The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(69)
I’ve finished my part of the book over the course of a few conversations with Grace, and now she’s writing it all down, including events like this one and the reception at Madison Square. It feels strange that a story of my life should end at twenty years old, as though I will forever be defined by this one part of my life. I wish I could have ended the story with something inspiring, a grand triumph, me returning home to a free Cuba, but there is so much that is uncertain right now.
This is to be a smaller reception than the one Hearst had for me in New York, but I think the very intimacy of it almost makes it more frightening. There’s anonymity to be had in a crowd of people, at least. Still, perhaps it will give me a greater opportunity to advocate for American assistance for Cuba.
The carriage pulls up in front of the White House, and we are escorted to one of the reception rooms where we are to meet President McKinley. Everything is so grand in this country—at least to me. Grace and Mrs. Logan seem perfectly at home despite the formal circumstances.
“You’ll wait here for the president,” the usher tells us.
I try to remember my lessons on comportment that now feel like they were a lifetime ago, keeping my back straight and head held high. I still my hands, the desire to fidget running through me. I have become so many different versions of myself these last few months, years even, that I scarcely recognize which one is truly me: the young girl who stayed up late speaking to her father about politics, the woman who cared for him, who fought for his freedom, the woman who was loved by Emilio Betancourt, the notorious prisoner, the saint, the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba.
All I know is that I have certainly come a long way from Recogidas.
Karl moves up beside me, his presence instantly calming me. I can’t imagine what I would do without his friendship. In addition to being my rescuer, he is one of the few people in this country who truly understands what I have been through. He saw the prison and the conditions we lived in. Without him, I might be halfway to Ceuta by now.
“Are you nervous?” he whispers.
I nod.
He flashes me a devastating smile. He certainly looks handsome today.
“Just be your wonderful self and you’ll capture their hearts as you have the rest of America,” he says.
I flush. “You’re too kind to me.”
“Just being honest.”
I’ve heard the whispers about us, the insinuation that there is something more between me and Karl than mere friendship, even though he is a married man. Maybe there’s affection in his eyes when he looks at me, but when you’ve been through an experience like we have, you’ll always have a special connection. I count myself lucky to be his friend.
The whispers, though, are dangerous to my future. The American people love me now because they see me as some paragon of virtue, but should my reputation become besmirched, I doubt they would support me as they have.
As much as I am grateful to be free, I wish nothing more than to return home, to the life I had with my father and sisters, when we were happy and I knew nothing of the things one hears in the dark moments of night in a place like Recogidas.
I am not the girl they want me to be. You cannot see the things I have seen or live them and be the innocent they all toast.
It is an elaborate fairy tale, and everyone looks to me to play my part.
Karl reaches out and surreptitiously takes my hand, the folds of the skirt of my gown hiding the motion from view. He links our fingers for a moment and squeezes, as though he can transfer some of his strength to me.
He releases me as quickly as he clasped my hand.
An announcement fills the reception room—
“The president!”
President McKinley walks into the room.
His demeanor seems kind, and something about his manner puts me at ease. He looks every inch the gentleman.
Mrs. Logan takes my hand and, amazingly, presents me to the president as though there is some honor in making my acquaintance.
I open my mouth to thank him for all his country has done for me, to tell him of how dire the situation is in Cuba, and how much we could use the Americans’ help against Spain, but the moment overwhelms me, the words rushing through my head. I feel as though I am floating, hovering above my body, watching someone else take my place.
“On behalf of the women and children of Cuba, who are helpless at the moment, I implore the government of the United States to protect them. The men are left to their own devices as they wage war in the fields, but the women and children are the victims of the horrible atrocities going on. The women and children in Cuba are on their hands and knees begging you to help them.”
The president gives a faint nod at my words and moves on with a smile, Grace behind me, scribbling down more notes on her pad. Sometimes the more I talk, the more I think she sees through the mask I have cultivated, that she understands in a way maybe no one else does, not even Karl. For he wears the role of protector with joy, as though it is a mantle he adopts proudly. But for us women, everything is more complicated. We choose the faces we must wear out of necessity, and I have a feeling Grace, who keeps her head down living in other people’s lives, knows a thing or two about that.
After my official presentation to President McKinley, we are led to yet another reception—the first of many in my future. Mr. Hearst plans for me to travel the country, speaking to the different groups who have supported my cause.
When George Eugene Bryson told me that his employer had taken an interest in my cause, that they were going to see me released from prison, I never envisioned this being the outcome—me touring the country, telling my story, reliving that night with Berriz. He has made me famous, a rallying cry, and the part of this that sees me cast as a victim hasn’t settled well with me. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever truly be free of what Berriz did to me that night if I am constantly having to perform my pain for others.