The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(49)

I remember how I felt when I first came here, how scared I was, how alone. Even though Recogidas isn’t a place that lends itself to friendship, I’ve found that we all crave some form of companionship.

I smile. “I’m Evangelina.”

“Marina. I’ve heard of you,” she adds, her voice low.

I pause. My notoriety certainly hasn’t made it easier for me here. “And what have you heard?”

“Your friends have not abandoned you,” she whispers, and then, louder—

“I would like to write a letter to my husband.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly, struggling to keep the emotion from my face.

My heart pounds madly as I put my pen to paper. I barely hear the words she dictates to me, my mind racing the longer we keep up this fiction. It’s clear from the way she speaks that she’s learned, and this is all a giant ruse, but to what end, I do not know. I yearn to come out and ask her how she knows my friends, what her purpose is in being here, but we are too exposed, and even though at the moment, no one appears to be paying us much attention, the truth is you never know who is listening and what they will do in order to ingratiate themselves to our jailers. This place thrives on secrets, bribes, and subterfuge.

When I’ve finished the letter, I hand it back to her wordlessly.

She takes it from my hands, our fingers grazing, and with her free hand she grips me tightly.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she whispers.

A crumpled piece of paper rests between my fingers.



* * *



—

There is little to no privacy to be had in prison. There are always people around: guards, other prisoners—some are so caught up in their own intrigues and problems that they couldn’t care less about yours; others are eagle-eyed, waiting for any slipup that they may use against you in order to further their own interests.

In prison, information is power.

I unfold the note the woman—Marina—pressed in my palm, reading the elegant script there.

Your friends have not forgotten you. We will help you escape the prison. We vow it. We’re working on a plan now. Can you assist us?

As quickly as I unfolded the paper, I crumple it back up, pressing my fist to my mouth and swallowing the words written there even as I wish I could keep them close to my breast and reread them in my moments of doubt. In my moments of weakness.

Can I help them with a plan?

I’ve only envisioned my escape from this place hundreds, thousands of times.

A calmness like none other I have experienced settles over me. For the first time since I arrived, there is something for me to do, a purpose beyond sitting here, waiting to die.

I select one of the pens I use for my letter writing and a blank sheaf of paper. Many of my fellow prisoners can’t read or write, but some of the guards can, so it’s best not to take any chances.

I begin writing.

“What are you doing?” a woman asks me.

I smile, trying to still the pounding in my heart, and think of one of the most boring things I can say to send her away.

“Studying my English grammar.”

I can’t tell if she believes me or doesn’t care, but she walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

My brow furrows as I consider the options available to me, the pitfalls of attempting to escape Recogidas.

I put the pen to paper once more.

The best chance of escape is from the roof. You should bring a rope to use to climb down from the roof and also acid to destroy the bars of the windows.

I pause, my gaze sweeping over the room at the women surrounding me. Our paths might not have crossed but for life bringing us to this horrible place, but I feel a kinship I never imagined would exist. Guilt pricks me at what I must do, but I continue writing:

I will also require opium or morphine to put my companions to sleep so that I may escape. I can use sweets in order to feed it to them. If three of you guard the various corners of the roof, we can use a lighted cigar as the signal to raise an alarm and a white handkerchief to let me know that it is safe for me to climb down. I will tie my clothes around my waist, so I have what is necessary for after I am gone. This is my best idea for escape. Let me know if this is convenient for you.

I add a diagram to the note should they need further explanation.

Surely, they can manage this plan. I’ll pass the directions to Marina when she returns to the jail.

When I am done, I pray.





Eighteen





True to her word, Marina returns a day later, laundry in hand. As she walks past me, she drops a blanket on the ground, and I reach down to pick it up for her, slipping the note I’ve written inside the linens.

The next afternoon, she sits down across from me and asks me to write another letter for her.

“Tomorrow night,” she whispers. “But I can’t get you the laudanum. They search us when we come in here to bring the laundry. The note was dangerous enough.”

Disappointment fills me. Now that my circumstances have changed, I’m no longer in a cell by myself, and there’s no chance I’ll be able to escape without drawing the notice of others who might raise the alarm.

“I’ll think of something,” I reply.

“Thank you for writing the letter for me,” she says more loudly, and then—“Good luck.”