The Fountains of Silence (14 page)

28

Carlitos makes his way into the basements in search of Ana. His cheery whistle dances off the walls as he winds through the underground maze. She is nowhere to be found. He heads to the staff break room. Lorenza stands in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Women in Spain don’t smoke, especially not in public. It’s considered vulgar and indelicate. But while working at the hotel, some employees exploit American customs. Lorenza seems to exploit all of them.

“Have you seen Ana?” he asks.

Lorenza exhales a scarf of smoke, leaving a lipstick print the color of murder on the cigarette. “
Sí
, she was requested upstairs in the
Placita
. Why?”

“No reason. If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

Lorenza snaps the envelope from his hand. “Who’s it from?”

“
Ay
, Lorenza, give it back.”

She lifts the envelope to the light, trying to peer into it. “Don’t worry,
pequeñín
, I’ll give it to her.”

“No, the guest asked me to deliver it myself.”

Lorenza pulls the envelope to her chest and lowers her voice. “It’s from a guest? Which one? Is it Max Factor?”

The boy’s face wrinkles with concern, as if he’s committed a grave error. “It’s private, Lorenza. If you interfere I might not get a tip.” He clasps his hands together in a begging plead.

“Fine,
chico
. I’m just trying to help Ana. We don’t want her to get into trouble again.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Ana was in trouble?”

Lorenza pulls another drag on her cigarette. “
Uy
, you didn’t hear that from me. But let’s just say that Ana’s sweet smile might not be so sweet after all.”

“
Ay
, stop.” Carlitos grabs the envelope and leaves Lorenza to her cigarette.

He takes the service elevator up two levels to the shopping
Placita
. The
Placita
is a large cobblestone rotunda, surrounded by a circle of expensive stores. Originally a palace courtyard, the shopping area now features a men’s hat shop, a hair salon, a Spanish specialty store, and the couture boutique of renowned designer Pedro Rodríguez.

That’s where he finds Ana.

Carlitos peers through the storefront window and sees a slender woman wearing a long pink gown, covered with crystal flowers. Ana assists the tailor with a fitting. Carlitos stands by the door, unwilling to step into the underworld of sequins and silk. The fabric finery isn’t the only reason he is bashful. In most department stores in Spain, clothing is displayed on flat silhouettes. The mannequins in the hotel shop have a human female form, with curves and bumps. Some of the curvy mannequins wear revealing dresses.

“I have a delivery,” he calls out, looking away.

Much to his despair, the tailor waves him into the shop.

Ana kneels on the floor near the hem of the dress, taking instruction from the tailor.

“What do you have?” asks the tailor. His speech is garbled through fitting pins held in his mouth.

“A letter.”

He extends a hand to Carlitos.

“No,
señor
, not for you. For Ana.”

Ana’s head snaps to the boy. “For me?”

“It will have to wait. We’re nearly done,” says the tailor. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Carlitos gives a thick swallow. “Nearly done? But half of the dress is still missing,
señor
,” he whispers.

“It’s not missing. It’s a plunging back.”

Carlitos pretends to understand. “Oh. Where is she plunging?”

“No,
chico
, it means the back is open,” says Ana. “The dress is for the fashion gala at the American embassy.”

“
Ay
, the dress is for Americans. That’s good, we must keep Spanish girls like you out of trouble,” says Carlitos, doing his very best to sound mature.

“Ana, in trouble?” The tailor laughs. “Ana’s too nice to cause trouble.”

29

Trouble? Has someone seen the notes? Ana spies the envelope clutched tightly in the boy’s damp hand. The gold emblem. Her heart drops.

An official hotel envelope.

How could this happen? She swallowed the note days ago. She told no one, not even Rafa. She snatches the envelope from Carlitos and stuffs it in her apron pocket.

“
Bueno
, you may carefully remove the dress,” the tailor tells the woman, unzipping the side.

Ana follows the model to the fitting room and helps her remove the gown.

“
¡Ay!
You’re poking me with the pins. What’s wrong with you?” snaps the woman.

“
Perdón
. I’m sorry,
señorita
.”

“You should be sorry,” huffs the model. “I can’t have scratches on my skin wearing a dress like this.” She hands the garment to Ana and orders her out of the fitting room.

Ana looks at the beautiful pink gown, a gown she could never afford, a gown too revealing for Spain. The letter from the hotel peeks out of her apron pocket and her sister’s nervous warning floats back to her. She cannot lose this job. They have five mouths to feed.

Ana heads to the back of the shop, and after laying the dress on the tailor’s table, she slips behind a rack of jeweled dresses. She stares at her name on the envelope.

The handwriting is artistic, unique. Fingers trembling, she opens the flap, frightened to look inside. She removes the paper. It’s not a termination letter. It’s an advertisement.

Ana recognizes it immediately. It’s from
LIFE
magazine, an issue she peeked at in Daniel’s room.

The illustration features a handsome family around a table in an American kitchen. Everything sparkles, especially their smiles. But the ad is annotated. A large arrow points to an appliance. Above it is written,
REFRIGERATOR—ELECTRICAL
LY WARMED THERMOSTAT
,
CONTROLLED BUTTER-R
EADY
. Thought bubbles are drawn over the family members’ heads, exclaiming:

“Ana! We like ice!”

“Have any more ice?”

“Hooray for ice!”

And over the man’s head is written, “Ana, I have an idea!”

Relief floods through her. It’s a joke. From Daniel. She smiles and begins to laugh. A mirror on the wall hands back her reflection and the laughter knots into a catch of breath. The jeweled gowns shimmer next to her dark hair and olive skin. Expensive fabric has never touched Ana’s body, has never draped across her shoulders. She suddenly thinks not of herself but of someone else.

