The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(44)
“What’s the Americans’ interest in all of this?” I ask Decker. “Why do you care about a Cuban woman in a Cuban prison?”
“I’m a reporter for an American newspaper in New York City. My employer has taken an interest in Miss Cisneros’s plight. We’ve tried to free her through diplomatic means to no avail. We now believe it’s time to act outside of normal channels. I’ve met with Miss Cisneros, but now we have a problem—Weyler has cut off our access to her.”
I turn toward Carlos. “And you? What is your interest in her? Is she a friend of yours?”
Given Carlos’s reputation as a bachelor, and Evangelina Cisneros’s reported beauty, I can’t help but wonder if she’s more than just a friend.
“I’ve never met her,” Carlos answers.
“Then why?”
“Because we aren’t winning this war. And we need something to tip the odds in our favor. I’ve seen the articles the Americans have written about Evangelina. I’ve spoken with others who have been following the public response to her case. She might be what we need to prompt the Americans to throw their support behind us.”
Women and children are dying in the camps; it’s hard to believe that in the face of all that suffering, it will only take one woman to inspire the Americans to act. Where was their outrage when the Spanish put us in reconcentration camps? Where was their anger over dead Cubans? Why is Evangelina’s life worth more than others? Why does she merit rescuing while the rest of us don’t?
“And it’s just the two of you attempting this?” I ask.
Decker is hesitant for a moment. “There are others concerned with her situation.”
They must have some diplomatic help from the American consulate to even attempt this. The Spanish check documents for people entering and leaving the country, so getting her out of Cuba will certainly be a challenge.
“What will you do if you break her out of Recogidas successfully?”
“We’ve found someone who can forge a passport for her to get her out of the country and take her to the United States,” Decker answers. “We’ve looked at the available transport options, and we can ferry her out of Havana on a steamer.”
If they can get her out of the prison, and that’s an extraordinary if, considering the prison and how notorious Evangelina is becoming, there are so many things that can go wrong with this plan.
“Our problem is Recogidas,” Decker adds. “A daylight raid is out of the question. Too dangerous. We’ve thought about using dynamite to break her out, but the rest of the plan hinges on a modicum of discretion, and we’re not likely to find it with a loud explosion. We have the other pieces in place; we just need to figure out the most important one.”
“Have you asked Evangelina? For as much time as she’s spent in the prison, I would think she might have some ideas on how to escape.”
Both men look momentarily flummoxed by the idea of asking her what she thinks.
“Weyler’s made sure all of our communication with her has been cut off,” Decker answers.
It’s not the normal sort of effort I would be involved in, and it’s a difficult pill to swallow that her life is the one that will inspire America to act considering the tremendous amount of suffering throughout Cuba, but given the situation we find ourselves in, I’m desperate to do anything I can to end this horrible war and see Cuba liberated.
“I can get a note to her.”
“Thank you,” Carlos replies, the relief on his face surprising me. “When you hear from Evangelina, come to me.”
I nod, somewhat comforted by the fact that he is to be my liaison in this rather than the American. Hopefully, our shared history will keep Carlos from double-crossing me down the road should this all blow up in our faces.
I say good-bye to both men with the promise that I will be in contact with any news from Evangelina. Decker walks me to the door, and I pull it open, peeking into the hallway to make sure it is empty. I cross the threshold, shutting the door to the hotel room behind me quickly, my heart pounding.
I walk down the hallway, heading for the exit when one of the doors to the neighboring rooms opens and a man steps out.
I duck my head to keep him from seeing my face, but as I do, something catches in my peripheral vision—a slash of dark hair, a familiar profile, a set of full lips I know as intimately as my own.
I stop in my tracks and come face-to-face with my husband.
Sixteen
Before
I wake to the sound of rustling in my bedroom, the spot next to me in bed where my husband Mateo normally lies, empty.
I sit up, my heart pounding as my gaze sweeps across the room.
It’s still dark out, but with the sliver of moonlight cast into our bedroom, I can just make out the silhouette of Mateo getting dressed, a sack at his feet. His sword, the one that was his father’s when he fought in the failed attempt for Cuba’s independence in the Ten Years’ War, rests beside it.
I’ve known this day was coming, revolution a whisper on our breath. The hope, the possibility of freedom sustains us after centuries of Spanish rule.
And now that the army is close to our home in the countryside, it’s time for Mateo to join them.
I’ve known this day was coming, and now that it’s here, the ache inside me is nearly unbearable. We fell asleep last night with our limbs entwined, the curve of Mateo’s body wrapped around mine. I stayed awake long after he fell asleep, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling his heartbeat against my back, wondering how I was going to endure this coming separation.