The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(5)
“Because she’s an advantage for Pulitzer. Nellie Bly is writing a series of articles for the World, highlighting women’s stories, appealing to their interests. You want to increase your circulation; you need a voice that appeals to women, too. How can you compete with Pulitzer if you don’t have the same tools at your disposal?”
“I have money, Miss Harrington,” he drawls. “A great deal of it.”
“So does Pulitzer. And all that money is only as good as what you can do with it. Why else did you steal his staff?”
“You’ve done your research, I’ll give you that, Miss Harrington. And as it happens, I’m a fan of you girl reporters. Pulitzer isn’t the only one who employs them. Are you familiar with Winifred Black’s work?”
I shake my head.
“She wrote for me as Annie Laurie when I owned the San Francisco Examiner and followed me to New York to work at the Journal. You’re right, you know. There’s an advantage to what women can do, the access they can achieve.” He studies me for a moment. “Do you know what we’re trying to accomplish here?”
“You want to increase your circulation. You want to dominate the New York newspaper scene.”
“We do. But it’s more than that. Gone are the days when newspapers simply report on what happens. We must take action. The people depend on us. They look to us. We’re not in the business of being concerned with profit. We’re courting influence. That’s why I’m happy to sell my paper for less than others choose to. I want to reach the greatest number of people possible. I aim to influence policy.
“We’re in a position to do something about the ills facing society. We should do something; we must shine a spotlight on the struggles they face. But we don’t just have to look at what’s happening in New York City, or even the United States. When the government fails to do its duty, when it fails to act in defense of the innocent, then the people must compel it to do so, and who is better placed to represent the people than an extension of them—the free press? You could say that is our duty, too.”
I’m a little shaken by how close his speech is to the one I delivered before Pulitzer. I’d always written Hearst off as a craven businessman, but the passion contained in his words appears genuine.
His desire to remake the newspaper and its role in society is an ambitious goal, even more daunting than his aim to challenge the World for circulation supremacy. When Hearst bought the Journal last year, the difference between the two papers was vast, although he’s closing the gap.
My gaze shifts to the other occupants of the room, to see if they are as surprised by this version of Hearst as I am. Gone is the languid pose of the man sitting beside Hearst. He’s yet to introduce himself, but he sits a bit straighter in his chair, leaning forward, his elbows propped against his knees.
Come to think of it, he doesn’t look nearly as debauched as he did earlier, either.
I turn my attention back to Hearst.
“After hearing all that, do you still want to work for me?” he asks.
I could attempt to meet his speech with one of my own, but I’m not sure anything I say could match his fervor, so I don’t bother trying.
“I do.”
Hearst studies me for a moment longer than is polite, as though he is attempting to take my measure.
Can he tell by looking at me, by my mannerisms, that we unmistakably come from the same place, and yet have turned our backs on society in favor of something new and uniquely our own? Maybe Pulitzer saw those similarities as well when he thought this plan would work.
“We don’t offer a salary,” Hearst finally replies. “But you’ll be paid on space for the articles you write.”
My heart thuds.
He plucks a folded newspaper from the stack in front of him and slides it across the desk to me.
It’s a copy of Pulitzer’s paper, the New York World, dated May 1, 1896. The byline is that of Pulitzer’s star reporter Sylvester Scovel. On the front page, there is an article about the killing of Cuban civilians by Spanish soldiers in the village of Campo Florida near Havana.
“What do you know about this situation down in Cuba?” Hearst asks me.
Two
Evangelina
“They’re going to kill my father.”
The words pour from me, panic loosening my tongue despite the fact that if this past year of exile with my father fifty miles south of Cuba’s mainland on the Isle of Pines has taught me anything, it’s that I must be cautious around our Spanish guards.
“Evangelina.” My fiancé, Emilio Betancourt, says my name impatiently, his tone low, urgent, filled with none of the romance I’m used to hearing from him. I asked him to meet me at my house, but even here there is no privacy to be had. Emilio glances around us, his gaze resting on the guards standing nearby, watching us, always monitoring our moments as though we are forever plotting insurrection against the Spanish crown. Spain has controlled our fortunes for over four hundred years, since Christopher Columbus first colonized Cuba in 1492, and now as we fight to liberate Cuba, they tighten their hold on us.
“You forget yourself,” Emilio hisses, speaking to me as if I am a mere girl and not the woman he has followed around with lovesick gazes, as though eighteen years old is a child’s age. He tugs me by the arm and pulls me farther away from the soldiers.