ordered one and found a piece of shade, the smoke from Cuban cigars dancing in the afternoon sunshine.

Che’s son appeared onstage, not from anywhere in particular, and the crowd took their seats. Half a dozen photographers unabashedly crouched beside him, their shutters clacking like pebbles on a tin roof. Swallowing my shame, I charged forth with my meager point-and-shoot, snapping a few shots before retreating to my pen and notepad.

Following several introductions, Mr. Guevara spoke obliquely about his father’s photographs. He used Spanish, which was then translated into Mandarin. I often feel ashamed for never having learned Spanish, and that sentiment multiplied tenfold listening to Che’s son. Finally, the floor was opened for questions. As no one was eager to go first, I thrust my hand skyward with much gusto, and asked a question about Cuban art.

From behind his jet-black sunglasses, Camilo Guevara was staring me down. Despite him speaking a language I could not understand, I knew before the Mandarin translation that he didn’t answer my question. In fact, he responded at great length to everyone’s questions, but he answered none of them. I wish he would have told us something about himself, or about the father he lost when he was only five.

But Camilo inherited the very public legacy of a man he never truly knew. Where he brings his father’s photographs is contingent on the events of many decades past. What parts of the present justify the colossal rifts in our global society? With blaring silence, he asked all of us to stop asking skeletons for answers, to forego the quest for context. Everything grew infinitely simpler.

The exhibit was fascinating. The mojitos were delicious. But I will never forget the feeling of Che Guevara’s son looking straight at me and telling me something I understand in a language I don’t.

就在昨天我遇到了卡米罗•格瓦拉，著名古巴革命家切•格瓦拉的儿子。格瓦拉先生此次在北京是为了帮助举办一场他父亲的巡回影展。在盛大的开幕式之前，他在影展举办的艺术长廊开了一个记者招待会。我坐公共汽车来到了北京艺术的中心地带，798艺术区，一个废弃了的军工厂，现在是艺术展览的摇篮。当我签到以后，收到了一个装有750毫升的哈瓦那朗姆酒的礼盒，前台接待告诉我说活动将会晚进行30分钟为了照顾那些晚到的宾客，＂与此同时＂，她加了一句＂请喝点东西好好享受这美丽的晴天＂ 

我因为早到了一个多小时，所以我有很多时间去观察周围的人，一些外交上的大人物出现了，古巴国旗和许多为了纪念古巴烈士的外交物品。我听到一名西班牙裔摄影师用断断续续的普通话告诉一名中国女子，他的父亲曾经和切•格瓦拉一起并肩战斗过。所有在场的古巴人无可挑剔的穿着。从一个露天酒吧中想搞清楚什么是莫吉托鸡尾酒，这样的事情并不会显得不合情理。我点了一杯，并发现了一块阴凉之处，而这时我注意到古巴雪茄的烟雾正在午后的阳光中弥漫开来。

切的儿子出现在舞台上，这样的出场并没有什么特别的地方，大家都坐在了自己的位子上。半打摄影师不加掩饰地蹲在他身边，只听快门噼噼啪啪的响个不停。跟他们的高端相机相比，我的傻瓜相机真的让我自惭形秽，拍了几张照片之后，我就回到了最原始的方法，笔和记事本。

一些简单介绍之后，格瓦拉先生开始转弯抹角地谈起他父亲的照片。他用西班牙语说，然后会翻译成普通话。我常常因为我从来都没有学过西班牙语而感到很羞愧，而且这种羞愧的感觉在听切的儿子讲话的过程中增加了10倍。最后一个环节，是问题开放环节。因为没有人愿意第一个问，我把我的手伸向空中，饶有兴趣地问了一个关于古巴艺术的问题。 

从他乌黑油亮的太阳镜后面，卡米罗·格瓦拉盯着我坐下。尽管他说着我听不懂的语言，但在翻译成普通话之前，我就知道他没有回答我的问题。事实上，他回应大家的问题的时候都要说很长一段，但他其实一个都没有真正的回答。我很希望他能告诉我们一些关于他自己的事情，或者是他五岁时就离开了他的父亲。 

但是，卡米罗却是这个他不怎么了解的男人的公共遗产的唯一继承人，而他带来的他父亲的照片都是过去了几十年那些事件的记录。但是究竟现在的哪一部分能够证明当今全球社会的巨大裂痕呢？随着刺耳的沉默，他要求我们所有的人别再问那些已经离开了我们很久的人现在已经只剩下骸骨的人才知道的答案了，我们应该抛弃过去的那段背景。因为一切都在变得无限简单。

这次展览是非常有吸引力的。莫吉托鸡尾酒的味道很美。但我永远不会忘记切·格瓦拉的儿子直直的看着我，并用一种我不明白的语言告诉我一些我明白的事情的那种感觉。