The Fountains of Silence (13 page)

25

Ringing.

It comes in intervals. It begins, stops, then begins again. Daniel’s eyes flutter. His body feels nailed to the bed, his limbs too heavy to lift. Just as his eyelids close, the shrill sound resumes. Drunken with sleep, he stumbles from the bed to the sitting room of the suite. Daylight peeks through the heavy drapes covering the sheers. He locates the phone and lifts the receiver.

“Daniel? Is that you,
cariño
?” His mother’s voice peals as shrill as the ringing.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve been calling and calling.”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

“It’s already midday,” she announces. “You must still be on Texas time.”

“Or maybe I’m more Spanish than we realized.”

“I called the front desk. They said that my telegram arrived.”

“I have it. I’ll go get it.”

“No, no,” says his mother. “It’s business, well, of the womanly sort. I know how you hate that kind of thing.”

She laughs. The fake laugh. The nervous laugh.

“You don’t need to open it, dear. There’s a cable office downstairs in the hotel. Take it there and have them forward it to me at the Hotel Alhambra in Valencia.”

Daniel yawns, looking back toward the bed. Fatigue pulls harder than curiosity.

“Did you hear me, Daniel? You don’t need to open it. I’ll be here waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll send it. Goodbye.” He stares at the bed. It beckons. Her voice is still chirping through the handset as he hangs up the phone.

More ringing.

Daniel looks from the pillow to the clock. He’s been asleep for two more hours. Anticipating his mother’s reprimand, he doesn’t answer the phone. Instead, he heads for the shower but stops midway. He sees the telegram on the table and recalls the urgency in his mother’s voice, along with Ana’s desire to deliver it.

It felt like it might be important
, said Ana.

You don’t need to open it
, his mother insisted.

Daniel retrieves his camera. He snaps a picture of the telegram on the side table, the stormed bed looming in the background. He sets down his camera and picks up the telegram.

And then he opens it.

26

Miedo
. Fear.

It lingers in the blood. Of that, Rafa is sure.

He arrives at
el matadero
, the cavernous slaughterhouse, and changes into his issued work clothes: white pants; white shirt; white apron; and wooden clogs. The same clothes are worn for the entire workweek. On the sixth day, employees bring their uniform, stiff and rank with decay, home to wash.

Each Sunday, Rafa rises with the sun. He carries the galvanized tub to the well. Using castile soap and lemons, he scrubs at the scents and smears of blood, feces, and innards living in the clothes. He watches the remnants of death seep from the fabric into the water. When he is finished, the tub is a bath of muddy chestnut, the clothes closer to their original selves, and the apron a pale shade of dead blood that smells like citrus.

Fuga says there is good death and bad death. Fear brings bad death, it leaches into the organs and skin. Butchers claim it affects the product. Good death, peaceful or unaware, quickly separates the Holy Ghost from the suitcase of skin holding the bones.

The cemetery is full of bones. At first Rafa was afraid of them. Most are sealed in coffins, but there are mass pits with the poor and the older pits with the Protestants. The cemetery and slaughterhouse require Rafa to face his fear of death. That’s why he endures them. “You see, by facing fear, I am cleansing myself, straining my past of the horror that infects me,” he tells Fuga.

Each day, Rafa chooses a brave and happy smile. He faces fear and wins. The temporary victory is silent, but sings through his soul.

“Rafael!” his supervisor calls out to him. “Are you still trying to get to Talavera de la Reina for the bullfight?”

“
Sí
. The Sunday after next.”

“We have an offal transport to a cosmetics factory the day before. They might be able to drop you on the way.”

Rafa runs to his supervisor. “Is it confirmed?”

“Not yet, but if things fall into place you will arrive in Talavera de la Reina on Saturday night. Would you have a place to stay?”

“We’ll sleep outside.”

“Your
torero
will be okay with that?” asks the supervisor.

“You don’t know Fuga,” smiles Rafa. “But you will.
Por favor
, without transportation we’ll have to walk or hitchhike. We don’t have money for a bus.”

“What sort of promotion are you doing for this bullfight?”

“Word of mouth. Tell everyone you know that on Sunday next the people of Talavera de la Reina will witness history. They will see a star rise.” Rafa hears a rising swell of chants in his head. He must get to the cemetery and tell Fuga of the transport.

“But what’s his name? You can’t call a
torero
Fuga.”

Rafa pauses to think. His name? For years he’s answered only to “Fuga.”

His supervisor shakes his head. “If you want word to spread, start with his name. I’ll know something about the transport in a couple days. Now get to the floor.”

Rafa ties his apron and heads to work. An offal transport to a cosmetics factory. That means they’ll be sitting in the bed of a truck with heaps of animal brains, skin, hair, bones, hooves and whatever else is used to make cosmetics. Bad death, but better than walking.

