The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(28)
“You need to tell Will to be careful with this Clemencia Arango story.”
It takes a moment for the name to come to mind with him standing so near to me.
The Journal recently ran a front-page piece on Clemencia Arango, a Cuban woman who was expelled from Cuba on suspicion of working as a courier and delivering letters to the revolutionaries. Richard Harding Davis heard that Arango and two other women were on the Olivette, an American ship in the Havana Harbor, when they were strip-searched by Spanish detectives three separate times. Frederic Remington provided an illustration of a naked young woman being examined by three male detectives, which Hearst printed prominently in the paper. He was sure the article would spur public interest, and it has, arousing much public condemnation of the Spanish.
“What’s wrong with the Clemencia Arango story?” I ask. “The idea that a woman was violated like that—and on a ship flying the American flag.”
Rafael grimaces. “Well, I don’t know what information Davis and Remington received, but what I heard is that the women weren’t searched by men at all, but by a Spanish policewoman. Clemencia Arango is in Tampa now, and she’s telling a different story than the one Will splashed on the front page of his paper.”
If that’s true, it will certainly damage the Journal’s credibility. Already, the paper has been criticized by the New York Press for partaking in “yellow journalism” and sensationalizing the news. At the same time, I was outside Hearst’s office when he first learned of the women’s predicament, and we were all horrified by the story.
“I’ll tell him.”
“I know Will is eager to help and to sway public opinion toward the revolutionaries’ cause, but he needs to be careful. One wrong step and he’ll lose the public for good.”
I agree, although “careful” is certainly not the word that comes to mind when I think of Hearst.
“If he’s looking for a story, though,” Rafael adds, “I have one that will definitely fit the bill.”
“Why are you telling me this? You hardly need me to serve as a conduit to Hearst. Why not just give him the information directly?”
“I could tell him. But despite your claims to the contrary, you and I are friends, too. If the information both helps Will and helps you garner credibility with him, why wouldn’t I give it to you? Still looking for your shot?”
“Every day.”
His mouth quirks as I pull out my notepad, and then his expression turns serious.
“There’s a Cuban-American dentist who wound up dead in a Spanish jail,” Rafael says. “His name is Ricardo Ruiz. He’s an American citizen. He was born in Cuba and fought in the Ten Years’ War before he fled to the United States and received American citizenship. When the situation in Cuba calmed down a bit, he went back, set up a dentistry practice, married, started a family. He was recently arrested and imprisoned by the Spanish because the revolutionaries robbed a train carrying Spanish government officials and they thought Ruiz was involved in the robbery. The police rounded him and others up. The governor of the jail claims Ruiz killed himself while he was incarcerated. But, that’s not the story I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
“Ruiz’s body is battered as though he was beaten. Prisoners in the surrounding cells heard him screaming and crying the night of his death. His body is being kept at the jail in Guanabacoa outside of Havana. As the top-ranking American in Havana, Consul General Lee has the power to investigate this further, to order an autopsy to determine the cause of death. If Ruiz was murdered, this could be just the thing to push for General Weyler’s recall.”
“And what’s your interest in this? I thought you said you weren’t involved with the Cuban cause.”
“I told you my motives. Just trying to help a friend. There’s no need to be so suspicious. Give that story to Will, and it might open some doors for you.”
“And see Mr. Ruiz avenged, of course.”
“That, too.” A gleam enters his gaze. “Weyler is a problem. He is hell-bent on destroying the island to win this war, and he’s doing a damned good job of it. He needs to be recalled to Spain. Maybe this is what it will take to do it. You and I both know the press needs a good story. Give Will this one.”
“You’re a terrible cynic, aren’t you?”
“No, Grace, just a realist.” He looks at me for one long moment, and then with an incongruously jaunty, “Enjoy your date,” leaves me standing in front of Delmonico’s private dining room, staring at his retreating back.
* * *
—
Joseph Pulitzer is already waiting for me when I finally enter the private dining room, and he frowns for a moment while I offer a poorly mangled apology for my tardiness.
“What news do you have for me?” he asks without preamble.
For as much as I know this is normal practice in the newsrooms, and Hearst certainly wouldn’t hesitate to use me in the same manner, the subterfuge of this arrangement with Pulitzer feels wrong. At the same time, an opportunity to be taken seriously at the World isn’t a chance I’m likely to get again. Despite Hearst’s attempts to close the gap between them—their circulation battle continues with Pulitzer nearing an audience of a million Americans, and Hearst not too far behind him—there are many, including me, who hold the World’s journalistic standards in higher regard than Hearst’s more dubious ones at the Journal.