He made the revolution, eventually. In its name, he left me, just trailing the door behind. I have no clear memories of that day but an iron wire ball that still lies on my table. I made it by hand while he was turning around the room listing, with wide gestures and not in order of importance, the principles of the “big cause”.
We never met again until when I stepped into that photo studio. Two huge rice paper chandeliers and a lot of pictures untidily glued to the walls made the room agreeable. I saw him. It was hurting.
I got closer to take a better look. In that black-and-white shot, he was surrounded by friends, the party was on. Smart but moderate, serious but confident, his look went straight to the camera. But the smile was tepid and the eyes darker than usual. In that look I saw the doubt of having been misunderstood growing all over.
Just behind them, only part of the famous motto was readable. The last word indeed: “vencido”.