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Show The Great Escape • 16 "Only my nephew," he said. 0 Arturo Dubra died at eight A.M. on Friday, June 6, 2003, from complications related to his cancer. That afternoon, his brother-in-law, Gonzalo Moyano, called to tell me that there was a wake at the Tupamaro headquarters on Tristan Narvaja, and a funeral the next morning. I got on my coat and left. At the wake, and then at the funeral service the next day, I was the oddball, though I tried to match the Tupamaro dress code: button-down slnrt, no tie, jeans or dark work pants, waist-length winter jacket, but no overcoat. But I was too tall, and clean shaven, and younger than almost anybody there. At the wake, I talked with Gonzalo, tried hard not to ask "How are you doing?" or to say "Good evening" to anybody, shook hands with people I didn't know, met friends of the few people I did know, got a surprise kiss on the cheek from an old bearded Tupamaro whom I'd seen a lot but had never met, approached the closed casket draped in the Uruguayan flag, sky blue and white stripes, a half-smikng sun in the corner, introduced myself to Arturo's wife, whom I'd not yet met but who had talked to me on the phone several times, and who looked much younger than I expected, with her red han and smooth, pale skin. She was sitting under the rusted remains of the first weapons stolen by the Tupamaros and flanked by two friends and three flags to one side: the flag of Uruguay, the flag of Artigas, and the flag of the Thirty-Three Orientales, with its slogan "Liberty or Death." She, also, thought I looked younger than she expected, and smiled and thanked me for coming. "Arturo was a great man," I said. After a minute of talking, I prefaced "It was mce to meet you," with "I'm sorry it's such a sad time." At the funeral early the next morning I stood halfway back in the crowd with Teresa, the sweet white-haired Tupamaro secretary, and tried to blend in, tried to keep my feet warm, tried to count the people in the crowd, which eventually grew to over 500 easily. Teresa and I talked |