The Fountains of Silence (42 page)

113

Daniel makes his way to the elevator.

“Texano!” calls Carlitos. “I have your postage stamps.” Carlitos gives him a discreet tip of the head and slides a piece of paper into his hand.

Tom Collins. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Sorolla.

“Is she still here?”

“They escorted her off the property after she gave me the message.”

“Thanks, Buttons.” He reaches in his pocket for a tip.

“No, no.” Carlitos shakes his head. “This favor is for Ana. I don’t understand how this could happen to her.” The boy is on the verge of tears. “Texano, can I ask you something? The pretty girl from Texas—is she really your girlfriend?”

“No, Buttons, she’s not.”

“
Ay
, I didn’t think so.” Carlitos releases a satisfied smile.

Daniel knows that Carlitos sees much at the hotel. “Buttons, just between you and me, what do you think of Mr. Van Dorn over there?”

Carlitos leans in to Daniel. “
Ay
, Texano, I know nothing. But my aunts once told me the story of Don Juan, a disguised man who was able to manipulate language and seduce women. Our Spanish flu epidemic many decades ago? It was initially believed harmless but proved deadly. Some still refer to it as
Don Juan
. So you see, I know nothing
of Mr. Don Juan over there, except he never tips. The staff prefers his generous son.”

And this time, Carlitos does accept a tip from Daniel.

Daniel returns to his room. Should he call Nick? He moves toward the phone.

No. He’s calling Ben.

114

To keep his friend sharp and awake for training, Rafa recounts historical details.

“Francisco Romero of Ronda,” says Rafa. “Think of him on Sunday when you fight. This is the man they say invented the red
muleta
cape. Remember, for many years bullfighting was used to train knights. Only nobles on horses faced bulls.”

Fuga says nothing. He marches ahead as if in a trance.

“Of course red is only a matter of tradition. Bulls are color-blind and—”

Fuga motions for silence. They stand still as statues on the dark dirt road, listening.

Rafa moves his hands in a stepping motion. Fuga nods.

Horses.

They steal to the side of the road, taking cover beneath a line of scrubby bushes. “We’re early today,” whispers Rafa. “Perhaps the breeders are still in the fields?”

Rafa hopes it’s the breeders. The alternative is far worse. The Crows.

Noise is not uncommon. They must wait for others to leave or move to another side of the pasture. Rafa lies on his back, staring at the bright glow of the moon. He glances at his friend, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. But Fuga’s brow is arrowed. He is troubled.

They have spent so many nights sleeping in the dirt of Spain that they feel part of it. But slowly, things are changing. If Fuga performs well on Sunday, he will be granted another fight. He will be allowed to
train at the slaughterhouse. A promoter with a fat cigar will drive them from city to city, where Fuga will fight young bulls in the
novilladas
. They will sleep in a nice car instead of the dirt. And once Fuga makes his
alternativa
—his graduation ceremony from novice—he will become a full-fledged matador. Then they will sleep in hotels.

The quiet of night finally descends. Fuga stands from the dirt and begins stretching. Fuga has faced full-grown bulls in the fields for over a year. He became El Huérfano not recently, but the first time he crawled beneath the barbed-wire fence.

There is something special that lives inside Fuga. A sense. A knowing. He fights in the dark, the lamp of the moon his only guide. As part of the
cuadrilla
, Rafa will be by his
amigo
’s side, helping him, learning from him. It will be a big life, better than an education at a university. Ernesto Hemingway, an author whose books are banned by Generalísimo Franco, once wrote, “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up, except bullfighters.” Rafa agrees with Don Ernesto.

Fuga sets off alone across the road to the pasture fence. Instead of the rust-soaked blanket, he carries the red
muleta
cape from Julia’s suit. Rafa follows patiently behind his friend, knowing Fuga will never leave him behind. He will not cross the margin of the pasture without a prayer.

Rafa kneels in front of the barbed wire with his friend. “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.

115

The night is thick with the smell of grass. The bulls graze quietly in a herd, fifty yards away. Fuga stands near the grouping, making a single connection. He does not taunt nor jeer the animal toward him. The bull willingly departs the herd and walks to face Fuga. Two meters lie between them. The full-grown bull stands large, head and horns level with Fuga’s shoulders. Rafa steps silently away from his friend so he is close enough to aid but far enough to remain separate.

The
muleta
hangs from Fuga’s extended left hand in a graceful drape. His left foot slides in lengthened step under the cape, shifting weight to his right hip. Rafa stands, breathless, watching El Huérfano’s form emerge, waiting for the subtle movement of the cape. A moment passes. The cape does not move. El Huérfano remains in magnificent stance, but unmoving.

Why is he not twirling the cape? Why does he stand as a statue? The stillness continues. Rafa does not dare speak, nor interrupt the exchange between Fuga and the bull. This is presence. The moment of complete stillness feels divine. Transcendent.

Bang.

The sound.

No.

No.

No.

The bullet enters Fuga through the back. The force of the shot propels his chest forward, pulling his shoulder blades together. He takes a single step and falls to his knees, surrendering at the feet of the bull. Bubbles of blood trail down the back of Fuga’s thin cambric shirt. The animal runs back to the herd.

Rafa charges to his friend. He slides across the grass, pulling Fuga onto his lap. He is still breathing. His body trembles. Rafa feels the life and blood of his best friend seeping through his own trousers.

“
Amigo
,” gasps Rafa. “I am here.”

Fuga’s eyes are open but vacant. His hand extends, searching for Rafa. Their palms clasp. “
Sí
,” says Rafa, cradling his closest friend, unable to stop the oncoming tears.

“Rafa.
Hermano
.”

“
Sí
. Brothers. I am here, brother. I am always here.”

“
Hermano
,” stammers Fuga.
“El fin.”

“No.” Tears spill down Rafa’s face. “You’re going to be okay. Please. It’s not the end.”

Fuga’s body shudders. His fingers slowly surrender their grip of Rafa’s hand.
“Sí. El fin.”
Fuga’s lips flutter as they release their final whisper. “Rafa, do not . . . be afraid.”

Fuga’s body liberates the tension of life force.

“
¡Amigo!
” wails Rafa. “No. Please.
¡Hermano!
”

Rafa sobs, clutching and rocking the body of his friend so tightly he feels nothing, nothing but Fuga’s warm blood pooling in his lap.

Overcome with shock and anguish, Rafa doesn’t feel the barrel of the gun—even as it touches the back of his own head.