The Fountains of Silence (16 page)

34

“Delivery for room 760.”

760. Daniel’s room.

“
Gracias
,” says Ana. The hospitality manager drops a box into her basket.

Once in the elevator, Ana steals a glance at the small box. It’s a roll of tape. Grateful for the opportunity to see Daniel, she plans her apology for Puri’s questions.

He opens the door on her first knock.

“
Hola
,
señor
. Hospitality asked me to deliver this.” Ana extends the small box.

“Thanks.” Daniel props the door open with his boot. “Come in for a moment?”

Ana stands, frozen in the hallway. “Does your room need servicing,
señor
?”

“Servicing? No, I’d like to show you my photos.”

“Perhaps your drapes need adjusting?”

“No, they’re fine.”

Ana remains outside the door, smiling, until Daniel realizes. She isn’t allowed into his room without a service request.

“Oh, can you help me open the door to the balcony?”

“Certainly,
señor
.” Ana shifts the basket from her hip and enters. The suite, already warm, will be sweltering within minutes. She slides the glass door open anyway.

On the floor near the wall is a mosaic of pictures. Daniel waves her over.

“I put them together with Miguel,” he explains. “Each grouping should tell a story. They’ll be easier to see once I tape them to the wall.”

Ana nods, staring at the photos. They do tell a story. In fact, they tell many stories.

“Do you like them?” he asks, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“
Sí
. Very much,
señor
. Especially the photos of the children.”

Ana mentions the children, but she is staring at the photos of the Van Dorns’ dinner party. She gazes at the long, elegant table, the sparkling crystal goblets, the tangles of fresh grapes roped between sterling candelabras. He’s captured it all.

The air in the room is suddenly thick, creeping and pressing in around Ana. She removes a small accordioned fan from her apron pocket. “Is it too hot with the door open,
señor
? Shall I turn the air-cooling on?” she asks, fluttering air toward her face.

“No, I’m fine.” Daniel tugs at the center seam of his western shirt. The pearl snaps create a soft pop as he pulls them apart. “So, you got my note.”

“Yes, more ice.” Ana gives a weak laugh, willing herself not to look at him.

Daniel’s gaze is upon her. She can feel it, serious, as if he were trying to capture the moment on film.

“In the note I mentioned an idea,” he says.

“Yes. This is a very good idea,” says Ana. “I like the way the photos are organized.”

“Oh.” Daniel pauses and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. His voice drops in volume. His eyes fasten to hers. “Actually, that’s not the idea I was referring to.”

Alarm bells crash in Ana’s head, while a mixture of hope and fear beats through her chest. Daniel steps in close. His plaid shirt hangs open, revealing a damp white T-shirt beneath.

“I was thinking, well, I guess I was hoping . . . ,” he says quietly.

Ana stares at the photos instead of Daniel. She knows she should step away, but her feet have grown roots through the floor. She should not allow him so close. She should not inhale the smell of his expensive aftershave. But the roots are growing, snaking all the way down to the dark, stone basements.

“I was hoping you might work on a project with me,” says Daniel.

“A project?” Her voice is a whisper. Her fan bats like a butterfly.

“I’d like to create a story about life in Spain, but through the eyes of people our age.”

A story. About Spain. The roots snap. Ana’s heart freefalls into her stomach. Disappointment and relief flood through her in equal parts. “Why?” she asks, tucking the fan and her hope back into the apron.

“To illustrate differences and similarities between us, between the U.S. and Spain.”

Ana steps away from Daniel.

What similarities could he possibly see between them? Daniel can travel anywhere in the world. He is heir to an oil dynasty, lives a life of privilege, and enjoys every freedom imaginable. He can vote in an election, pray to any God of his choosing, and speak his personal feelings aloud in public.

“We could remain anonymous,” says Daniel quickly. “Like Robert Capa and Gerda Taro. You could be Jane Doe.”

“Jane Doe?”

“
Sí
,
Jane Doe
means ‘an anonymous woman.’ As Jane, you could provide a lens into Spain that I can’t access on my own. We could work together. You’re a good subject and a good photographer. Look.” Daniel points to two photos on the desk. One is the photo of Ana in the elevator. He hands it to her.

She grimaces. “Is my mouth really that big?” She despises the gold
tooth on the bottom side of her mouth. She puts the photo back on the desk.

“It’s not a big mouth. It’s called a bright smile. You don’t want the picture?”

She shakes her head. Next to her picture is the photo she took of Daniel in the candy shop. The left side of his mouth lifts in a grin, on the brink of laughter. He looks into the camera with eyes so honest, yet so evidently out of place amidst the pretty sweets. The photo she took
is
good. It’s beautiful. But it has nothing to do with her photography.

His project—if Daniel made a formal request to her manager—could they work together on it?

Her sister’s warnings whisper loudly.

Ana lifts the basket and makes her way toward the door. “I’m very sorry,
señor
, but I don’t think I can help you with your project. The hotel keeps me so busy.”

Daniel stands, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He nods in understanding.

As Ana passes the coffee table, she stops. The image in the Hilton hotel magazine sends a wave of chills across her neck.

