The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(66)

A group of soldiers, sailors, and policemen in uniform escort me up on the stage at Madison Square where a large crowd has been gathering for quite some time now.

I’ve never had so many people staring back at me in all my life.

A cheer rises through the crowd as I walk up on the stage, and I feel the rumble of it in my bones as I look out at the sea of faces. There must be thousands of people here—tens of thousands. I knew when I saw my face on the New York papers that many people would hear my story, but seeing this is a different thing altogether. How much power must Mr. Hearst have, that he can draw such a crowd from the stories he publishes? And what could that power do for Cuba to have all of these voices united in her defense?

I wave my handkerchief in the air, the cheers growing impossibly louder.

How did I go from dancing in a simple courtyard with my sisters to this? I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what it is about my story that’s garnered so much attention. There are so many who are fighting for their freedom that it seems a bit wrong that I am being celebrated for doing so little in comparison, but hopefully this mobilizes the Americans to support us. It is hard to not look out at this sea of people and dream that this enthusiasm might carry us to independence.

Karl stands beside me onstage looking handsome and strong, and then he gives me a little push forward as though eschewing the attention for himself and centering it all on me.

Fireworks explode in the air, their bright colors dazzling. The band plays the Cuban national anthem, the sound bringing tears to my eyes.

When will the Cuban flag fly over Havana? When will we be free?





Twenty-Seven





Grace


All of New York City is enthralled by Evangelina Cisneros. For her part, she seems a little dazed by it all.

She has become a unifying force for the Cuban exile communities in the United States. There are rallies and parades in her honor all over the country; women’s clubs are renamed to pay tribute to her. This celebration at Madison Square is the largest outdoor public reception since the end of the Civil War. There must be seventy-five thousand people in the crowd this evening, an impressive number even if it is short of Hearst’s goal of one hundred thousand attendees.

The park is the perfect location for this gathering, surrounded by stately buildings, its proximity close to the theater district, Madison Square Garden, the headquarters of the Democrats and the Republicans, and Delmonico’s.

Above the Worth monument, the Journal has erected an enormous electric sign with a message of welcome for Evangelina.

Hearst organized this celebration with the precision and passion of a mother marrying her daughter off to a supreme catch. Then again, who would expect less from a man who loves and appreciates the theater as much as Hearst does?

I hang back in the crowd watching as Evangelina stands onstage next to her noble rescuer, Karl Decker, who has been firmly cemented as the hero of the tale, his bravery and daring lauded in terms as though he is a courtly knight avenging a fair maiden. Beyond the tales of chivalry printed in black ink, there are rumors that Karl and Evangelina are more than appearances seem, and from what I saw the day he visited her at the Waldorf-Astoria, it’s clear they are close. I can’t help but wonder what his long-suffering wife thinks of the whole business, if she is worried they are carrying on the torrid affair critics hint at, if it pains her to see her husband standing beside such a beautiful young woman while the world heaps praise upon them, adding insult to injury.

And what woman could compare to the paragon we have created in Evangelina? Can the real Evangelina even measure up to this caricature of herself?

The Journal gushes about her poise, her beauty, the fact that she’s familiar with the works of Victor Hugo. One hundred thousand coins have been minted with her profile and the Cuban coat of arms. Who could live up to such a lofty standard?

While Evangelina is celebrated in New York, in Cuba, they now estimate that half a million people have perished at the hands of the Spanish.

The Spanish prime minister gave a scathing interview about Evangelina’s rescue, deriding the American government for being less powerful than the newspapers. It was likely intended to be a criticism, but for Hearst, I’m not sure there is higher praise one can give.

I stand near the back of the crowd, pen and paper in hand, jotting down my observations of her for both the book we’re working on together and one of the many articles I’m sure I will write commemorating the occasion.

Despite all of the conversations we’ve had now, I still haven’t figured out what to make of Evangelina. I like her; I think it is impossible not to with her easy manner, but there are layers that leave me feeling as though I’ve merely scratched the surface. She is both the ingenue others imagine her to be and someone who has shown immense political savvy.

I wouldn’t call us friends, yet. Despite the moments when we speak, my role as a journalist too often invites her to put up her guard. If things were different between us, would we be friends in another life?

Perhaps.

The sound of footsteps comes up behind me, and then I am greeted by a familiar hint of cologne.

I stiffen, the memory of that mortifying night at the Metropolitan Opera House rushing back to me.

He settles beside me, without a greeting, his gaze like mine fixed on the stage in front of us.

“So this is the face Will hopes will launch a thousand ships,” Rafael muses.