The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(26)
“Where to?” Rafael asks me once we settle into the carriage.
“Home, I think. It’s just off—”
“I remember,” he replies, giving the instructions to his driver, his gaze on me.
“Why did you bring me here tonight?” I ask.
“You were looking for a story, one that would do something to distinguish you with Hearst.” His lips twitch slightly for a moment. “It can’t all be haunted buildings.”
“How did you—” I wrote the haunted construction piece under a nom de plume lest having my name out there make it more difficult for me to do investigative stories in the future. How did he know it was mine?
He ignores my question, and his expression sobers. “Given everything the Spanish are doing, the Junta could use the coverage.”
“Do you really think the press can sway McKinley to act?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure American intervention is a good thing.”
“Why not?” I ask, surprised that his view differs so greatly from that of the Junta who spent the last hour calling for that very thing.
“Let’s say the Americans get rid of the Spanish. Fine. Good riddance. But now America is looking at Cuba. Don’t forget that the United States has tried to buy Cuba several times. No one does anything in this world out of the goodness of their hearts. The question we have to ask ourselves is whether we’re prepared to give the Americans whatever they want in exchange for their support.”
“What do you think the Americans want with Cuba?”
“What does everyone want? Money. After all, the Spanish cancellation of the trade pact between Cuba and the United States in ’94, and imposition of higher taxes and trade restrictions, led to much of the unrest. The vast majority of Cuba’s exports go to the United States. A fair bit of Cuba’s imports come from the United States. No country has as great of a trade relationship with Cuba, not even Spain. The Spanish know it, too, and that’s making them nervous. After the recent economic troubles in the United States, the price of sugar isn’t what it once was. Look at how many American corporations have taken over sugar plantations in Cuba. The United States isn’t going to lose such a valuable connection. The Spanish might have political authority, but the economic power is invested in the United States, and when it comes down to it, money wins every time. No wonder there’s such a push for American intervention.”
“But that’s such a cynical perspective to take. Perhaps we would intervene because it is the right thing to do. Because women and children are starving in those camps. You speak as though there is not a set of higher ideals we all aspire to, a force that shapes us as a nation.”
His mouth twists in a sardonic smile. “That’s a pretty thought after the spectacle we just witnessed at the Bradley-Martin ball tonight. America rides to Cuba’s rescue, but what about her own people? The tiniest fraction of this city controls nearly all of its wealth. People are starving and dying all over the world, and no one is coming to their rescue. People act out of their own interests. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you want to romanticize it with a patina of shining ideals, you can do so, but beneath this gilded city is a whole lot of rot.”
I study him for a moment, all of my potential responses tangled up in my throat. Whereas I once thought him to be a bounder and a cad, I now recognize that he is a smart bounder and cad, and a formidable sparring partner, indeed.
“You’re right, of course,” I say. “There is much work to be done.”
“Be careful with the Junta. They are one voice in all of this, and they are one of the loudest considering the excellent campaign they’ve launched to court public opinion. But there are other voices here, and most Cubans living in the United States don’t feel as they do, don’t encourage the armed conflict the Junta advocates for.”
“And where do you lie in all of this?” I ask him. “You speak about both groups as though they are separate from you, but you are both Cuban and American. Where do your loyalties lie?”
“Maybe with the one who needs me the most at the moment.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’m waiting to see how it all plays out.”
Debauchery aside, it’s hard to imagine how Hearst, the seeming romantic, and Rafael, the seeming realist, are friends, but if my short acquaintance with my employer has taught me anything, it is that people are a remarkable study in contradictions, and that it is possible to be both the playboy and the tireless advocate for a different, better future.
I just wonder whose interests motivate Rafael.
Eight
After the night of the Bradley-Martin ball, there are no more visits from Rafael, no trips to the Cuban Revolutionary Party’s meetings.
My mother is fairly appalled when my byline is run on an article critical of the excess of the Bradley-Martin ball, but then the public backlash against the Bradley-Martins swells beyond any criticism I levied their way, and my column is all but forgotten. Still, I received high praise on the piece from my editor Arthur Brisbane.
My notes from the Junta meeting that night are incorporated into several different stories, the conditions in the camps confirmed by the correspondents on the ground in Havana who see firsthand the devastation that General Weyler’s policies are causing. Although, what would one expect from a man who claims that the only job men have in war is to kill?