The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,124
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.
So many point the finger at us, at the unscrupulous work of yellow journalism, but as I look back at each individual decision we made, I don’t know what I would have done differently. It’s easy to view events with the benefit of hindsight, but in the moment, when a young woman was being imprisoned, when a country was being destroyed, what were we to do? Who can stand by and say nothing when hundreds of thousands are massacred? It is undeniable that mistakes were made, but we did what we did with the best of intentions or so I’d like to think.
I have to hope it is enough.
I head toward the Journal offices for the last time to pick up my final paycheck. I’m taking a risk walking away, but between the money left to me from my father and the money I’ve saved since I began working here, it’s enough to give me the courage to take the chance.
A lump fills my throat as I make my way up to the newsroom, to the familiar shouts and sounds of typewriters pinging away.
After I’ve picked up my payment for the Recogidas article, for a moment, I stop and take it all in. This is where my journalism career truly began, and even though it feels like it’s