The Fountains of Silence (33 page)

85

Julia watches her sister from across the room. Ana is flushed, aglow after her dance. The Texas boy is trouble. His jeans, his boots, his dancing. Trouble.

Antonio wraps a comforting arm around Julia. “
Ay
, don’t worry so much. He’ll go back to Texas soon. They’re just having fun.”

“Exactly. Remember the intensity of everything at that age? It results in bad decisions.”

“It’s fine. He’s gone for the night.
Mi amor
, would a rich Texano really be such a bad decision?”

“Yes, Antonio. He’s not serious about her. He’s just another American who thinks he can take whatever he wants.” Julia sighs with concern and looks to her husband. “He’s going to break her heart,” she whispers.

Antonio shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”

“I am?”

He nods. “She’s going to break his.”

86

Daniel pulls the Buick onto the apron of elegant pavers in front of the hotel. A man in a green-and-gold uniform sprints to the car.

“Welcome back,
señor
.”

Nick yawns, groggy. “You want to get something to eat?” he asks Daniel.

“No, I’m gonna head up.”

Daniel briefly checks the lobby to see if his dad might be there. His father is not in the lobby, but Paco Lobo is, peering over a wrinkled map spread out in front of him. He waves Daniel over.

“Hello. I was just checking to see if my father was here.”

“Your parents had drinks with Max Factor. They went up about an hour ago,” says Paco, looking up at Daniel through his glasses. “Say, my eyes are so bad, I can’t see the small print. On the coast, south of Valencia, can you find a city named Dénia?”

Daniel leans over the map. “Here.” He points to a city in the Costa Blanca region. “Are you adopting another village?”

“No,” Paco Lobo says with a laugh. “I have to visit for work.”

“Oh, I thought philanthropy was your work.”

He shakes his head and pushes the wire frames higher on his nose. He puts a finger to the map. “Yes, there it is. Thank you.”

Daniel notices a small notepad near the map. “The names and words you’ve got there, they’re German, aren’t they?”

“My, your eyes
are
good.” Paco Lobo quickly slides his notes beneath the map. “Daniel—” Paco speaks without looking at him.
“During cocktails, I overheard your father tell Max Factor that you met the Guardia Civil. He sounded proud, said you held your own. I’m sure it was nothing, but Franco’s police and guards”—his eyes leave the map and lock to Daniel’s—“they’re thorough. Have a good night.”

The statement is a dismissal. Is it also a warning? Daniel wonders as he heads for the elevator. His father and Max Factor—the makeup mogul. They couldn’t be more different. The cocktail conversation must have been lacking if his father had to bring up the incident from the first day in Madrid. And proud? No. That’s not a word he’d use about his son being reprimanded. Perhaps Paco Lobo is the one who had a few drinks.

Daniel enters his suite; it’s quiet and comforting with just a glow of the desk lamp. A telephone message sits squarely within the lamplight.

11:45 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl

Lobby 9:00 a.m. Pros wear suit and tie. 100 ASA. Bring your passport.

100 ASA is for bright light. The shoot is probably outside. Why does he need his passport?

Daniel takes off his shirt and tosses it over the back of a chair. Ana was right. Turndown service has been completed. Did she do it herself before leaving for the night? Daniel turns and finds the answer. Taped under each photo on the wall is a small strip of paper. A caption.

From Tom Collins.

He snaps on the lights.

The picture of Nick, face bludgeoned, slumped in the back of the taxi:

Sometimes, when there’s nothing left to burn, we set ourselves on fire.

The happy girl from Vallecas with the raven braid and holes in her shoes:

She has a name for the tapeworm that lives inside of her. She calls him Chucho.

The hairy-chested tourist asleep at the sidewalk table:

The drink he spills costs more than many earn in a week. Who benefits most from tourist dollars in Spain?

Shep Van Dorn, entertaining guests at the dinner party:

Expensive clothes or cheap drapes of emotional poverty?

Rafa, smile beaming, standing by the Buick:

The lashing scars on his back live like veins above the skin. But sometimes, a good smile can chase the memories away.

Each caption provides a new lens into the image, peeling back invisible layers to reveal a human story. He can’t wait to discuss them with her. As he scans the wall, his eyes land on the picture that Ana took of him that day in the candy shop.

The caption is just two words, but says everything.

