The Fountains of Silence (40 page)

107

“Why, Puri, what a surprise to see you here.” Julia hugs her young cousin. “Are Aunt and Uncle all right?”

“Yes, they’re fine. I’m sorry to visit you at work, Julia. I know you’re very busy with the matadors.” Puri’s voice is soaked with urgency. “But I have nowhere else to go.”

“Puri, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?”

“Very unwell.”

“Come in. We can speak in the fitting room.”

Julia leads Puri through the workshop.

Puri has spent endless nights thinking of the handsome matadors. She knows her thoughts warrant confession. The visual feast of colors, fabrics, and suits in front of her is what she’s dreamed of seeing on, and off, the courageous men. But recent distractions have pushed her interest in matadors aside.

They enter a small room with wood paneling and mirrors. Julia motions for them to sit together on a bench.

“Tell me why you’re here, Puri.”

Puri looks at her older cousin. “Because you know about secrets.”

Julia’s eyes dart. Her fingers clutch her skirt. “What are you referring to?”

Puri takes a deep breath. “Julia, when should a secret be kept and what should be kept a secret? If I see something that troubles me, that doesn’t feel correct, do I have the right to question it? Should I say something?”

Julia looks at her cousin, evaluating.

“Well, we all have the right to question things in our own minds, Puri. But some things are complex, nuanced. They stand at a cliff of truth. They might appear as fact when in reality we don’t have all of the information. So, at the time, it’s beyond our comprehension. Speaking of things we don’t understand might only complicate things.”

“In that case, what do I do?” asks Puri.

“Is this related to your social service work at the orphanage?”

“Yes, and at the clinic.”

“Does it pertain to the babies?” whispers Julia.

Puri nods. “And adoption in general.”

“Puri, you must give your best self to those children. Whatever they were born of, whatever their circumstance in coming to the Inclusa, they are innocent. Shelter them and show them they are worthy. If you can help them find a loving and stable home,” Julia’s voice catches, tearful. “Please, Puri. Please do that. Mothers pray for someone like you. Someone who cares enough to hold their children, to love them, to think of their future.”

Julia reaches out and takes her hand. “I know it’s difficult, Puri, but if you can, try to imagine yourself in the place of those children. What do they deserve?”

A woman enters the fitting room. “Julia, Luis is asking for you.”

“I’m so sorry, Puri. I must return to work.” Julia gives her a kiss and guides her out of the fitting room.

Try to imagine yourself in the place of those children.

Was Julia speaking generally of the orphans at the Inclusa or, Puri wonders, was Julia giving her a more direct message? What does she know?

108

Daniel stares at his plate. Laura Beth and his mother have talked nonstop. His mother does that when she’s uncomfortable. His father hasn’t spoken a single word. He does that when he’s uncomfortable.

His father had made a big production of introducing everyone in the lobby to Laura Beth. He referred to her as “my son’s sweetheart from Dallas.” Daniel feels sick. His sweetheart is somewhere in the hotel and might emerge at any moment. Laura Beth tries to engage him in conversation.

“Your mother showed me the photo with Franco. Front page of the newspaper. Congratulations,” says Laura Beth.

Daniel nods. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps you can show Laura Beth a bit of Madrid today,” suggests his mother.

“No, ma’am. I have two photo shoots.”

“You can take her along.”

“The first one is at a slaughterhouse and the second is at a graveyard,” says Daniel. “I don’t think she’d enjoy it.”

“Well, Laura Beth has traveled a very long way. It would be awfully rude not to spend time with her,” says his father.

A cloud of tension hangs above the table. Daniel wants to punch something.

“Actually, I’m the one who was rude,” says Laura Beth. “That’s part of the reason I’m here.” Daniel shoots her a pleading look but she continues anyway. “Mrs. Matheson, I’m not sure if Daniel told you, but I broke up with him.”

The silence is momentary until Laura Beth continues.

“I felt that our family differences were too difficult to bridge. I’ve felt badly about the way I handled it. I’ve missed Daniel so I decided to come to Madrid.”

“You came all the way here to tell me that?” says Daniel.

“Well, no. There’s a new designer, Oscar de la Renta, who lives here. He designed the debutante gown for the ambassador’s daughter and he’s designing our dresses for the Ford ball. Mother had the idea. She’s here too. No one else will have a gown from Spain,” says Laura Beth.

Of course. She didn’t come to Spain for him. She came for a dress. “Thank you, Laura Beth,” nods Daniel. “It’s kind of you to come. I’m seeing someone else.”

“You’re seeing someone else?” asks his father.

“What do you mean by ‘family differences’?” asks his mother.

“Well, ethnicity . . . culture,” says Laura Beth.

