The Fountains of Silence (28 page)

69

Daniel stares out the window of the taxi. It’s well after midnight. Lights and life sparkle in Madrid. He’d prefer to walk on his own, but fears it will offend his parents.

Sick.

His parents are not separating. His mother had what she calls an “incident.” They assure him all will be well. In time. After the “incident” she was sick and there may still be a “procedure.” But she is recovering and wanted to visit Spain. She has no remaining relatives in the country, but it is her country. She gathers strength and grounding here. It will aid her healing.

She shared the cryptic news in a restaurant. This is her way. It would be unacceptable to become emotional in public. So the details were conveyed over cava and vermouth at a candlelit table, where they could be explained flatly, without tears. The plan seemed to work until he began to ask questions.

“Mom, I had no idea you were sick. What’s wrong?”

His mother is silent. After a moment, she looks to his dad.

“There was a baby,” whispers his father.

A baby. Was. Past tense.

“Your mother had wanted another child so badly. We tried through the years but then gave up. A few months ago your mother became pregnant. We were both shocked and elated but said nothing. It seemed too good to be true and we wanted to consult the doctors before sharing the news.”

His mother takes a breath, her lips quivering. “And it
was
too good to be true. I lost the child.”

His father reaches across the table and gently takes his mother’s hand.

Daniel looks at his parents’ clasped fingers. He fumbles for words. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

His mother quickly moves her hand to his shoulder. “No, no. I’m okay,
tesoro
. Really. I’m suffering most from the injustice of it all. It seems incredibly unfair that such a blessing and dream were given and then lost. My spirits were terribly low and so your father has brought us along to Spain. It’s already done a world of good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was devastated, emotionally and physically. The last thing I wanted was to worry you or for anyone back home to know. I made your father swear the doctors to secrecy. I’ve confided only in the priest and your uncle.”

“Mom, you can’t keep all of this bottled up.”

“I will not plague our family with indecency or gossip.”

“A miscarriage is not indecent.”

“
Shh
. People talk, Daniel. You must know I hear the whispers and jokes. That we’re a ‘mixed marriage,’ that your father married a Spanish dancer. You don’t understand, dear.”

He does. He hears the jabs too. Oil money is new money. His family is nouveau riche. Laura Beth’s family claimed they weren’t a good fit because his mother was “too ethnic.” Considering the news, he’s relieved he didn’t tell her about the breakup.

“Mom, forget about other people. Your health is what’s important, right?”

The tension at the table is palpable. His mother sits wholly erect, as if a yardstick had been placed down the back of her dress. She holds the stem of her glass delicately, with her thumb and two forefingers. Her large diamond rings reflect and sparkle amidst the bubbles through the glass.

The stiffness, it’s the American part of his mother and it pains him.

“Excuse me.” She smiles and departs for the restroom.

Daniel fiddles with the fork on the table. His father releases a deep sigh.

“What did the doctors say?” asks Daniel.

“An issue with the uterus. They may eventually have to remove it. It’ll all be fine, partner.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

The nervous edge in his mother’s voice, the crying behind closed doors, his parents supporting an orphanage, the pieces complete the picture. He and his father sit, silent, until Daniel speaks.

“Now I understand—the orphanage deal,” he says. “Nick mentioned it.”

“That kid’s a loose cannon. No wonder he’s getting beat up. Nothing’s been decided. I need to close this drilling deal first.” He flags a waiter for another vermouth.

His mother returns to the table full of smiles. “I just love this restaurant, don’t you? It’s a shame you didn’t bring your camera. We could have taken a family picture. You look so handsome in a suit.”

Her enthusiasm is genuine. But he knows his mother. She uses happiness as a shield. She’s trying to protect him or prepare him. Maybe both.

Daniel unlocks the door to his suite. On the coffee table is a plate with round chocolates bearing the gold crest of the Castellana Hilton. Neighboring the plate are several notes and messages. The first is a folded piece of paper. He hopes it’s from Ana.

¡Amigo!
My sister is bringing you this note. Thank you
for the photograph. It’s
fabulosa
! Everyone is impressed by it. Fuga is now El Huérfano, isn’t it great? Please don’t forget us on Sunday. We will be waiting for you and your big car. See you soon, Texano!

—Rafa

The next notes are message slips from the hotel operator.

8:25 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl

Call me at the Bureau. An opportunity.

8:30 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

Meet us at Taberna de Antonio Sánchez.

9:45 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

Eating at Botín. Join us.

11:10 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

Heading for Pasapoga club on Gran Vía.

11:15 p.m. From Tom Collins

Sleep well.

