The Fountains of Silence (26 page)

63

The room-service trolley sits in his room, the silver dome unmoved from the entrée plate. A soft knock sounds at the door. Daniel opens it and finds Ana in the hallway.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,
señor
. I will soon leave for the night. I wanted to inquire if you’d like turndown service?”

“Oh, thanks. That’s fine.” Daniel steps aside and allows Ana to enter. He slumps back in the chair as she flutters around the room.

She lifts the silver dome from the dinner plate. “You haven’t eaten. Did the meal not please you? We can request something different.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Ana walks over and sits down next to Daniel.

“Forgive me for intruding,
señor
, but you are clearly not yourself.”

Daniel looks at Ana. She leans toward him, concerned and eager to help. Her brown curls lie in perfect waves across her shoulders. Her eyes search for answers.

“Ana, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“
Señor
,” says Ana, smiling wide, “be assured that I am someone who can keep a secret.”

Daniel nods. He points to the telegram on the coffee table. “Read it.”

Ana lifts the paper and scans the message. “I don’t understand.”

“This is the second telegram. I know I shouldn’t read them. I guess it serves me right, swiping their secret.”

Ana pauses, examining Daniel. “And what, exactly, do you think their secret is?”

“I think they may be separating.”

Ana pulls back in bewilderment. “No,
señor
. They’re not.”

“I wish that were true.”

“
Señor
, I—” Ana pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. “
Señor
, the housekeeping staff is witness to much at the hotel. I can assure you that your parents are not separating.”

“Do you know something?”

Ana closes her eyes and releases a frustrated exhale. “Hotel privacy forbids me from saying more.” She leans forward and puts her hand on Daniel’s. “
Señor
, your parents are not separating. I am so certain of it, let’s make a wager. If I am wrong, I will help you with your project.”

“You’ll be Jane Doe?”

“No, I will not,” says Ana. “I’ll be Tom Collins.”

“Who’s Tom Collins?”

“Tom Collins is a drink on the lobby bar menu. It’s a drink with lots of ice.” She smiles sweetly.

Daniel laughs.

“But we needn’t speak of your project because I will win our bet,” says Ana.

Daniel stares at Ana’s delicate hand on his. She’s touching him, just as she did near the car in Vallecas. He slowly rotates his palm. Their fingers graze and gently thread together. A rush of heat flows down to his hand.

Ana’s eyes flutter and close. “I . . . are those your photos from Vallecas?” She rises and their joined hands surrender. She walks to the display of photographs on the desk.

Ana stands, silent, with her back to Daniel. He runs his nervous palms down the thighs of his jeans.

“Miguel developed them today.”

One image has been enlarged. It’s the portrait of Fuga and it’s stunning.

“
¡Dios Mío!
” exclaims Ana. “Look at Fuga. He looks like a real
torero
! Rafa will be thrilled.”

Daniel approaches behind her. “I’m glad you like it. Take it to Rafa. I know he needs the photograph to promote the fight.” Daniel puts the photo in the envelope.

“He will be so pleased,
señor
.
Gracias
. You have been very kind to my family.” She looks up at him. “I should be going. Just call room service if you need more ice.” She gives a flustered laugh and makes her way to the door.

He doesn’t want her to leave. “I saw your cousin today.”

Ana stops. “You saw Puri? Where?”

“At the Inclusa. Antonio suggested I go there to take pictures.”

Ana’s face clouds with concern. “The Inclusa?” Her mental processing is visible. “I’m sorry. I must go. I can’t miss my transport back to Vallecas. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow. I know your parents return from Toledo in the morning.”

Daniel nods. “Thank you for talking with me, Ana. I hope you’re right.”

“My pleasure,
señor
.” She steps outside into the hallway, then pops her head back around the door with a big smile. “I know I am right.”

64

Rafa waits until lunchtime. His announcement will have more impact if all are gathered together. He peeks at the photograph in the envelope, trying not to soil it with fingerprints.

Fuga stands in profile. His figure is in sharp focus but the long road behind him is soft, creating the imagery of a path to destiny. The elegance of the suit is contrasted by the power of his strong jaw and vaulted cheekbones. The photo captures the power, the internal freight train that is Fuga.

The Americano is not only a nice guy, he’s a good photographer.

Rafa passes the bloody aprons hanging from their hooks. He walks to his coworkers, seated at the lunch table. Their sleeves and shoes are smeared with death. Rafa shakes the voices from his head, focusing.

“
Caballeros
, you have heard of my
amigo
who will fight this Sunday near Talavera de la Reina.”

“You mean your
amigo
whose bowels will be punched open by a mangy bull calf?” The men at the table laugh and one interjects with a tale. “I once knew an amateur
maletilla
. His intestines were gored out. He was so desperate to fight he had a friend stuff his guts back in his belly and sew him up with twine. The hurried stitches were too loose. A piece of his intestine was hanging out.”

The table issues collective groans and nods.

“
Sí, sí
,” says Rafa. “We have all heard tales of young men pursuing this dream—seeking victory on a Sunday afternoon. For four hundred years, this dream has led Spain’s sons to the grave, has it not?”

The men all nod in agreement.

“We know that it is spectacle and tradition that drives men with money to the ticket window, but it is often hunger and desperation that drives a
torero
onto the sand.”

The men issue supportive chants of
sí, sí
.

