The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(60)
I wish I knew who I could trust.
“I wish I could be the heroine the people seem to want me to be. I wish I could have done more for Cuba. For my family.”
“You must miss them very much.”
I open my mouth to say something, but a sob escapes instead, the force of the emotion surprising me. For so long, I’ve been focused on surviving, my strength reserved for enduring Recogidas, that now I am overwhelmed by all of the emotions I haven’t dared face since this all began.
“I’m sorry—I—”
I don’t know how to explain to her what it’s like to have to pretend to be what everyone expects you to be when your insides are eaten with fear or worry. I am happy to be free, but there is so much uncertainty before me.
“My father—” I try again. “I miss him. And my sisters. Terribly.”
Grace reaches out, taking my hand and squeezing it gently.
“You must feel very alone at times. Having come all this way, being so far from home, away from your friends and those you love. Especially after all you’ve been through.”
“I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see them again,” I admit. “My greatest fear is that after all of this, to have come this far, I won’t be able to go home, to see the people I love.”
“I heard you left your fiancé back in Cuba. Is that true?”
“Emilio Betancourt. Yes. We were engaged shortly after I arrived at the Isle of Pines.”
“You must miss him a great deal.”
“I did. Once. Now I can’t remember what he looks like—It’s such a small thing, but I loved him for so long, and now it’s almost like he’s a stranger. I remember pieces of his face—his mustache, his eyes. I remember the butterflies I used to feel in my stomach when he would walk in front of the house where I lived with my father and Carmen. We used to talk through the window gratings of our homes when he was courting me on the Isle of Pines.”
“Was he a prisoner there, too?”
“He was. He hoped that he would be pardoned, and when he was free, we would be able to marry.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was there that night I was attacked by Berriz. He was among the group that tried to save me. He was punished and arrested like all of my rescuers.”
The hurt is still there, when I speak of his betrayal. “I learned later from the Marquis de Cervera that Emilio was among the men who agreed to cooperate with the Spanish and testify against me in exchange for their freedom. I understand why the other men would do so, but it was hard to forgive Emilio for his betrayal. We were supposed to love each other for all of our lives. How do I reconcile such a loss of fidelity? He is not the patriot I thought he was. That part of my life is over now.”
“He sounds like he didn’t deserve you.”
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“We’ve heard stories, but I can’t imagine what it’s like in Cuba now, what it was like for you in Recogidas.”
“No, you couldn’t. I had no idea before they threw me in that cell how difficult it would be. Nothing in my life had prepared me for it. I think about the women I left behind, the ones I drugged so I could escape. Who will rescue them? Who will put their stories on the front page of the paper? Why was I saved when so many others aren’t?”
“I can understand how you would feel that way. The conditions those women are living in, the reports we’ve heard are abominable. Clearly, something needs to be done to end the suffering in Cuba. Mr. Hearst and others hoped that your story would incite the people of America to push harder for intervention against Spain.”
“It’s hard to believe my story could move America to act against the Spanish. I haven’t quite gotten used to the attention, to the sensation that people care about me. It’s a heady thing to have everyone looking to you. It’s a scary thing to make your way in this world alone,” I confess. “Being here is difficult. Everyone has been so kind, and done so much for me, but it is a terrifying thing to have an uncertain future,” I add. Even though she’s a reporter, there’s something in her manner, perhaps the fact that she is a woman left to her own devices to make it in this world, that makes me trust her where I otherwise would exercise caution. Or maybe I’m just too homesick to be prudent anymore. “I never imagined my life would end up like this. I never envisioned myself leaving Cuba, never wanted to. And then Berriz changed everything.”
She swears softly under her breath in a most unladylike manner that is oddly somewhat reassuring.
“You were treated horribly,” she says.
“I was. So many are in Cuba. Things are bad there. I don’t know how to explain it to people who have never known what it is to struggle like this. So many of the things we suffer must seem unbelievable to you and your countrymen.”
She squeezes my hand once more. “Tell me about Cuba, then, so that you can show them what it’s like. What would you like the women of America to know about you, about Cuba? You’ve had others tell your story for so long now. What do you want to say?”
Besides Carlos, she’s the first person who has really listened to me for so long, who has been curious about my thoughts and feelings rather than treating me like someone to be protected, that I can’t resist the urge to be honest.