{"id":105226,"date":"2016-11-28T18:09:09","date_gmt":"2016-11-28T23:09:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=105226"},"modified":"2016-11-29T10:47:19","modified_gmt":"2016-11-29T15:47:19","slug":"plimpton-papa-cuba","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/11\/28\/plimpton-papa-cuba\/","title":{"rendered":"Plimpton, Papa, and Cuba"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_105228\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-105228\" class=\"wp-image-105228\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway.jpg\" width=\"1000\" height=\"977\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway.jpg 1903w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway-300x293.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway-768x751.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/plimpton-hemingway-1024x1001.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-105228\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">George Plimpton (center, top) and Ernest Hemingway (center) at a bullfight.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Castro\u2019s death has renewed an open, vibrant, and sometimes heated debate about his regime and its treatment of Cuban citizens.\u00a0Twenty years ago, in the aftermath of the Cold War, much less was known in the U.S.\u2014these were not things the American media dwelled upon. An incident while working at <em>The Paris Review<\/em> with George Plimpton in the early nineties opened my eyes, especially to Che Guevara\u2019s supervision of the detention of political prisoners at La Cabana prison in Havana.<\/p>\n<p>One day, at the office on East Seventy-Second Street, perusing the catalog of Grove Press\u2019s forthcoming books, I spotted a title about which I\u2019d heard nothing\u2014<em>The Motorcycle Diaries<\/em>, by Che Guevara, which had been published in Cuba in the sixties but had never appeared in English.\u00a0It seemed a long shot, but from the description of it as a travelogue with an unusual provenance, I thought a piece from it might be something for the <em>Review<\/em>.\u00a0<!--more--><\/p>\n<p> The manuscript arrived a good six months before publication. The writing was fine, somewhat conventional but well observed, with vivid tableaux of people and land and cities in the Latin American countries where Guevara had traveled when he was training to become a doctor. I thought it could \u201cwork\u201d for the magazine: it would, as the Boss liked to say, \u201ccause a stir.\u201d\u00a0The Cold War had ended, and with that the conflicts in Latin America had by and large been rolled up, as far as I knew. And it was interesting to watch the unfolding of Guevara\u2019s sensibility during his account. There was a humanist sensitivity, and it seemed devoid of the sub-Marxist dialectics for which, among other reasons, Guevara became known. (There\u2019s since been further debate about whether Guevara himself was the sole author of the book.)<\/p>\n<p> I stitched together an excerpt and called my friend at Grove. There was little advance word on the book, and the people there were happy to the have the interest, as no one else was biting for the serial rights. I took the paper-clipped excerpt upstairs to the Boss, as I called him, and as he in turn jokingly used to call me. I found him at that moment flopped down off to the side from his workspace in his favorite spot, an Eames chair where he liked to watch his \u201cteams\u201d\u2014the Detroit Lions, the Celtics, and the others who\u2019d invited him to step on the field as a participatory journalist.\u00a0As he looked up from some papers, I said I had something strange and good. As I started to tell him all about it, his smile faded, and then his face sunk.<\/p>\n<p> I stopped my pitch and said, \u201cBoss, what\u2019s the matter?\u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cI\u2019m sorry &#8230; \u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cFor what?\u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cI just \u2026 No &#8230; \u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d I said, \u201cIt\u2019s not at all &#8230; \u201d He cut me off.<\/p>\n<p> \u201cJames, I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n<p> I held it out to him and said, \u201cOkay. Don\u2019t take my word for it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p> A sad look overtook his face, and he began to explain: \u201cYears ago, after we\u2019d done the interview, Papa invited me down again to visit him in Cuba.\u201d (In the fifties, George had interviewed Hemingway for the magazine on the Art of Fiction, and now he always referred to him as Papa, as Hemingway encouraged his young friends to do.) \u201cIt was right after the revolution,\u201d George continued. After he arrived in Havana, he settled in at a hotel room above a bar. One afternoon, at the end of the day, Hemingway told him, \u201cThere\u2019s something you should see,\u201d and to come by the house.<\/p>\n<p> When he arrived at Hemingway\u2019s house he saw they were preparing for some sort of expedition.\u00a0Before they ventured forth, the elder writer made shakers of drinks, daiquiris or whatever, and packed them up. This group, including a few others, got in the car and drove for some time to the outside of town. Arriving at their destination, they got out, set up chairs, brought out the drinks, and arranged themselves as if they were going to watch the sunset. Soon enough, a truck came, and that, explained George to me, was what they\u2019d been waiting for. It came, as Hemingway explained to them, the same time each day. The truck stopped and some men with guns got out of it. In back were a couple of dozen others who were tied up. Prisoners. The men with guns hustled the others out of the back of the truck and lined them up. And then they shot them. They put the bodies back in the truck and drove off.<\/p>\n<p> I said to George something to the effect of, Oh my God. Then I said, \u201cI don\u2019t believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p> I wasn\u2019t sure why I didn\u2019t. Probably because I\u2019d never read about such events, and their invisibility in the media, to my mind, somehow outweighed George\u2019s account as a firsthand witness. But I knew George had a Forrest Gump-like ability to be on the spot when things happened. (Years into knowing him, I learned that he was among those who, along with an uncle of mine, leaped on and disarmed Sirhan Sirhan at the Ambassador Hotel.) It was perfectly plausible that Hemingway at this time would\u2019ve known about such events going on in the shadows. Given that among his group were young writers in search of a subject, it makes sense that he would\u2019ve taken them to see the executions. (I wonder if the daiquiris, lounge chairs, and festive setup weren\u2019t a kind of investigative subterfuge on Hemingway\u2019s part\u2014if he was only seeming to treat it as a day at the bullfights.) While George loved to play the role of trickster (see: \u201cFinch, Sidd\u201d) I never found him, when pressed, to be less than truthful. I was torn, and unsure.<\/p>\n<p> George shook his head, and said, \u201cJames, I\u2019m afraid so. And \u2026 well \u2026 so you see?\u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cDid you ever write about this?\u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n<p> \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n<p> He got an uncomfortable look on his face, and shrugged. It was unusual for George to talk about politics, or in this case, since it was more than thirty years later, history\u2014unless it was distant history, the Civil War or whatever.<\/p>\n<p> I held the excerpt out to him one more time. \u201cIt\u2019s not what you\u2019d expect. Won\u2019t you at least read this?\u201d He sat unmoving.<\/p>\n<p> \u201cJames, I\u2019m sorry, I just can\u2019t.\u201d In the twenty years I knew him, this remained the only time George refused to look at a piece of writing.<\/p>\n<p><em>James Scott Linville is a former editor of <\/em>The Paris Review<em>. His journalism has appeared in the<\/em>\u00a0Financial Times<em>, the<\/em>\u00a0Wall Street Journal<em>, <\/em>Harper\u2019s<em>, and <\/em>Esquire<em>, among others.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>&nbsp; Castro\u2019s death has renewed an open, vibrant, and sometimes heated debate about his regime and its treatment of Cuban citizens.\u00a0Twenty years ago, in the aftermath of the Cold War, much less was known in the U.S.\u2014these were not things the American media dwelled upon. An incident while working at The Paris Review with George [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1110,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[25923,3156,566,135,571,567,14,188,8328,53,25924,426,123],"class_list":["post-105226","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-che-guevara","tag-communism","tag-cuba","tag-editing","tag-ernest-hemingway","tag-fidel-castro","tag-george-plimpton","tag-journalism","tag-marxism","tag-reading","tag-the-motorcycle-diaries","tag-the-paris-review","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Plimpton and Hemingway in Cuba<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The death of Fidel Castro prompts a chilling 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