“I see,” says Daniel’s mother. She clasps his hand beneath the table and whispers in Spanish. “She doesn’t deserve you.”

Laura Beth sighs and turns toward Daniel’s father. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matheson. I told you this wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure my father will reimburse you for the plane fare.”

She hands her napkin to Daniel. “You have lipstick on your ear.”

109

They stand in line for blood.

June’s bright sun shines across a string of women waiting patiently at
el matadero
. Fans snap open and flutter, replying to Madrid’s warmth and the scent of open flesh wafting from the slaughterhouse.

The women carry empty jars and cans, bladders for the blood. Daniel lies on the ground, snapping photographs of their well-worn shoes painted with dry dirt and life mileage.

A woman scowls at him until another points to his press badge.
Periodista
, she advises. Upon seeing the government-approved badge, the woman’s grimace dissolves. To the rear of the slaughterhouse, young matadors train with their promoters. Daniel snaps a picture.

“
Sí
, that’s where El Huérfano will eventually train,” announces Rafa.

Daniel takes pictures of empty meat hooks dangling from the ceiling, of Rafa scrubbing and hosing blood from the floor, and tacking his apron at day’s end.

“You must return to take training pictures. But for now, let’s go to the cemetery.”

Rafa flags down a gasping truck. He and Daniel join a dozen men in the back of the vehicle. Their faces are soot stained, labor worn, and hungry. Three men share a clay jug of wine. No one speaks. The violent bouncing upon the pitted road makes Daniel’s teeth clack and his tailbone hurt. The man next to him is fast asleep.

He sits on his shins, pulling up to his knees to photograph the men whenever the truck pauses or stops. Daniel has been granted access to a world outside his own. He is inside the photo.

And he loves it.

And then, at an intersection, he sees the shot he has been waiting for.

A group of Guardia Civil stand on the corner. The Crows.

Patent-leather men with patent-leather souls
.

Light hits their faces, and their winged hats throw ominous, bruised shadows on a nearby wall. The men in the truck stare into their laps. Daniel looks through the lens. This is it.

Ben’s lecture returns to him.
Be smart about it.
Daniel holds the camera in position but moves his face away from the lens as if he’s looking elsewhere. He presses the shutter. He quickly hunches back down in the truck, holding his breath. The vehicle drives on.

Rafa shakes his head. “
Estás loco
, Texano.”

A sense of triumph floods through him. He’s not crazy—he’s happy.

After several minutes of driving Rafa bangs on the cab of the truck, and it comes to a stop. They jump down and Daniel follows Rafa to a quiet side street that runs along the edge of the cemetery.

“Have you got enough film?” asks Rafa.

“Plenty.”

They enter through a small maintenance gate. A corrugated metal shed, the size of a single-car garage, stands at the perimeter. It’s dented, rusty, and crooked.

“Welcome,
amigo
, to the house of El Huérfano,” says Rafa, opening his arms. “Come inside.”

Fuga lies in the corner of the shed, asleep on his straw. Near his sandaled feet are two small coffins made of wood. Daniel crouches, photographing Fuga as he sleeps.

Rafa gives a whistle that awakens Fuga.

“
Hola
,” says Daniel.

Fuga says nothing.

Daniel props open the shed door for light. “I’m here to take some pictures?”

“
Sí
. Fuga believes there is a news story here.”

“What kind of story?”

“A confusing one,” says Rafa. “These tiny coffins. We receive a couple each month. They are brought by the hospitals or the maternity clinics. Of course it’s very sad.”

Daniel looks at the coffins, each the size of a bread box. One has a hand-drawn blue cross on the lid, the other a pink cross.

“Take a picture,” commands Fuga.

“Of these?” asks Daniel.

Fuga kneels in front of the coffin. He lifts a small tire iron from the dirt.

“Wait, you’re not going to open it, are you?” Daniel’s head snaps to Rafa.

“
Tranquilo
, Texano,” advises Rafa.

“That’s probably illegal,” says Daniel.

Fuga pries open the lid.

“Stop!”

Fuga grabs a fistful of muslin from the coffin. He holds up the empty box.

“Wait,” says Daniel, exhaling in relief—and confusion. “It’s empty?”

“
Sí
,” says Rafa.

“They’re asking you to bury empty coffins?” asks Daniel.

Fuga moves to the coffin with the pink cross on top. “
¿Bebita?
” he asks Daniel.

Yes, for a baby girl, thinks Daniel. He focuses his lens.

Fuga wrests the lid off the plywood coffin. Daniel snaps a picture.

Rafa jumps back in horror. He turns around, streams of vomit spilling from his mouth.

The small coffin for a baby girl does not contain a corpse.

It holds an amputated adult hand, black and eaten with gangrene.