The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,105
corner of my eye, I spy Evangelina standing nearby, and I excuse myself from the group and walk over to greet her.
In a way, she feels like an old friend given how much of her life she has shared with me. We’ve kept in touch, exchanging letters throughout the months.
“It’s lovely to see you again,” I say. “Although, I’d rather it be under happier circumstances.”
“Yes. It is a tragic thing that happened to those men.” Her gaze drifts from me to the circle of reporters where Hearst holds court. “I overheard what you were all talking about. Do you really think this will bring about the war?”
“I don’t know. Hearst certainly does.”
“A war between the United States and Spain is beginning to feel like the only way I will be able to go home.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to be in exile, to have your entire life on hold while you wait to see what will happen to your country, while you wonder if your family is safe, if they are alive.
She spoke less of those things when I interviewed her for the book, but it was clear from her manner that she carried a great deal of worry on her shoulders. The story we told was one of triumph over Spain, a rallying cry of vindication, but as obvious as it is that she’s relieved to be out of Recogidas, it’s clear that for Evangelina and so many of the other Cuban exiles, there is still another battle to be won.
After the fundraiser, the war discussion rages on with everyone placing their bets on whether or not we will enter the fray. The Journal does its part with endless coverage of the Maine and congressional debate, many newspapers doing the same, until finally, McKinley addresses Congress, asking for authorization to use military force if necessary.
For a week, the government debates the merits and potential pitfalls of such an action, until ultimately, they reach the same conclusion Hearst arrived at two years ago. He announces it jubilantly from the newsroom:
“We’ve declared war against Spain.”
* * *
—
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hearst so happy as he is when war is declared. I never thought of conflict as something to celebrate, especially after the tales my father carried about his experiences, but the Journal does so in its own inimitable fashion. Rockets are purchased and launched over the building. Hearst offers a thousand-dollar reward to any reader who supplies useful ideas on how to conduct the war. Of course, war means increased circulation, the need for people to stay informed. It was the Civil War that gave rise to the prominence of the newspaper in American society in the first place; people had to look somewhere to learn if their loved ones off fighting were alive or dead.
There are those who lay blame in our corner for leading the United States into war with Spain by stoking the fires and sensationalizing our coverage. One New York paper—the Evening Post—has gone so far as to call this the Journal’s war, an allegation Hearst scoffs at even as I worry that maybe we are partly responsible, that the stories I’ve written about Evangelina and Spanish atrocities have led us to the precipice of this point from which there is no return. Whatever our intentions, it is undeniable that we have written our articles from a certain perspective, pushing Hearst’s agenda to pull the United States into the conflict.
I spend most of my days in the newsroom now, writing more stories than I ever have before. The demand for the news we provide has never been so high, and the air is electric as we produce more and more content, trying to get the scoop on all the other papers. I look up from my seat at the typewriter one afternoon and I freeze—
Rafael stands in the entryway of Hearst’s office.
I haven’t seen him in months, since that kiss on New Year’s, and the sight of him now, when I have slept little, my hair falling out of its coiffure, ink stains on my face and arm—I barely resist the urge to duck behind my typewriter so he can’t see me.
I watch him over the typewriter, his discussion with Hearst too far away for me to make out what they’re saying. The two men shake hands, and Rafael turns to leave, stopping as our gazes meet across the newsroom.
I swallow, my nerves getting the best of me. When I envisioned seeing