The massive granite cross.

It’s perched on a hilltop northwest of Madrid within jagged fangs of stone. It towers one hundred fifty meters high and can be seen from over thirty kilometers away.

El Valle de los Caídos
. The Valley of the Fallen.

The magazine text barks and beckons:

Nearly twenty years in the making, the Valley of the Fallen approaches completion. Visitors will soon experience this beautiful place of rest and meditation in memory of all those who fell in the glorious crusade.

The reeds of the basket crack beneath her grip. She points to the magazine. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes, the site where tourists will learn about the Spanish Civil War.”

“Is that what you think?” gasps Ana.

“Is that wrong?” he asks. “I was thinking of visiting to take photos. See, this is why I need your help. I don’t understand, but Jane Doe can explain it to me.”

Ana stares at him, a lump rising in her throat. So, this is how the world sees Spain? Do they think the Valley of the Fallen is a place to buy souvenirs? It’s being built by Republican prisoners.

Ana returns to the photos on the floor, to one that instantly caught her eye. She picks up the photo of the nun and the baby and tosses it on the coffee table. “Sometimes there is no explanation,
señor
. Good evening.”

Ana exits the room, fighting for breath. She turns the corner in the hallway, slumps down the wall, and wills herself not to cry.

There is a thriving temporary village at the Valley of the Fallen which houses two thousand workers and their families. . . . A marvelous combination of grandeur, magnificence, and simplicity. We strongly recommend a visit.

Castellana Magazine
, Hilton Hotels, July 1957

35

They walk in darkness. Madrid’s night sky stretches deep and wide. Their footfalls issue soft calls on the dry sand of the dirt road. Rafa tries to make conversation, but Fuga marches ahead in a trance. He utters only one word:
mentirosos
.

Liars.

That afternoon they had exhumed the corpse of a four-year-old boy for lack of payment. The family, too poor to pay rent on the cemetery plot, stood crying as the child’s remains were churned and reburied in a common trench. The grandmother wailed curses.

“Please,
señora
,” explained Rafa. “It is not our fault, only our job. If we do not work, we do not eat.”

“May you choke on the bread you earn from this,” spat the bereaved woman.

“Fuga, she wasn’t blaming or cursing us,” says Rafa. “She was grieving for the child.” Rafa knows that Fuga not only grieves for the boy, he sees himself in every poor child, in each pit heaped with bones. With each trench of the shovel, he is burying himself.

“
Mentirosos
,” hisses Fuga.

“Think of your own words to me,” says Rafa. “You say we mustn’t allow ourselves to be poisoned by circumstance. Your plan is honorable.”

Fuga nods and spits on the side of the road.

Rafa thinks of his friend’s pledge. Fuga says he will fight for the child—the innocent, the unwanted, the lost children of Spain. He will use money earned from bullfighting to pay rent for the cemetery plots
of children. He will save destitute boys from the evil “homes.” This is his plan.

Fuga stops and motions for silence. Was it a voice or a bird? They run to a nearby row of cypress trees. Lying on their stomachs, they listen.

Rafa hears only Fuga. Nostrils flared for fight, Fuga is aflame with determination. The mantra of bullfighting is “To become a bullfighter, you must first become a bull.” Fuga has long been a bull. He has courage and strength to battle any man or beast and remarkable finesse while doing it, but sometimes Rafa worries his friend lacks the inherent grace required of a
torero
.

The pasture of Don José Isasa Cuadros is not far. Rafa hopes it’s an owl Fuga heard. He hopes at this late hour the Crows are asleep on their barrack cots. So despised are the Crows that they do not serve in the region where they live. The risk to their families is too great.

“Perhaps we train another night,” whispers Rafa.

Fuga says nothing. After several breaths, he stands and resumes walking. Rafa follows his friend toward the pasture, the moon’s glimmer their sole guide.

Most matadors are gentlemen, classically trained
toreros
. Joselito, Belmonte, and Spain’s beloved Manolete—Rafa reveres them all. When Manolete died, a piece of Spain died with him. He was gored through the thigh, and the teams of special surgeons couldn’t save him. He and Fuga have no special surgeons. There is no one supporting them.

They trudge on, into the closing dark. Rafa issues the reminder.

“The world we seek entrance to, it is a world of men with fat cigars, expensive automobiles, and relationships over many generations. You know that. But it is also a world where courage and skill transcend ancestry, Fuga. If a matador is truly talented, the blood running through his veins is not judged. It is protected.”

Fuga nods.

To practice with bulls in a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. If caught, punishment will be immediate—and final. Rafa will go to confession before Mass on Sunday. He will again ask their priest in Vallecas for forgiveness and courage. Rafa pledges that once he earns money as part of Fuga’s
cuadrilla
, his entourage, he will secretly compensate the breeders for tainting their bulls. This is his own plan.

They arrive at the pasture. The rumbling exhales and stomps of the bulls pass loudly on the still night air. Fuga unrolls his rusty blanket. He looks to Rafa and nods.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen,” recites Rafa. He makes the sign of the cross.

They crawl through the fence.