The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(78)

I slip down one of the side streets and flatten myself against the wall. A woman hurries past me, but she doesn’t spare me a glance.

I wait a beat, and then two, but no one else comes down the street.

Quickly, I go through the linens, safeguarding the letter, my palms damp as a line of sweat forms on my brow.

If I am caught . . .

I peek around the corner of the street, hoping the soldiers have moved on.

They’re still there.

The longer I stand here, the more I risk drawing someone’s notice when they pass by. And if something happens to Escoto on his way to New York City with the original letter, then this is our best chance at undermining the Spanish.

I walk out into the street.

This time, I don’t duck my head, and when the soldiers’ gazes settle on me, I meet their eyes. Better to look as though I have nothing to hide. The fear I can’t quite strike from my expression hopefully adds to the impression that I am just a woman, struggling, intimidated by the soldiers and their weapons.

I walk past them, my shoulders squared, a chill sliding down my spine.

Please don’t stop me. Please don’t stop me.

“What do you have there?” one of the soldiers calls out to me.

My heart sinks.

I turn slowly and face him.

I’ve no doubt the blood has rushed from my face.

“Linens, sir. I do some extra washing for those who need it.” I bite down on my lip. “I’m in the camp, you see, and the good citizens of Havana have given us jobs to earn a bit of extra money.”

He doubtless knows all of this, but the reminder of our plight, of the toll the war has taken on women seems to shame him slightly, and he nods and gestures for me to pass him by.

I take another step, when—

“Let us have a look at those linens,” one of the other soldiers calls out.

He strides toward me, none of the sympathy I saw in the first soldier’s expression on him.

I hand him the linens wordlessly, tears welling in my eyes.

I offer a prayer to God that he will see me through this.

The soldier searches through the linens I meticulously folded, sullying them with his dirty hands.

Dread fills me.

He thrusts the linens back at me.

“You can go now.”

I nod meekly and move away from him, struggling to keep my pace steady, to refrain from breaking into a run as my body desperately wishes.

When I reach the consul’s residence, I quickly reach into my dress and pull out the folded letter, nestled between my breasts.

I shove it back between the linens.

The housekeeper opens the door, and I hand the laundry to her.

“See that it goes to Consul General Lee.”



* * *



—

In the days that follow, the de L?me letter makes the international stir Carlos craved. In the end, the message I delivered to the American consulate in Havana wasn’t needed, as Gustavo Escoto made it to New York safely and delivered the original letter to the Junta there, who immediately did what they do best and passed it on to the New York newspapers for publication.

Despite the outrage, there still hasn’t been an official declaration of war from the Americans.

I walk back from Carlos’s residence once more after delivering another message to him. In the aftermath of the publication of the de L?me letter, he’s only become more intent in his desire to force a war between the United States and Spain.

It’s a warm night as I stroll along the water, the air still and heavy, the sky overcast.

Havana is the city of my childhood, and being here has brought back so many memories of what it was like before Mateo. While I have no regrets for the choices I’ve made, I can’t deny a sense of nostalgia.

It’s the second day of Carnival in the city, and even though it is nearly ten o’clock in the evening, there’s a festive energy in the air, so different from life in the camp.

I walk along the harbor, gazing at the giant American warship resting there. The Maine is the largest ship in the water, its presence a stark reminder of America’s might and their complicated relationship with Cuba.

Suddenly, an impossibly loud noise rings out over the city, followed by a bright light shining over the harbor, and then the light disappears, and there is only darkness, and the sound of men’s screams and cries, dust and materials raining from the sky.

Bells ring out over the city, whistles blowing, an alarm sounding.

I run toward the water.





Thirty-Two





Grace


I sit hunched over the typewriter in the newsroom, begging the words to come. The story needs to be filed within the next hour, and for as short of a piece as it is, I shouldn’t be struggling this much. Still, with our comprehensive coverage, sometimes it’s difficult to not feel as though I am simply rehashing a story that has been told over and over again many times.

The de L?me letter has been a gift to Hearst presented not by the head of the Junta, but by Horatio Rubens, their lawyer. In this matter, it’s clear Tomás Estrada Palma wants to keep his hands as clean as possible. The entirety of the front page of the Journal was devoted to de L?me’s letter and a call for his dismissal from Washington. While the Junta’s lawyer gave us the facsimile of the original letter, the story is too big for the other newspapers to not run with it as well, and almost instantly, de L?me resigned from his post and headed back to Spain.