The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(35)
We stop in front of the Journal offices. I scan the newsboys sitting out front, but Johnny is nowhere to be seen.
“This is where I leave you,” Rafael says.
“I thought you wanted to speak with Will.”
“Maybe I just wanted a chance to walk you back. I’ll be gone for a bit again.” He says it casually, but now that he’s told me about the filibusters, I imagine there’s nothing casual about it.
“Running guns to Cuba?”
“It almost sounds romantic when you put it like that.” He grins. “It’ll be okay. However dirty you think your hands are, I promise Will has done worse. Good-bye, Grace.”
“Good-bye, Rafael.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but the words eluding me until I settle on, “Be safe.”
I watch him walk away, more than a little confused by the entire encounter and my desire to call after him and continue our conversation.
Eleven
Marina
Before
“What news do you bring us?” one of the women sitting next to me asks the speaker. Beside me, Mateo leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his body tense.
There are twenty of us gathered together in this hut in the countryside. It’s dark out, the hour late, the danger of meeting high. The Spanish monitor our movements, so it is rare that we are able to come together like this to discuss our dreams for Cuba’s future.
We all come from different backgrounds, a testament to how unified we are in our desire for independence. It fills me with hope, that our anger and our conviction can be harnessed into something powerful that the Spanish will be unable to match.
“There was an uprising in the village of Baire, near Santiago de Cuba on the twenty-fourth of February,” the man answers, his voice low, urgent.
It’s hardly surprising considering revolution has been building in Cuba, our list of grievances against the Spanish only growing.
“Some think this might be the impetus we need to defeat the Spanish,” he adds. “There’s talk that many who are in exile are planning a return, and they’re organizing an invasion of Cuba. We must be ready to fight when we are called to do so.”
“Do you think we’ll be successful?” another man asks.
“Do we have a choice?” the woman interjects. “Look what Spain has done to us. They tax us to death. They control what we say and what we do, keep us from speaking out, from advocating for ourselves for a better future. They don’t give us a chance to govern ourselves, and we exist solely to serve the Spanish crown. For centuries, they have taken from Cuba to serve Spain. They’ll never give us our independence. We’ll have to take it.”
“What will be different this time?” I interject. “We cannot afford to fight another war we will not win. We cannot afford for them to weaken us if we don’t assure victory.”
“We have been preparing for this for decades now,” Mateo answers. “We’ve learned from all the time we’ve spent fighting them. We have exiles placed all over the world who have garnered international support for our cause, who can harness the power of the international press and the diplomatic relations they’ve established. Our leaders are ready for this. It is time for us to show Spain that Cuba is ready to govern itself, that we no longer accept their interference in our affairs. It is time for independence.”
* * *
—
Mateo and I walk home from the meeting, his arm slung around my shoulders.
Our daughter Isabella is back with his mother Luz at the little house we built. I can’t remember the last time it was just the two of us. It almost feels like it used to be before we were married, before we had Isabella, when we used to sit beside each other and discuss the writings of José Martí, reciting the lines from Versos Sencillos from memory.
It has made our love easier, certainly, that we both have the same wishes for Cuba, that we see the world the same way. I cannot imagine loving someone who disagreed with me on the fundamental character of our nation and our selves. There are some things that are too important to be ignored, and in this fight, we must all do our part.
“Do you think what they said tonight is true—that we are to have war once more?” I ask him.
I was a small child when Spain defeated us in the Little War, the year-long conflict organized by the veterans of the prior fight for independence. This is to be our third attempt, and if we are not successful, I fear we will only embolden the Spanish to forever see us as their property.
“I think everyone is ready. Martí, Maceo, Gómez, and the others have been in exile. I’m sure they’re eager to return to Cuba and conclude this fight, to see our Cuban flag fly proudly. Aren’t we all desperate to be free?”
“Will you join them if they fight?” I ask Mateo.
“How can I not? I can’t stand by and watch my countrymen sacrifice their lives for something I believe in, too.”
“If you go to war, then I want to go with you.”
“Marina. No.”
“You said it yourself. How can I stand by and watch my countrymen sacrifice their lives for something I believe in and do nothing? They will need nurses in the camps. There will be roles for women to fill; there has to be. It’s our Cuba, too, and we deserve to represent her as much as you do. If we are to fight under a united flag, if we are to stand a chance of defeating the Spanish, then we must all work together to do so. We are stronger if we are united, if we do not allow the Spanish to divide us.”