Tom Collins. He smiles. The message was an hour ago. Is Ana home in Vallecas now? Or is this one of the days she stays overnight at the hotel? He thinks about stealing down to the basement to check.

At the very bottom of the stack is a Western Union telegram. The envelope is sealed and addressed to Daniel. Is it from his uncle? He tears it open.

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

—VIA NIGHT LETTER CABLE

SENDER: LAURA BETH JOYCE—DALLAS, TX

MR. DANIEL MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON, MADRID

CAN WE TALK? I’M SORRY. I WANT TO COME TO MADRID.

70

Daniel calls to have the breakfast dishes picked up, hoping to see Ana. Just as he hangs up the phone, there’s a knock at the door.

Ben Stahl leans on the doorframe, tie wrestled loose. Pieces of his normally slick hair stand in exclamation points. His flapping shirttail is stained with red wine. “I called you.” Ben’s voice sounds like he’s gargled with gasoline.

“I got back after midnight. I figured it was too late,” says Daniel.

“Late? You’re joking, right? I haven’t been to sleep yet. But the word
late
, let’s think about that word. It’s such an important one, isn’t it? Late—often paired with regret or disappointment.” Ben’s lungs chime in, hacking up a nightclub of cigarette smoke.

“How did you know what suite I was in?” asks Daniel.

“I’ve got connections to get me where I need to be. Listen, I need a photographer on Monday. My guy has to be in Barcelona. Are you available?”

Daniel’s heart hops. He tries to act casual. “Sure. What’s the assignment?”

“You’ll be perfect for this. But I don’t have a budget so there’s no pay.”

“That’s fine,” says Daniel. As the words leave his mouth, he knows he responded too quickly.

Ben nods. “That’s fine because you’re stinkin’ rich or that’s fine because you understand the value of an opportunity?”

Daniel accepts the challenge. “First,
I’m
not rich. If I were, I’d be
on my way to J-School. Second, if you need a free shoot it sounds like you’re the one who grasps opportunity value.”

Ben laughs. “There he is, swingin’ those punches. Hey, can I use your john?”

Without waiting for an answer, Ben pushes past Daniel into the room. He sees the wall of photos and stops.

“Actually, I’m not ready to share those yet,” says Daniel.

“You’re not ready? Looks like you’ve got your own exhibition here.” Ben scans the photos. He moves in, pushing his face close to the pictures. “Holy hell, Matheson.”

A knock echoes at the door. Daniel opens it and finds not Ana, but Lorenza, lips candied like an apple, hip swung to one side.

“Buenos días, señor.”

Unlike Ana, Lorenza enters without invitation. Her eyes are instantly glued to the photo wall. Ben’s eyes are instantly glued to Lorenza.

“Hi there, sweet cheeks.”

Lorenza gives Ben a wave and turns to Daniel. “Do you like flamenco,
señor
? You should photograph some flamenco dancers.” Lorenza stares at him. Her beckoning gaze reminds him of Laura Beth and how her every expression looks staged, like she’s posing for a camera.

“Flamenco, sure. Say, Lorenza, could you have Ana bring up some towels?” asks Daniel.

Lorenza makes a clucking with her tongue. “
Ay
, no. Ana is very busy,
señor
.” Lorenza slaps the back of the chair with a cloth, as if she’s dusting it, sauntering closer to the photos.

“
Ay
, look at the matador. Oh and Ana, washing his face.
Qué bonito
. Oh, look at the
pequeñines
! Sweet little ones. How did you get such photos?”

“It’s what we do. We’re journalists,” says Ben. “Excuse me. Gotta drain the radiator.” Ben closes the bathroom door.

Daniel is equally honored and unnerved that Ben is referring to them together as journalists. He’s also unnerved that so many people are in his room.

“If Ana is too busy, shall I call the manager to make the request?” he asks Lorenza.

Lorenza stiffens. “No. I’ll get her now. Towels, you said?” She scurries toward the door.

“And the breakfast dishes?” says Daniel.

“
Señor
, you must call room service for the dishes.”

“I did. I thought they sent you. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

The door clicks shut.

Ben emerges from the bathroom, returns to the photos, and lights a cigarette.

“Really, Matheson. I’m impressed. The Magnum judges will be too. These are better than anything in your portfolio. I might even be able to use some.”

Daniel accepts the compliment.

“Has anyone seen these?”

“Just my dad,” replies Daniel. “And Miguel, who developed them.” He doesn’t mention that Ana has also seen them. All of them.

“Keep your negatives in a safe place,” says Ben. “Meet me in the lobby of the hotel Monday at nine a.m. I’ve gotta get some shut-eye.” He gives a wave and exits.

Daniel still has no idea what the assignment is.