The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,110
I’m more at ease with him than I am with others, perhaps because of our shared past and the bond we have of Cuba between us. When you have a common love, there is an easy understanding between you.
He always speaks of Cuba as though his return is a certainty, the idea that the Americans will win the war undisputed, whereas I am more unsure, too easily disappointed to take for granted that I will one day be able to step foot on my homeland.
Carlos is handsome, educated, honorable, and in the conversations we have, I am reminded so much of my childhood and how I used to speak to my father about all sorts of things: politics, business, Cuba’s future. When I speak, Carlos listens, and it feels like he sees me not as Evangelina Cisneros, “the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba,” but as the woman I am now.
I don’t feel as alone when I am with him.
Carlos meets frequently with General Lee, discussing the war effort, and on his daily visits he always finds time to see me, to bring me flowers or sweets, a beautiful silk shawl I drape around my shoulders. In the time we spend together, he keeps me abreast of all the changes, the evolving conflict between the United States and Spain, treating me as an equal, and whereas I once feared that war would never come and we would languish under Spanish rule, I now worry that Carlos will be called to fight. I don’t think I can bear to have another person I care for taken from me.
One of my favorite pastimes is to go on afternoon walks with him in the garden after he has met with General Lee. It seems as though there is little we don’t discuss, and I am fascinated by all of the experiences he’s had, by his vast knowledge. I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a more interesting person.
“What do you plan to do when your visit with the Lees is over?” Carlos asks me as we take a turn about the garden. “Do you think you’ll stay in Virginia?”
“I suppose I’ll accompany Mrs. Logan and her daughter to Maryland.”
Mrs. Logan has become my guardian over this past year. The widow and her daughter have become like family, and I am grateful for the kindness they have shown me, but I still yearn for a place of my own—a family, a home, where I do not feel as though I am a guest, dependent on another’s generosity and goodwill.
“Will you be happy there with them?” Carlos asks me.
“I hope so. I imagine it will be very different from Cuba, but I must admit that I’m looking forward to taking a break from traveling the country and speaking about my experiences.”
“It must be difficult to relive such difficult memories over and over again.”
“It is. I am grateful for their support, and if my story can help inspire others to act for Cuba, then I am grateful for that, too, but it will also be nice to simply be myself for a while and to figure out what my future looks like.”
Carlos looks away from me for a moment, his gaze drifting to the edge of the garden. “I heard a rumor that you were engaged to a revolutionary back in Cuba. That he was exiled on the Isle of Pines as well.”
“I was.”
I don’t want to discuss Emilio Betancourt with him, don’t want to admit to the foolishness that had me believing in a man who betrayed me to the Spanish to save his own skin. Emilio is firmly in my past, and while I’m not exactly sure where Carlos belongs in my life, I don’t want to burden the friendship we’ve established with such memories.
“Is there any chance that the two of you might . . .”
His unfinished question lingers between us.
“No. None. He wasn’t the man I thought he was or the sort of man I could ever love. Those days are behind me now.”
“Then your affections are not spoken for?”
“Not at the moment,” I reply, struggling to keep my voice light.
We don’t speak for the rest of the walk.
* * *
—
One afternoon a few days later Carlos asks to meet me in the garden, and he greets me in his military uniform.
“Are you being sent to Cuba?” I ask, my heart pounding at the serious expression on his face.
We’ve had less than a month together, and as it was before, it feels as