The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,74

A. Logan. I’m told she writes on women’s issues for the Journal, and her excitement and energy are infectious. Grace and the others trail behind us, noting my reactions to everything.

I dressed carefully for the morning in head-to-toe black. The somber color feels like a balm, the simplicity of it calming.

The reporters pepper me with questions, their pens and pads at the ready. The woman—Grace—says little, but she has the sort of eyes that seem to take in everything. She must see the nerves in my face, because she offers me a smile that puts me a little more at ease.

After breakfast, the Journal staff takes me on a tour of the city. Everything in America is done on a grand scale: the wide streets, the elegant carriages, the soaring buildings that tower over us. Even the brass buttons on the policemen’s uniforms gleam. The people who aren’t in carriages zip along on bicycles, and I find myself longing to try one, watching with envy the serene countenances of the many women navigating them.

I could get used to a life such as this one.

Every reaction to the sights appears to be catalogued by the Journal staff, from the words I say to the sketches of my face as I’m presented with some new and exciting thing. It’s a bit odd to feel as though your entire life is on display. Before Berriz attacked me, I lived a perfectly ordinary life. It’s a bit overwhelming to go from that to this strange celebrity that has been thrust upon me. At the same time, considering how they saved me and the debt I owe them, it seems a small thing to let them sketch my picture and to answer their questions.

When I remain still while they capture my image, I seek out the female reporter—Grace—my gaze settling on hers. I imagine I see understanding in her eyes; no doubt in her line of work as a journalist she’s used to being an oddity.

I am once again a novelty to be stared at, but at least I am no longer behind the bars of Recogidas, men jeering at me on the other side of a cage.

I am free, and if this is the price, so be it.

* * *

—

After a few days in New York, I ask my new friends to take me to the Naturalization Bureau in the Supreme Court of the State of New York where I swear on a Bible my intention to become an American citizen.

“You will have to renounce the sovereignty of any foreign powers, including the queen regent of Spain,” the clerk cautions me, as though this is a difficult endeavor, when what started all of this trouble was my reluctance to accept Spanish rule.

A laugh bubbles up inside me. “That will be the easiest part of all,” I assure the man, struggling to maintain a straight face in keeping with the solemnity of my surroundings.

They tell me it will take five years before I am a full-fledged American citizen, but with one hand on the Bible and the other stroking the red, white, and blue of the American flag, I feel protected.

Let Spain try and come for me now.

When we are finished in the courthouse, a mob descends upon us as we walk down the stairs. My face has been on the cover of the New York papers for so long now that I am recognized everywhere I go in the city, yet another part of my new life that will take some getting used to. The American public has known me for months, but this is still novel for me, and it’s a bit overwhelming to navigate this change with all eyes upon me.

To that end, Mr. Hearst, the editor of the newspaper that has secured my release, has suggested I write a book telling my story, so I can share it with the rest of the country.

That afternoon, I sit with Grace and a woman from one of the Cuban relief societies in the living area of my suite at the Waldorf-Astoria.

“Mr. Hearst would like me to help you write about your experiences,” Grace says. “He thought you might be more comfortable talking to a woman considering what happened to you.”

“At this point, it hardly seems there is anyone who hasn’t heard the terrible details of Berriz’s attack.”

“True. We thought this might be an opportunity for you to tell your story since so much has been written about you, but nothing written by you.