The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,76
for their freedom. I understand why the other men would do so, but it was hard to forgive Emilio for his betrayal. We were supposed to love each other for all of our lives. How do I reconcile such a loss of fidelity? He is not the patriot I thought he was. That part of my life is over now.”
“He sounds like he didn’t deserve you.”
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“We’ve heard stories, but I can’t imagine what it’s like in Cuba now, what it was like for you in Recogidas.”
“No, you couldn’t. I had no idea before they threw me in that cell how difficult it would be. Nothing in my life had prepared me for it. I think about the women I left behind, the ones I drugged so I could escape. Who will rescue them? Who will put their stories on the front page of the paper? Why was I saved when so many others aren’t?”
“I can understand how you would feel that way. The conditions those women are living in, the reports we’ve heard are abominable. Clearly, something needs to be done to end the suffering in Cuba. Mr. Hearst and others hoped that your story would incite the people of America to push harder for intervention against Spain.”
“It’s hard to believe my story could move America to act against the Spanish. I haven’t quite gotten used to the attention, to the sensation that people care about me. It’s a heady thing to have everyone looking to you. It’s a scary thing to make your way in this world alone,” I confess. “Being here is difficult. Everyone has been so kind, and done so much for me, but it is a terrifying thing to have an uncertain future,” I add. Even though she’s a reporter, there’s something in her manner, perhaps the fact that she is a woman left to her own devices to make it in this world, that makes me trust her where I otherwise would exercise caution. Or maybe I’m just too homesick to be prudent anymore. “I never imagined my life would end up like this. I never envisioned myself leaving Cuba, never wanted to. And then Berriz changed everything.”
She swears softly under her breath in a most unladylike manner that is oddly somewhat reassuring.
“You were treated horribly,” she says.
“I was. So many are in Cuba. Things are bad there. I don’t know how to explain it to people who have never known what it is to struggle like this. So many of the things we suffer must seem unbelievable to you and your countrymen.”
She squeezes my hand once more. “Tell me about Cuba, then, so that you can show them what it’s like. What would you like the women of America to know about you, about Cuba? You’ve had others tell your story for so long now. What do you want to say?”
Besides Carlos, she’s the first person who has really listened to me for so long, who has been curious about my thoughts and feelings rather than treating me like someone to be protected, that I can’t resist the urge to be honest.
“First off, the name they have given me—I’m not a ‘girl.’ I’m twenty years old and I am a woman. I am not a child who needs to be cared for. I have been caring for my family for a long time now.
“I was born in Puerto Príncipe, which is the capital of the province of Camagüey. I was raised by my father. My mother died when I was a very young girl. I don’t remember her, really, but everyone says she was very beautiful. When she died, it was like a piece of my father died as well. He was restless, morose. But in her absence, he relied a great deal on me and my sisters, and we cared for him, cooking and keeping the house. And in turn, he never treated me like a child, as though I needed to be sheltered from the world. We used to stay up late in the evening and he would talk to me about all sorts of things: Cuba, politics, his time spent as a soldier in the first war for independence. He loves Cuba very much, and I always admired him for his willingness to sacrifice his life for his country. I can think of no greater love for a proud patriot.”
Tears swim in Grace’s eyes, the force of the emotion staring back at me catching me off