Hola, Daniel.

87

Rafa removes his bloody apron for lunch. A fellow slaughterhouse worker passes behind him.

“Rafa. Supervisor wants to see you. By the way, I heard about yesterday. Sounds like your
torero
made an impression.
¡Felicidades!
” he says, patting Rafa on the back.

“Gracias, amigo
.”
Rafa smiles. His colleagues have been generous with words of encouragement and congratulations. His announcement and their enthusiasm have made for a very happy Monday. He heads to the office and knocks on the frame of the door.

“Adelante.”
His supervisor waves him into the small, windowless room with brick walls. “A gentleman called this morning asking about you. Did you tell someone at the
capea
that you work here at
el matadero
?”

“Just the man in the big hat. The one who gave me his card.”

His supervisor nods. “He asked me to confirm that you are employed here and then he asked a lot of questions about your
torero
.”

“Questions about El Huérfano? What kind of questions?”

“About his training, his background. Questions I couldn’t answer. But I told him I do know you and that you’re a good worker.”

“
Ay, ¡gracias!
” says Rafa.

“He wants to see your friend fight again.”

“When? We’ll be ready!”

“Sunday. Just said he’ll be in touch about a fight in Arganda del Rey. But if he’s calling around the morning after the
capea
, seems like a good sign to me.”

A tingling spreads across Rafa’s back. It is a good sign. It’s a great sign. He’ll head straight to the cemetery after work to tell Fuga.

Last night Fuga was restless. He insisted they must return to the pastures to train. “No,” said Rafa. “If the promoter is interested, he will help us find proper training.”

“There are a million reasons this rich man could change his mind,” argued Fuga. “But I’ll prove it to him. I’m better than everyone else.”

It’s pointless to argue with Fuga. But maybe he doesn’t know Fuga as well as he thinks? Fuga doesn’t smile for many, only children and bulls. So why did he give his winnings and smile to Ana? Sure, he’s asked about his sister before, but never in a way that implied he liked her. Aspiring bullfighters shouldn’t have girlfriends anyway. As the saying goes, a married bullfighter is a finished bullfighter. Success requires complete focus. He explained that to his girlfriend yesterday when he broke up with her.

Rafa scratches his head, recalling her furious reaction. Her anger had surprised him. He didn’t realize she cared so much. Women are so confusing. His sister Julia is the most confusing. Last night she huffed around, saying she’d rather Ana end up with an amateur bullfighter like Fuga than the rich Texano.

What did she mean? What could be so bad about the Texano?

88

Puri dries the dishes at the sink, devising a way to raise the topic with her mother.

“I think I’d prefer not to volunteer at the clinic,” announces Puri. “The Inclusa is a much happier place.”

“It’s not your choice. Sister Hortensia has assigned you to the clinic because she believes you will contribute there. You will serve as instructed, dear.”

“But it’s all so distressing. Women can be so irrational.”

Her mother turns from the table. “Excuse me?”

“Of course, not you, Mother. But the other day as I was leaving the Inclusa, a woman stopped me on the street. She was frantic. She said that her baby had been taken for baptism and was never returned to her. It was very strange, as if she thought someone was hiding her baby inside the Inclusa. She gripped my arm so hard it hurt.”

“She took hold of you?”

“Yes. I saw Sister Hortensia in the window and suggested the woman speak to Sister.”

“Did she?”

“No.” Puri shrugs, trying her best to appear casual. “She ran away.”

Her mother turns slowly back to the table. She speaks to Puri over her shoulder.

“Did Sister mention seeing the episode?”

“Yes, we discussed it. We agreed the woman was suffering some kind of mental collapse. Sister told me to pray for her.”

“Yes, you should,” replies her mother quietly. “There is so much misfortune in the world. We must help whenever we can, Puri.”

“Of course. You and Father have set a wonderful example. You took care of Ana and now Julia appreciates all the things you send for Lali. It must be so difficult for Ana without parents. But Sister says that it’s better to have no parents than the wrong parents. I think about that each day when I’m with the children at the Inclusa. I wonder, though: Once children are adopted by the right parents, should they ever know about their wrong parents?”

Puri steals a glance over her shoulder. Her mother sits, a block of erect silence, slowly stirring the spoon around and around in her coffee. And that’s when Puri realizes.

Silence has a voice of its own.