The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(98)
“It didn’t feel like enough—the article,” Grace says. “I suppose it never does. I wish it could do more.”
“We do what we can,” I reply, because if I’ve learned anything in this time of infamy, it’s that no matter how much attention you receive, you are merely one person—and a woman at that—in a world that’s forever changing against your will.
“How was Cuba?” I ask her, because my biggest fear is that we are going home to a country I will no longer recognize.
“The people—it’s clear war has taken its toll on them. We saw refugees fleeing the affected cities, in desperate straits. There was death. Disease.”
It is as I feared, then.
“Let us speak of happier things, for a moment, though,” Grace says as though sensing my distress. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Considering the attention that surrounded every aspect of your life, I’m surprised and impressed that you were able to keep much of it from the press. I imagine Hearst would have liked nothing more than to publish a picture of you in your wedding dress on the front page of the Journal.”
“I fear the gown would have disappointed him. It was not nearly as grand as the one the newspaper bought for me for the reception in Madison Square.”
“It would have been a fitting addition for your book—you’ve come full circle, marrying one of the men who rescued you. It’s something out of a fairy tale.”
“I think we both know by now that the fairy tale is just a pretty story you tell to make people happy. I am happy, though, and that is enough.”
“Will you return home now that the war is over?”
“We will. My husband is an officer in General Lee’s staff. They’re sending the Seventh Army Corps to Cuba to maintain law and order and protect property interests on the island.”
“Does that bother you?” she asks. “The Americans having a military presence there?”
The truth is complicated.
Much of the friendship between my husband and General Lee stems from General Lee’s interest in investing in Cuba now that Americans have such a strong presence on the island. And at the same time, while I wish for autonomy, I can’t ignore how gracious and welcoming the Americans have been to me. I’ve also learned something in all of this—how badly I want to survive.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
“I had heard that your husband enjoyed a friendship with General Lee,” Grace replies. “The former consul presumably has many contacts in Havana. As does Carlos.” She hesitates, and I can see that whatever she is going to say next, this is the real reason for her asking to see me. “I need a favor.”
“Of course. After all you have done for me, I would be honored to repay your kindness.”
“There is a woman in Recogidas. I believe you know her, too, as does your husband. Her name is Marina Perez. She passed messages to you from Karl Decker before you escaped.”
For a moment, I am transported back to the prison, to the little area where I used to write letters for the other prisoners. To the woman with the excellent posture and the worn hands.
“Yes. She helped rescue me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her.”
“Months after you left Cuba, she was imprisoned by the Spanish for her part in an espionage plot. They’ve also accused her of other crimes. I believe she was working for your husband as a courier at the time. I promised her I’d help get her out. The Americans have control of Recogidas now. Can Carlos appeal to General Lee to get her released?”
“I will do everything in my power to make it so.”
“Thank you.”
Our meal passes by quickly, and we say good-bye outside of Delmonico’s, leaving me to wonder if our paths will ever cross again. It seems unlikely, but then again, life has carried me in many surprising directions.
We embrace, then I turn away from her and walk along the busy New York street, and where I once couldn’t walk in the city without being mobbed by people, now all is quiet and no one recognizes me. The newspapers have moved on to other scandals and intrigues, and I am forgotten.
It feels good to be free of everyone’s expectations and to simply be myself.
I am no longer “the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba.”
Forty-Seven
Grace
After my lunch with Evangelina, I walk down Park Row. The giant war signs are being dismantled by groups of men.
It’s a busy day on the streets, the newsboys hawking their papers, bicycles moving in and out of traffic.
Without the war fever driving us, a strange pall has set over the city. The United States has lost five thousand military men who perished in the conflict. Hearst has returned from Cuba in a state of depression, and he is far from alone. Many are fatigued and haunted by the memories of the war, some coming back with tropical fever and other ailments, yellow fever and malaria haunting specters that loom over the victorious.
Financially, the Journal is in a similar state, its coffers emptied by the expense of bringing our readers the news in such an exuberant fashion. And still, Hearst satisfied his chief aim:
His circulation is unmatched, Hearst claiming that one and a quarter million people read the Journal.
Was it Evangelina that started all of this, the hundreds of columns we wrote about her leading to this moment? Or was it the desire to “Remember the Maine”? To avenge those lost voices? Or in the end, was our thirst for expansion too great to be ignored? Was this truly about the Cuban people, or was Rafael right to be cynical all along, and was this really about investment opportunities and money? I’d like to think our better angels rule us, but I’m not sure what I believe anymore.