The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(37)
“Viva Cuba Libre,” she whispers, echoing the call sung by the revolutionaries.
“Viva Cuba Libre,” I say, pride bursting through me, my voice low for now, waiting for the day when I can shout it throughout Havana and the rest of Cuba.
Twelve
Grace
After I confess my secret to Rafael, the need to end this spying business weighs heavily on me. Now that I have proved my utility to Pulitzer with the intelligence I offered him on the Clemencia Arango story, he demands more and more information as though I am suddenly part of Hearst’s inner circle. Most of our correspondence is conducted by hectoring letters Pulitzer sends me—addressing me by one of the many code names he employs for Hearst and everyone in his sphere, the Journal itself referred to simply as “Geranium.” Pulitzer complains about my lack of results when I tell him I have nothing left to offer him, railing against the Journal’s shockingly low prices, growing circulation, and Hearst’s unflagging arrogance.
For all of his wealth and his negative reputation, working with Hearst has certainly made me view him in a different light. There’s a shyness about him that is so incongruous with the man who loves a spectacle, and I assume people easily mistake his reserve for standoffishness. But, what people fail to understand is that for all Hearst loves celebrating his paper, for all of his determination and drive, he is a man happiest on the sidelines, surrounded by those who are familiar to him and with whom he can be at ease, be it a man like Rafael, a chorus girl, or one of his editors.
No one would describe Pulitzer as shy, and even though he comes from a much more unassuming background, he is a man who demands respect from those who work for him, his temper best described as irascible. While the World presents a professional front to the public, since I’ve begun working among other journalists with former ties to Pulitzer, I’ve heard he’s a difficult man to please, the atmosphere in his newsroom often more chaotic than what is ordinary in our business, his disposition creating a stressful environment for his employees.
With each letter he sends me, it becomes clear that the situation cannot continue on, the year we agreed to coming to its close, and I finally agree to meet with Pulitzer on one of the rare occasions when he is at his home in the city.
That afternoon, I leave the office in a hurry, late for our meeting and filled with nerves.
When I arrive at Pulitzer’s immense mansion at 10 East 55th Street, I’m immediately shown into his office by his butler, who announces me with little fanfare before shutting the door firmly behind me.
Once I’m seated, the barest of pleasantries exchanged between me and Pulitzer, he asks me, “What do you have for me?”
“I received your last letter asking me for information on our reporting on Cuba, but I didn’t come here for that.”
He frowns. “Then why did you come here?”
For a moment, I can’t believe I’m letting the dream that was within my grasp slip between my fingers, even as I know it’s what I must do. For better or worse, I’ve decided to cast my lot with Hearst and the Journal.
“It’s been a year since we made our agreement, and I came to thank you for meeting with me that day in your office and for giving me the impetus that sent me to the Journal. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the right place for me to learn how to be a journalist. I’ve gotten the experience I needed, even if the stories I covered weren’t the ones I envisioned working on.
“I can’t keep spying for you. I don’t feel right about it. Hearst has given me a chance and I can’t repay that by passing information to you.”
“I thought you wanted to be a journalist, Miss Harrington. It seems like my initial concerns were correct and you don’t have what it takes.”
Considering how long I’ve admired his paper and career, the words sting more than I’d care to admit.
“I am a journalist. At the Journal.”
“We’ll see how much longer that proves to be true. Are you going to tell Hearst what you did?”
“I am. It seems only fair.”
“Surely, you cannot be so na?ve to believe that. Do you think Hearst cares about fair?” Pulitzer scoffs. “He professes to advocate for the common man, but how can you do that if you’ve only ever been seeped in privilege? That man cares about himself and little else.”
“He cares,” I reply. “People don’t understand that about him, but you can’t miss it when you work beside him.”
Hearst might have started his business with inherited money, but it’s easy to forget that when he started the San Francisco Examiner the paper was failing or that while he did replicate much of Pulitzer’s success, he also exceeded Pulitzer’s accomplishments. There’s no doubt that Hearst has set the new standard all other newspapers aim to emulate.
“So this is it. The end to our little arrangement.”
“Yes. I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful.”
He waves me off without another word.
* * *
—
After I leave the meeting with Pulitzer, I head back to the Journal office. I walk through the newsroom, nerves filling me, heading toward Hearst’s office. I square my shoulders, raising my hand to knock on Hearst’s office door, a tremor sliding through my body.