The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(40)
“And the other women?” I ask, incredulous. “What grave crime did they commit? Are their neighbors members of the Cuban Revolutionary Army?”
“No, their brothers.”
“And for that these women were imprisoned in Recogidas? Surely, there’s a bigger story here than simply Evangelina.”
“Grace, stop overthinking it. Evangelina is the story. Hearst has already said it. She is the perfect rallying cry to galvanize people to push for American intervention against Spain.”
It remains unspoken between us, but I can hear the words, as distasteful as they are:
Just think of all the newspapers we’ll sell.
“She’s one woman. There’s more here than that.”
“The women of America, the upstanding women whose husbands will listen to them, they will relate to this girl. They don’t care about a prison filled with criminals and the lowest women of society. They’ll see themselves in Evangelina, and they’ll want to help her. In doing so, maybe we can change this whole situation with Spain.”
That he condemns a group of women in the same breath that he seeks to save one clearly escapes his notice. Or the fact that despite everyone’s great admiration of her beauty, their intentions are hardly noble. She is a means to an end to sell more papers, to force the United States to act.
“Do you really believe that’s possible?” I ask. “Do you truly believe the stories we write will be enough to bring about a war?”
I started writing because I wanted to do something that mattered, because I wanted my life to serve a purpose, to illuminate the people and places society overlooked. And still—there is a difference between shining a light on the darkest corners of this society and daring to bring about a war that will change the world as we know it.
Michael grins at me. “Let’s hope so.”
“I’ve got it,” Hearst shouts from his office once more, interrupting our conversation. “We’ll call her ‘the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba.’”
Thirteen
Evangelina
One by one, my friends leave me as they are released from prison or sent on to other places. Unfortunately, this war creates a never-ending supply of women to punish for others’ deeds, so newcomers replenish their ranks—the wives or sisters of Mambises whose only crime is loving one of Cuba’s proud patriots. When they are gone, others come, and so the cycle continues, and still, I remain. My final friend, Se?ora Sotolongo, is with me a bit longer, but eventually she’s taken to a prison hospital.
There are others who visit me: Donnell Rockwell who works at the American consulate and has become a great friend of mine, and Karl Decker, a new friend who says he will be working at the Journal in Havana.
And then one day, I am called to see the warden once more.
The Marquis of Cervera is seated in the warden’s office.
The warden places a newspaper on his desk, and shock fills me at the sight of my face staring back at me. I read the name of the newspaper: The New York Journal.
“It would appear that you have some fine friends,” Don Jose accuses.
I never imagined my case would draw the interest of the Americans in such a fashion, that my story and face would be plastered across their papers, that the world would see me brought so low. All along, Bryson promised me he would keep me out of the press to avoid further angering the Spanish. The last time he visited me, he told me that the judge he’d attempted to bribe in order to secure my release was trying to force his hand by threatening a harsh sentence for me. Perhaps once Bryson’s plans went awry, he had to come up with another option, but I wish he had warned me that this news was breaking. If the Spanish were determined to make me pay for embarrassing Berriz before, this can only make things worse.
“George Bryson has been expelled from Cuba on the orders of General Weyler,” Don Jose announces.
Horror fills me.
“Because of you,” he adds, a gleam in his eyes as he delivers the crushing news. “The queen regent of Spain herself has directed General Weyler in this matter.”
As the warden speaks, the Marquis of Cervera sits there silently, watching me.
I should have known Bryson’s promises were too good to be true, should have realized the Spanish wouldn’t give up so easily. The more attention the situation draws, the more likely it is to prompt Spain to retaliate against American interference. After all, more than anything, right now they need to appear strong.
“You must wonder what will become of you,” Don Jose says.
I have been wondering that every minute of every hour of every day that I have spent in this horrible place for the last fifteen months, but if my past interactions with my jailers have taught me anything, it’s that whatever they tell me, it won’t be the truth.
I lift my chin slightly, keeping my mouth shut. I can’t bear the thought of asking him, of giving him the satisfaction of seeing me desperate and dejected.
“You will be sent to Spain,” he continues. “You will serve twenty years in a convent.”
Originally, I was to be sent to a penal colony in Africa, then led out into the square and shot like a spy, or imprisoned for life in Cuba, and now they plan to throw me into a prison of sorts in Spain. It seems like each day they throw a different horror my way. I bite the inside of my cheek as hard as I can to keep from crying out, my anger a living, palpable thing unfurling inside me.