The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,56
each of life’s transitions with our love and friendship to see us through any difficult times.
When we married, we vowed to never be parted.
How long will he be gone fighting for Cuba’s future?
Will he come home to me and our daughter or am I to join the ranks of so many who have lost their loved ones in this fight for independence?
“Marina.”
Mateo stops dressing, and moves to the edge of the bed. He reaches out and takes my hand, interlacing our fingers.
“Were you going to leave without saying good-bye?” I ask.
He squeezes my hand. “It’s hard enough leaving you and Isabella. I don’t know how to say good-bye.”
The emotion in his voice threatens the gossamer thin hold I have on my emotions. My tears, my pain will only make a difficult moment more unbearable.
Mateo leans in to me, resting his forehead against mine. We stay like that for a moment, our breath mingling, a heartbeat between us.
There’s so much I want to say, as though I could force the lifetime we were promised into this moment, as if I could account for the coming absence by filling this yawning space of grief.
What I fear most is the unknown—the life we will both lead in these ensuing days, weeks, months, years? And far at the end of this journey we must travel alone, there is the terror I cannot face, for the possibility of it is too horrible to even contemplate—
How will I exist in a world without him in it?
“I could go with you,” I say, the thought my constant companion. “I could join the impedimenta.”
The impedimenta, a noncombatant army, follows the revolutionaries and cares for their necessities; there are women among its ranks, most notably with General Maceo’s army, which my husband hopes to join. Maceo’s mother, Mariana Grajales, whose family was dedicated to Cuban independence, followed her son in combat during the Ten Years’ War at the age of sixty-three.
“And Isabella?” Mateo asks. “Would our daughter join the war, too?”
Even as he says it, I know my joining the fight is an impossible thing. Our daughter is still a child, and someone must stay behind to care for her, even if I yearn to do my part, too. Even as I hate being left behind. Even as I wish to fight for the free Cuba I believe in.
We’ve had this argument many times, my desire to do more in this war, to help my fellow countrymen a source of mild friction between us. As much as Mateo says he understands the fire burning within me, as much as we share the common goal of seeing the Spanish defeated, I’m not sure he can understand the sensation of feeling trapped by virtue of your gender. Nor can he understand the pulls between a mother’s love for her child and her desire to fight for what she believes in.
But this morning is not the time for such a discussion, our good-bye imminent, so instead I say, “I love you,” leaving the rest unsaid between us.
“I love you, too,” he replies. “Always.”
There’s power in his words, and in the knowledge that in this world where so much is uncertain, our love is the constant that I can rely upon.
“I have to go,” Mateo whispers, regret threading through his voice.
He leans up and presses a kiss to my forehead, and somewhere in the middle I meet him halfway, our lips connecting.
I hold on to him, savoring the moment, keeping him close to me for as long as I can.
Mateo releases me slowly, and I sit up in the bed where we’ve made love countless times, the bed where Mateo held my hand as I brought our daughter into this world. I draw the blanket over me, watching him as he continues to dress, his movements quick and silent.
The penalty for insurrection is imprisonment or death, and these days, it’s hard to know who you can trust. We’ve spoken of Mateo’s plan to leave to no one but his mother, Luz, but I’m still afraid someone will see him sneaking out, terrified that he will not be able to evade the Spanish soldiers as he crosses by the forts they’ve established in his attempt to join the revolutionaries. Spain has long considered Cuba to be the pearl of their empire, and they’re desperate to retain control over our fortunes, their military on the island monitoring our movements for any sign of rebellion.
Mateo leans down and picks up the sack from the floor. “I