The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(57)
The next day the newspaper tells a new tale:
General Weyler has resigned from his post.
His legacy has left half a million Cubans in reconcentration camps.
Weyler’s political fortunes have been tenuous for months now. The Conservative Spanish prime minister Antonio Cánovas del Castillo was assassinated by an anarchist back in August, and the new Liberal leader Práxedes Sagasta is said to be looking for a more conciliatory policy toward Cuba. Recalling Weyler is an excellent first step, but there is still much to be done. Evangelina’s escape must have been the final nail in Weyler’s coffin.
On October 10, Karl Decker’s six-column headline filed under his pen name, Charles Duval, shouts the truth from the rooftops:
The Journal has rescued Evangelina Cisneros.
It’s all anyone can talk about as Hearst crows of his paper’s accomplishment:
While Others Talk, The Journal Acts
Hearst has us interview prominent political figures, private citizens, anyone and everyone who can praise his paper for doing the impossible and rescuing Evangelina from prison. Many of the newspapers who have viewed Hearst’s journalism with scorn in the past are now quick to celebrate the Journal’s success.
The World is doing their own reporting as quickly as they can, attempting to poke holes in Hearst’s story, but the wave of praise for the Journal’s accomplishment is overwhelming.
Hearst calls me into his office one morning, as I’m finishing up yet another article on Evangelina. These days, it seems like the entire newsroom is writing about Evangelina, covering any and all angles about her life.
Arthur Brisbane stands beside Hearst’s desk as they look over copy for the next edition.
“Grace. Just who I wanted to see,” Hearst announces. “Evangelina Cisneros is nearly in New York, and it occurred to me that it would be helpful for the Journal to have a woman as part of the contingent to greet her. She might be more likely to open up to one of our reporters who is a woman, especially after everything she’s been through.”
“Of course.”
I turn to leave, and he says—
“There’s something else. We’re going to publish a book. The story of Evangelina Cisneros, in her own words. We’ll include a section from Decker where he can talk about his role in the escape, and then we’ll have Evangelina discuss her life, the situation in Cuba, her version of events. She’ll need someone to help her write it. I think a feminine touch would be nice. Of course, your name won’t be on the story, and there will be others working on it, but it’ll be good practice for you. It’ll give you the kind of experience that will prove helpful to your journalism career.”
It’s a far cry to go from writing articles to a full book about someone’s life. I’ve never taken on such a project, and for all Hearst isn’t afraid to stretch the bounds of comfort, this feels like too ambitious of a project for me, but if my career has taught me anything, it’s to say yes to the opportunity and figure it out as I go along.
“I’m flattered, Mr. Hearst. I would love to.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a fine job,” he says. “We’ll make sure you have a chance to look over Karl’s piece so you can write hers in a similar style. And you’ll want to read over all of the pieces we’ve published on her so that you can maintain a similar style and tone. Miss Cisneros is a national treasure, and she should be treated as such.
“It will be a delicate matter,” Hearst continues. “Some of the men involved in getting Evangelina out of prison must remain anonymous. They’re still embroiled in schemes in Cuba, and it wouldn’t do for their identities to be revealed. Same for any diplomatic assistance she received. We’ll have to use code names for some of them to protect their identities.”
Despite my reservations, my fears that I am no biographer, it feels like an opportunity to distinguish myself in a crowded field, in the hopes that perhaps one day I can move beyond these stunt articles.
It feels like a chance to make my career.
“You can count on me,” I reply.
“I hope so. This is war.”
Twenty-Two
Evangelina
The next day at sea, I change out of the boys’ clothes and into a red dress. I finally feel rested enough that I venture up on deck, and the passengers gather around me, news of my ordeal clearly having spread throughout the ship. The women encircle me, hugging and kissing me, the men telling me I am brave to have survived all that I have.
When I was in Recogidas, I didn’t think of what it would be like to be out of the prison, didn’t realize how difficult it would be to reenter society after spending so much time in such harsh conditions. In prison, we were constantly watched and spied upon, people reporting on our movements, mine more than anyone else’s given the notoriety surrounding my case. It makes the attention everyone pays to me now even more uncomfortable.
While they mill around me, I sit on the deck listening to the glorious sound of the water rushing past the ship, admiring the expanse of sea before me and all the possibilities there. My body may be on the Seneca, but my mind is elsewhere. Even with the future before me, I can’t help but think of my friends back in Havana, of the men who risked their lives to help me.
Is Carlos safe in his home near the wharf, smoking one of those cigars that reminds me of him like the one he gave me that rests in my cabin below deck now with the folded-up boys’ clothes? And the other men? The woman Marina who passed me the notes? What of all of them?