The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(76)
I’m afraid to acknowledge the emotion that accompanies his words, for it almost feels a lot like—
Relief.
The music around us changes to the familiar strands of “Auld Lang Syne.”
A lump forms in my throat.
“This song always makes me so sad,” I say, feeling a little silly for confessing such a thing to Rafael, even as tears fill my eyes, the lyrics swelling within me, the singers’ voices joining in unison.
“Why?”
“It always feels like the end of something.”
“Or the beginning.”
I stop walking and look up at him.
Behind us, the crowd is chanting now, the new year upon us. And still, even with Hearst’s amazing feat as an electrical impulse sends the flag of Greater New York up the staff of the flagpole on City Hall playing out for the crowd, the hundred-gun salute, the skyrockets, and cheers of one hundred thousand spectators, I don’t tear my gaze away from Rafael as he bends down, a question in his eyes, and I offer him a jerky nod, an answer I didn’t know I was going to give, and his lips swoop down on mine, ringing in the New Year with a kiss that stretches on longer than is proper, longer than the tradition calls for.
Instead, my mouth opens to his, my arms leaving my sides, moving as of their own volition, wrapping around his neck, pulling him down to me, my body coming alive with his touch. He groans against my mouth, leaving me no question of the force of his desire, his hands running over my curves, pulling me up against the hard length of his body.
When I finally pull back, I cannot speak, my heart racing, an ache settling in my bones, my first kiss nothing short of extraordinary.
We square off across from each other while all around us the city rejoices the new year.
What have I done?
Rafael recovers first, leaning into me, the lips that I just feasted on hovering near my ear. His mouth grazes my skin, and a tremor racks my body.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers.
I shudder as his mouth brushes against me once more, and my knees nearly buckle as I reach out, grabbing on to the only steady thing I can find for purchase—Rafael’s arms.
“When someone tells me I can’t have something I desperately want, I do everything in my power to make it mine. I won’t kiss you again if you don’t want it, but I’m going to try my damnedest to make sure you do.”
Well.
“I’m not interested,” I say, even as a part of me very much wishes to pick up where we left off.
He smiles. “Of course you aren’t. Happy New Year, Grace.”
With those parting words, he leaves me staring after him in the crowd once more, thinking 1898 just got off to a very unexpected start.
1898
Thirty-One
Marina
While we were unified in our hatred for Weyler, now that he is gone and the more moderate Blanco is in his place, the promise of autonomy dangling before us, many Cubans have deserted to the Spanish side. While a great number of my countrymen are willing to flock to the Spaniards now, I cannot move past my anger at what they have done to our country and my belief that if we do not assert our independence, they will destroy us.
In November of 1897, after I sent Isabella away, Weyler’s replacement, Ramón Blanco, offered an end to reconcentration and an opportunity for farmers and other classes of workers to return to their homes. On paper, Blanco’s order put an end to reconcentration, but the reality has proven to be much different. Most of the reconcentrados are too sick or unwell to make the journey to their homes, little to nothing waiting for them when they do. Instead, many, including myself and Luz, have stayed in Havana, waiting out the end of this horrible war.
The Spanish have tried giving credit to the provinces and providing military support to the reconcentrados when they return to their homes in the countryside, but everything the Spanish offer is far too little, far too late. They cannot undo the piles and mounds of corpses that have plagued us since Weyler sent us to these godforsaken camps.
Besides, how can I leave, when I am needed in Havana.
In my more desperate moments, I try to remind myself that things are different now, that the Spain we fought during the Ten Years’ War is not the Spain we face now. They are weaker, and running out of resources, and surely the longer this continues on, the better chance we have. Or so I hope. They’re not just fighting a war in Cuba, but also an insurgency in the Philippines, and the Spanish public must grow weary of the toil of waging war on two fronts.
Unfortunately, we are worn down by the war effort, too. Isabella’s cough has improved, and she is flourishing at my parents’ home, but the toll of being away from her has certainly made my days harder, and as desperately as I wish I could have her back with me, she’s better off with the comfort and security they can provide her. I’ve only seen her a handful of times in person, mostly when she is playing in the backyard. A few times I’ve gone by the house and as I’m leaving discovered food left for me near the entrance.
Months after he is recalled to Spain, Weyler’s specter continues to loom over our island. For as grateful as I and others like me were to see him go, many of those loyal to Spain have viewed his dismissal as a harbinger of awful things to come. In the wake of international condemnation, political changes at home, and the ongoing war, the Spanish have offered colonial reforms and a degree of home rule for Cuba. Those loyal to Spain view any autonomy we are granted from Spain as a closer move toward independence, and they fear their reduced position under such circumstances. To that end, there have been riots in Havana, and the Americans have sent a great warship down to protect American interests on the island. Things have largely calmed down since the unrest last month, but the Maine lies in wait in the harbor. Its presence is a tricky thing—Blanco has made an effort to downplay it so as to not increase the tensions or to stoke the unease in the Habaneros. At the same time, it has been a source of great interest, with many touring the mighty American ship—including some Spaniards.