The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,93
States speaking to various groups, rallies, and parades thrown in her honor in an attempt to garner support for Cuban independence.
He published the book of her account of her life and rescue that I helped write. My name was never mentioned as a contributor, and the woman on the pages is more identifiable as a saint than a human being, the words I wrote with her eventually rewritten and altered by numerous other editors and authors until I hardly recognized them myself. Just as much of her life has been co-opted by the press, the words contained there were no longer hers or mine, but a carefully and elaborately curated attempt to shape public opinion. I was angry about it at first and sent a letter with my apologies to Evangelina, but in her response she seemed resigned to the whole affair. If working for Hearst has taught me anything, it’s to give the people what they want.
Tonight is no exception.
For the past few weeks, we’ve raided the coffers of the city’s most influential men asking for donations for the New Year’s event and we’ve solicited the participation of every marching band and civic group in the city for a parade from Union Square to City Hall, where the celebration culminates in the spectacle before me. There were prizes for the best floats, more fireworks than I can count, and the parade itself was billed as celebrating the unity and diversity of New York City. The Journal offices are ablaze with colored lights and illuminations and an oblong square arranged in stars and stripes.
Everything has been choreographed to perfection, except, of course, the one thing that even Hearst could not bend to his will:
The weather.
Rain falls heavily, the cold converting it into the occasional snowfall.
We briefly considered postponing but decided against it. It was the right call.
The weather hasn’t affected the crowds one bit. They came early and in droves. There must be a hundred thousand people here.
Mr. Hearst has taken this city, and all of its dirt and grime and misery and defeat, and transformed it with a flick of his elegant wrist.
And, of course, because he is Hearst, advertisements encouraging people to read the Journal are everywhere you turn.
The air pulses with magic, a heady excitement that spreads like contagion throughout the crowd as if for one night the entire city is on tenterhooks to discover what possibility awaits them in the new year. In this spectacle, this absurd, overly indulgent, perfect night, Hearst has given the people the essence of what the Four Hundred tried so desperately to manufacture in their drafty ballrooms. Tonight, out here beneath the exploding lights, is the beating heart of New York City, and I doubt there is a person among us who at this moment isn’t imagining all that could be if fortune would just turn its favor upon them.
Children laugh around me, their legs pumping as they run past to see whatever singular amusement is up ahead. Their parents call behind them, their voices laced with good-natured humor, the glee and wonder contagious. We exist in a sea of umbrellas, the elements be damned.
My fingers reach instinctively in my coat pocket for the pad of paper and pencil I keep there, the desire—need—to etch these moments into memory too powerful a lure to resist. I don’t trust my own ability to recall them, the champagne I’ve drunk altering my senses and loosening my limbs.
“I think I’d give up my entire fortune just to hear your thoughts right now.”
I whirl around at the familiar voice, at the confidence injected in each syllable that seems intrinsic to breathing.
Rafael stands before me wearing another impeccably tailored coat, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Your entire fortune? I find that very hard to believe. I assure you my thoughts aren’t worth nearly that much.”
“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. After all, it’s entirely in the eye of the beholder.”
Despite the cold, warmth seeps into my bones.
He takes a quick, sure step, and suddenly, we are no more than a breath apart. Rafael lowers his voice as though we are coconspirators sharing a secret. “Perhaps half, then. You’re right—I’m entirely too mercenary to give up everything.”
It takes everything in me to keep from retreating. He’s the sort of man that, if you cede an inch, will try for a mile.
And yet, he’s the one who ultimately takes a step back, putting distance between us once more even as his gaze turns speculative.