“These amateur village
capeas
, we know they are the only way to be seen by benefactors and ranchers. They are often the only way for an amateur to meet a bull. The road to Las Ventas arena in Madrid is long,
amigos
. But for one aspiring
torero
who seeks a benefactor and entrance into the world of the
corrida
, it begins this Sunday. Support this young bullfighter at his first
capea
. Support him in hopes that he may soon come to
el matadero
and train here alongside the other aspiring
toreros
. When he does, we shall claim him as our own.”

Rafa receives a round of applause.

“Does he have a name yet?” asks the supervisor.

“He does.” Rafa steps forward. “
Caballeros
, you will remember this day, the day you first saw his face. I present to you . . .
El Huérfano
!”

He removes the photograph from the envelope and proudly displays it to the table. The group of men erupts in loud cheers and applause. Rafa beams with pride.

“El Huérfano. ‘The Orphan’?” mutters his supervisor.

“
Sí
, he chose the name himself,” whispers Rafa. “During one of his stays in jail a nice cellmate referred to him as El Huérfano.”

The men begin to chatter.

“Have you ever seen a
maletilla
with such a photograph?”

“Or with such a suit of lights for a village
capea
?”

Rafa’s supervisor pats him on the back. “
Bien hecho
. Great job. But, Rafa, are you sure you want to be part of this man’s
cuadrilla
? You are a natural promoter.”

“
Gracias
, but this has always been our plan. When we were younger, he helped me. Now I will help him.”

Rafa will wear only a modest black suit of lights. He will always walk behind Fuga, not next to him. No one will ever ask for Rafa’s autograph, nor will he be allowed to eat at the same table as his matador. But he will stand on the sand. He will protect his friend.

He will face fear. And he will win.

65

“He’s fine.”

Sister Hortensia assures Puri that the newly arrived orphan enjoyed a comfortable first night and that the other young boys have welcomed him warmly.

“I wish there was something we could do for the older children,” says Puri.

“Whatever do you mean?” demands Sister Hortensia. “We are housing them, feeding them, bathing them, clothing them, and seeing to their education. Most are children of degenerates! But here, they feel a sense of community and will grow into very fine adults.”

“Yes, most are very happy. But they have no parents.”

Sister exhales her annoyance. “It is better to have no parents than the wrong parents.”

Puri thinks on Sister’s statement. She had a hard time sleeping, thinking of the crying boy, abandoned on the sidewalk. Many families have eight or ten children but no way to support them. She thinks of José, the little boy who lost his tooth, and the letter from Sister Hortensia to his family, explaining how gifted and smart he is. But they did not want him back. They are the wrong parents. José is fortunate to live at the Inclusa. He will grow into a fine man. Puri thinks of little Clover, her favorite. What if no one wants her?

Puri knows she is lucky to be an only child and receive her parents’ full attention, but one child does not satisfy the Francoist mandates for large families. She once tried to discuss it with her mother. When Puri commented that being an only child like herself was a rarity in
Spain, her mother became deeply offended and stomped off to her room.

Sister Hortensia’s mouth softens. “You care very deeply for the children, Purificación. The doctors and I see that. We are grateful for your tender heart. It is a virtue. Like you, we want each child to have the best chance to succeed in life.”

Puri nods emphatically. “Yes, Sister. That’s it. I just want these children to have an opportunity.” Puri thinks of the letters she smuggled out in her uniform. Two were from Spanish Republican families, desperate to locate a child they suspected had been taken from them at birth.

“Of course,” says Sister Hortensia, nodding. “And that’s exactly what we want too. The opportunity for a fine life, a devout life, a life rehabilitated and liberated from sins of the past. I’m very pleased with your dedication. We have plans for you, Purificación.”

Plans for her? Pride swells within Puri’s chest.

“For now, take this folder downstairs and file it accordingly.” She hands Puri a file and also a small slip of paper with two numbers. “Locate the files listed on the paper and bring them to my office.”

Elated for the opportunity to return to the file room, Puri rushes to the basement.

She retrieves the papers from beneath her apron, the papers she smuggled out the day prior, and returns them to their files. Thankfully, her fit of fake coughing diverted notice of their crunching sound. She looks at the folder Sister Hortensia asked her to file.

Questions. Why does she cling so tightly to questions? Why can’t she open her fist and let them fly away? Together with doctors, bishops, and priests, Sister Hortensia devotes her entire existence to the orphans. It is disrespectful to question their authority.

Yet something nags at her. Hesitation. Doubt. She is ashamed by it, yet compelled to probe further. Puri returns to the
RESOLVED
files
and continues to read through the letters. There are hundreds of them, dating back nearly twenty years.

Most of the correspondence is polite and cautious. But why is the file marked
RESOLVED
when they are not resolved at all?

A woman gave birth to a healthy baby but was later told that the child was choked by the umbilical cord and died. Could there have been a mistake?

A doctor told a couple they were having twins but upon delivery the nuns claimed there was only one baby. Could there have been a mistake?

Many letters are from families asking where their deceased infants are buried. The letters reference the “generous insistence of the clinic to handle burial of the deceased child” but the parents would now like to visit the grave.

Puri moves quickly. The two files Sister has requested are for recently adopted newborns
sin datos
. As she scans each file she sees that the infants did not enter via the
torno
, the box in the wall. One came directly from the hospital and the other came from a medical clinic nearby. One of the infants was sent to a requesting priest in Bilbao. The file on the other child is more cryptic.

Puri retrieves the unmarked file from the desk to cross-reference the adoption fees for each child. As she does, she notices that Clover’s listing has been amended.

200,000
pesetas
is crossed out. It now says 150,000
pesetas
, pending.