The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,44
to govern itself, that we no longer accept their interference in our affairs. It is time for independence.”
* * *
—
Mateo and I walk home from the meeting, his arm slung around my shoulders.
Our daughter Isabella is back with his mother Luz at the little house we built. I can’t remember the last time it was just the two of us. It almost feels like it used to be before we were married, before we had Isabella, when we used to sit beside each other and discuss the writings of José Martí, reciting the lines from Versos Sencillos from memory.
It has made our love easier, certainly, that we both have the same wishes for Cuba, that we see the world the same way. I cannot imagine loving someone who disagreed with me on the fundamental character of our nation and our selves. There are some things that are too important to be ignored, and in this fight, we must all do our part.
“Do you think what they said tonight is true—that we are to have war once more?” I ask him.
I was a small child when Spain defeated us in the Little War, the year-long conflict organized by the veterans of the prior fight for independence. This is to be our third attempt, and if we are not successful, I fear we will only embolden the Spanish to forever see us as their property.
“I think everyone is ready. Martí, Maceo, Gómez, and the others have been in exile. I’m sure they’re eager to return to Cuba and conclude this fight, to see our Cuban flag fly proudly. Aren’t we all desperate to be free?”
“Will you join them if they fight?” I ask Mateo.
“How can I not? I can’t stand by and watch my countrymen sacrifice their lives for something I believe in, too.”
“If you go to war, then I want to go with you.”
“Marina. No.”
“You said it yourself. How can I stand by and watch my countrymen sacrifice their lives for something I believe in and do nothing? They will need nurses in the camps. There will be roles for women to fill; there has to be. It’s our Cuba, too, and we deserve to represent her as much as you do. If we are to fight under a united flag, if we are to stand a chance of defeating the Spanish, then we must all work together to do so. We are stronger if we are united, if we do not allow the Spanish to divide us.”
“And Isabella? My mother cannot care for her on her own. Your family doesn’t even know she exists. Marina, I know how you feel about Cuba. But we both cannot leave her.”
I cannot imagine watching others fight this war for me, for other women to sacrifice and struggle while I stay home in our little farm. There has to be some good I can do for Cuba while still caring for Isabella, some change I can make within the life I have chosen, that I may be of service somehow.
“When will you leave?” I ask him.
“When the revolutionaries cross over into our province. It may be some time before I can join them, for them to make their way to the western side of the island, but when they do, I will be ready. I don’t want to leave you. But I promise, when this is all over we will be together again.”
I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of the countryside at night, the animals creating their own melody. When I open them again, the starlit sky shines down on us, Cuba in all of her splendid glory.
“Then I pray it shall be a quick war,” I reply.
* * *
—
“Where is Papi?” Isabella asks me as we walk near the Havana harbor together one morning in May.
She keeps her voice low, as she’s already learned the valuable lesson of discretion in the camp. We speak little of her father, a fact that pains me greatly. Before reconcentration, I attempted to keep him alive for her by telling her stories about our life together, trying to remind her of better times when we were all a family. I worry that she’s so young that she’s struggling to remember him, that if—when—he comes home, it will be difficult for us to resume our lives together, to slip into the roles we’ve played for so long. This war has changed so much that it’s nearly impossible to believe we will come out