His boss is right. Promotion for the bullfight is essential. Why didn’t he think of that? Word must spread about Fuga, the dark storm. He struggles, reaching into his memory for his friend’s birth name. The name does not return to him.

But the voices of the past do.

Do others in Spain have ghosts in the attic of their mind? Do they try to face them as he does? The door to the attic creaks constantly, beckoning Rafa with a long, crooked finger back to his childhood. Back to the war. On the dark attic stairs he passes buildings exploding with bombs, a man with a crater for a nose, bellies swollen with hunger, and the “brothers” from the boys’ home, rubbing their fat palms together.

Come closer, Rafa
.

They’re not real, he tells himself. You can beat them. At the top of the stairs is a whispering graveyard, full of unquiet bones and unmarked graves. His heart hammers. His body vibrates with sweat. None of this is real. It’s not real.

Come closer, Rafa. We have something to show you. Closer.

The crooked finger points to a small, wiggly mass on the ground. Sprouting from his father’s brains . . . is the flag of the Falange.

Boo.

I had a conversation with Ambassador Griffis before he left here and informed him that Franco’s attitude in these matters is exceedingly obnoxious to me. There was a time, and I think it still exists, when Protestants couldn’t have public funerals. They are forced to be buried at night and are allowed no markers for their graves. They are buried in plowed fields like potter’s fields. I think in these modern times when we are doing everything we possibly can for religious freedom that it is a very bad example to be set before the world.

—H
ARRY
S. T
RUMAN
, 33rd president of the United States

August 2, 1951, Memorandum from President Harry S. Truman to Secretary of State Dean Acheson

Acheson Papers—Secretary of State File

Truman Library Archives

27

Daniel walks back to the lobby, his mind tangled in the telegram he forwarded to his mother. The words in the message belong to their priest in Dallas. Father Brodd has been part of the family for decades.

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

—VIA CABLE

SENDER: CATHOLIC DIOCESE OF DALLAS

MRS. MARIA MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON MADRID

WILL FORWARD DOCUMENTATION REQUESTED. WITH RECENT MISFORTUNE URGE REFLECTION AND PRAYER.

IN DOMINO, FR BRODD

“Recent misfortune”? Has something happened with his father’s business? What sort of documentation would his mother need from the Catholic Church?

He wishes he’d never opened it. If his father’s business is struggling, there may be more pressure to join the company.

“
Hola
, Texano!”

Carlitos, the bellboy, sprints to Daniel’s side. He plants his right foot and stands at attention. “I have a message for you!
Señor
Mendoza called. Your photographs are ready.”

Daniel perks up. “That’s great. Thanks, Buttons.” He fishes in his pocket and tips the boy before heading upstairs.

In his short absence, the suite has been cleaned. The flowing drapes are corded back. The twisted sheets are now taut; the bed dressed and respectable. On the bench at the foot of the bed sits his belt, carefully coiled around the large buckle. He lifts the belt and something flutters beneath. It’s a newspaper clipping.

Madrid today has more Texans than Spaniards. The barroom at the Castellana Hilton sounds like roundup time in the Panhandle.

A notation added in the margin says,
And some boys from Dallas are “getting lost” in the basement
.

He laughs, looking at the feminine handwriting. Ana’s pretty
and
clever. It’s his turn to reply. He grabs a magazine from the table and begins to search.

The elevator doors open to the lobby. The seemingly ever-present Paco Lobo, the man who adopted a village, stands in the corner, chatting with staff. Upon seeing Daniel, he waves.

Carlitos appears and points to the envelope in Daniel’s hand. “Shall I mail your letter for you,
señor
?”

“You can deliver it for me. What is Ana’s last name?”

“Ana here at the hotel? She is Ana Torres Moreno.”

Daniel retrieves a pen from his camera bag. He adds Ana’s last name to the envelope adorned with the hotel crest.

“How long have you been speaking English?” asks Daniel, as he hands the letter to Carlitos.

“Over a year.” He waves Daniel forward with a conspiratorial grin. “There’s a classroom in the basement of the hotel.
Señor
Hilton is very good to his employees.”

Daniel nods, furthering the covert conversation. “I saw the classroom. I was down there last night. You must also study courtesy. Everyone here is so polite. They insist on calling me
señor
.”

“But of course! We must refer to everyone in that manner.”

Everyone. So apparently to Ana, Nick is not “everyone”?

“Say, Buttons, if you can deliver this letter privately, I’ll give you a good tip when I return.”

Carlitos clutches Daniel’s sleeve and pulls him close. “Of course,
señor
. Privacy is one of the first words we learned in the classroom. After all, a hotel is a house of secrets.”

Daniel hates secrets, but his are quickly multiplying. The photo of the nun with the baby, the breakup with Laura Beth, his plan for J-School, and now, the opened telegram.

He takes a breath, acknowledging the reality:

A secret never stays secret for long.