The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,107

contributed to the book and twisted my words and life to fit their purposes. If I’ve learned anything from Mr. Hearst, it’s to give the people what they want, so I’ve given them the version of me they desire, said nothing as others have published stories about my life that are more fiction than anything else.

My survival depends on the goodwill I earn.

As grateful as I am for the Americans’ love and support, for getting me out of that wretched place, it feels like everyone wants something from me, as though everyone has an expectation of who they think I should be, and I live forever fearful that I will do something to disappoint them, that I won’t measure up to the pedestal they’ve placed me on, that one day they’ll realize I’m just a woman, not “the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba,” or the rest of it. Sometimes, I wish I could be myself, something apart from this spectacle we have created.

Around me, the world is changing so swiftly it feels as though I have nothing steady to hold on to.

I am surrounded by many, and yet, I am utterly and irrevocably alone.

My father was liberated by General Blanco from the Aldecoa prison hospital months ago after Weyler was recalled to Spain, but they say he is mentally and physically destroyed by the ordeal. I think of him and my sisters constantly, worry I’ll never see them again.

In April, I travel to Richmond, Virginia, to the home of Consul General Lee and his wife. This trip is a welcome respite from my official duties, but the question that lingers—what happens next?—remains at the forefront of my mind. The money raised from my book sales will support me for some time, but eventually the touring will end, and I’ll have to find a place to call my own. Now that the Americans have declared war, I can’t help but wonder when I’ll be able to return home.

Some say that it will be a quick war, that once the United States puts their military might into the conflict, Spain will have little chance of survival. Still, it’s been months since the Maine exploded in the Havana Harbor, and considering how much is at stake in Cuba, they can’t move quickly enough.

While I hope to relax a bit in the company of friends, I can’t deny a desire to glean any information that I can about the Americans’ position toward Cuba. As the highest-ranking American in Cuba, Consul Lee is well-informed and certainly privy to sensitive and important details.

After we have reunited and caught up on one another’s lives, they lead me to the room where I’ll be staying.

I rest for a few hours and then dress carefully for the evening reception they’ve planned in my honor, selecting one of my finest gowns, which I’ve routinely worn for my speaking engagements. With a moniker like “the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba,” the pressure to make sure my physical attributes shine has been great.

When I descend downstairs, I am greeted by a beaming Mrs. Lee, her husband standing beside her with a gleam in his eyes.

“We have someone who very much wishes to make your acquaintance again, as it has been some time since you last saw each other,” Consul General Lee says.

They both step aside, and I hear my name in a voice I’ve never forgotten—

“Evangelina.”

For a moment, I am too overcome with emotion to speak.

Carlos Carbonell, the man who helped rescue me from Recogidas, who sheltered me in his home for those days before I boarded the Seneca, stands before me.

He is as I remembered him—tall and handsome—and different still, dressed in a grand American military uniform.

He takes my hands, squeezing them, leading me a little way from the rest of the party so we are off to the side a bit, falling into Spanish between us, our conversation private from that of the rest of the room.

“I’ve thought of you often,” I say. “I confess, I never imagined I’d see you again.”

He smiles at me. “You don’t know how many days I thought of you and wondered how you were faring, if you were well. You look beautiful. Happy, healthy.”

The hollows in my cheeks have filled out a bit since my escape from Recogidas, my body slowly returning to normal even if it takes longer for my mind to catch up. I am still plagued by dreams, random scents or sounds taking me back to those days in Recogidas, to