The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,121
survive years of this place.
As I walk to the Salon of Justice, women cry out around me, the sounds of their wails reverberating through the stone.
When we arrive at the room, I am surprised to see an unfamiliar blonde staring back at me.
She rises from her seated position and smiles, extending her hand to me. “My name is Grace Harrington. I’m a reporter for the New York Journal.”
Forty-Four
Grace
I will never forget the women I meet in Recogidas or the stories they share with me. Some were in the reconcentration camps for a time, others fought with the revolutionaries, and some were there because society chose to condemn them, labeling them as “unruly.” It was the prison Evangelina described to me in her nightmares, but I also saw a different layer to Recogidas, the women whose faces wouldn’t be splashed across newspapers, whose stories wouldn’t rally a nation behind them.
I spend a few days in Havana speaking to the women of Recogidas and touring some of the reconcentration camps.
And then the news comes—
There is to be an armistice. Spain has conceded. After four months, and only a few weeks of fighting, our war in Cuba is over.
Instead of returning to the United States as I planned, in the middle of July I travel with some of the Journal reporters to Santiago where on Sunday, July 17, Spanish forces officially surrender to the Americans under the leadership of General William Shafter.
We all watch the ceremony unfold before us from a remote distance.
Shafter has one thing in common with the Spanish—he, too, is suspicious of the press, and he’s banned reporters from the city.
Despite his best efforts, there are a handful or so of us here, hiding in plain sight, trying to get the best view of the ceremony taking place in the plaza outside the governor’s palace in Santiago. American and Spanish officials are present for the transfer of power, but there is no real Cuban presence here, and once again, it feels as though they’ve been shut out of determining the future of their own country.
We all watch as the Spanish colors come down, and just as a group of soldiers hoists up the Stars and Stripes, the World’s Sylvester Scovel comes up alongside them, trying to get a better view than the rest of us, flagrantly disobeying Shafter’s edict against reporters.
Shafter orders Scovel to step away, and when Scovel refuses, the major general takes a swing at him. Scovel instantly strikes back, and all hell breaks loose.
I can’t quite stifle the laugh that escapes.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” a voice asks behind me, and I turn at the familiar sound, joy filling me.
Rafael stands in front of me dressed in his American military uniform.
This time, I don’t hold back as I cross the distance between us, throwing my arms around him.
For a moment, I think I’ve caught him off guard, and then he gathers me in his embrace, his arms tight around me.
All around us, the fallout from Scovel’s interruption of the ceremony continues, and while I don’t doubt we’re drawing much attention, I also don’t have it in me to care.
Rafael is alive, and that’s all that matters.
He takes my hand and draws me a bit away from the crowd.
“I was so worried about you,” I say. “I feared something had happened to you.” I take a deep breath, and the words simply come out, and as I say them, I realize the truth of them—
“I love you.”
He leans down, conventions be damned, and kisses me, and it feels so right it takes my breath away.
“I love you, too,” Rafael whispers, before thoroughly kissing me again.
When he pulls back reluctantly, he smiles down at me and says, “I happen to have a yacht at the ready if you’re looking for a ride back to New York.”
* * *
—
I wake, Rafael sleeping soundly behind me. We made love almost immediately after we boarded his yacht, one of the many he used when he was involved with the filibusters, dining on a quick meal before reaching for each other once more.
Afterward, he fell instantly asleep, as though these past few weeks spent with the army have taken their toll on him. I stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, willing sleep to come, but when it’s clear it won’t, I sit down at the typewriter in Rafael’s stateroom and begin to write . . .
In Recogidas, the woman held her arms in the perfect