There are photographs. Her mother in gowns and beautiful jewelry. Attending elegant events. Dancing alongside those who will later order her arrest and imprisonment.

How different things could be. Why didn’t her family flee to Mexico or France like some of the others? She doesn’t speak of it, but on occasion tourists do.

“The little general is doing a fine job here,” they say. “Spain’s economy is picking up. See, things aren’t so bad here after all.”

It takes all the force within her to remain silent, to resist the reminder that they weren’t in Spain after the war. They haven’t seen hope eaten
by hunger and dignity destroyed. And now, in describing Madrid, the new guidebook says:
Everyone who isn’t a maid has one
.

Yes, Ana is a maid. Temporarily. Soon she’ll move to the business office. But for now that’s a secret dream. She once made the mistake of sharing a dream. How many notes will she have to swallow because of it?

Ana’s gaze returns to the mirror.

What possessed her to leave Daniel that magazine clipping? He’s a hotel guest. Yes, she’s assigned to his family but initiating private jokes with an American boy who lives the life of a prince? Foolish. But he’s so kind and they communicate so easily. It was just a bit of fun. She’s supposed to be conversational, isn’t she? It was rude to ignore his questions in the cafeteria. His family won’t give her a recommendation if she’s rude.

No. Why is she trying to rationalize? Because he’s handsome? She’s kidding herself.

Even in a country where both God and peasant are called
señor
, the line between “have” and “have not” is deeply carved. A singular truth shines revealing light.

Her sister is right.

The life and liberties Ana sees at the hotel do not belong to her. The war’s outcome will forever dictate her future. But . . . it’s just a bit of harmless fun.

She folds the envelope from Daniel and puts it back in her apron pocket.

No one needs to know.

30

The three-hour
siesta
is ending. Shutters part or rattle up, revealing storefronts awakening for business. Daniel makes his way to the camera shop. He looks for photo opportunities along the way, distractions from his mother’s telegram.

Madrid is a city of hardened soil. Amidst the heat and dryness, spots of color draw his lens. Hues emerge from the palette of children. Girls skip rope down the street in beautiful dresses. Boys bounce brightly colored balls.

“Children—they’re treasured in Madrid,” Ben told him during their lunch. “Contraception is illegal. Franco’s family policy laws reward parents with the most kids. Six to ten children is not uncommon. Big family photos.”

Daniel’s family photo is small. When he was little, he asked constantly for siblings. One night his father sat on his bed and gently explained that asking for siblings made his mom very sad. “Let’s not talk about that, okay, partner? We don’t want to make Mom sad.”

But many years later, his mother still seems sad. Perhaps that’s why they’re supporting an orphanage now.

There are colors of beauty in Madrid, but also colors of hardship. Ghosts of war walk the streets in Spain. Daniel passes blind lottery vendors, citizens missing limbs, young people using canes. Should he look directly at them and acknowledge their sacrifice or look away and honor their dignity? Are veterans treated differently in Spain than they are in the States? When Daniel was five, he told his parents he wanted to join the soldiers and fight in Germany. They bought him a toy
helmet and plastic grenades. His father, however, did not fight in the war and seemed relieved to have flat feet.

The wooden door to Miguel’s small shop stands open, but unattended.

“
Hola
,” calls Daniel, as he sets his camera on the counter.

He turns to the framed photos on the wall. One catches his eye immediately, pulling him closer. Young children sit on a sidewalk, playing a game. Behind them is a ruin of a building with ammunition holes the size of grapefruits. The door of the building is caved in. Stone shrapnel covers the area where the children play. The photo is signed in black ink.

Robert Capa
.

“Do you know his work?” Miguel asks, entering from the street.

“
Sí
, very well,” says Daniel. “How did you get a signed photo?”

“I developed it.” Miguel smiles, and his eyebrows, a winged mix of black and gray, rise as if they could take flight.

“You met him?”

“Many times. Some rolls with personal photos—he didn’t want them developed by the newspapers or magazines. We speak of film; let me get yours.” Miguel disappears behind the curtain.

Capa fascinates Daniel. Robert Capa was born Endré Friedmann, a Hungarian Jew, who fled to Paris. While exiled in Paris, Endré and his girlfriend created the identity of “Robert Capa.” They sold their photos to news agencies under the guise of an American photographer.

“Did you know him as Endré Friedmann or Robert Capa?” Daniel asks.

Miguel’s voice calls from behind the curtain. “Ah, you know the story. To me he was always Capa. His ruse was eventually discovered and abandoned, but the name ‘Robert Capa’ endured.”

Daniel considers the concept of alternate identity. What name would he choose?

“Do you know what his motto was?” calls Miguel from the back.

“
Sí
. ‘If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,’” says Daniel.

He returns his gaze to the photos on the wall. Capa’s photos make Daniel feel as if he’s inside them. But how close is too close? Three years ago, Capa died stepping on a land mine in Indochina.

Miguel returns with an envelope. “Photographs are personal. Perhaps you’d like to see them privately.”

“Not at all,” replies Daniel. “I’m a finalist in a photography contest in the States. I’d welcome your help.” He opens the paper sleeve and begins removing the photos. He doesn’t look at them. Instead, he quickly lays them on the counter, like he’s dealing from a deck of cards. Once all of the photos are displayed, Daniel steps back to evaluate. He immediately realizes: One photograph is missing.

The photo of the nun and the baby. It’s not among the pictures. He swears he pressed the shutter. The photograph should be there. He sees Miguel eyeing him from behind the counter.

Daniel quickly selects one picture and sets it off to the side, facedown. He chooses two more and moves them to a different position. He then creates two groups, arranged in lines. Miguel watches Daniel with fascination, as he assembles a narrative with the pictures.

“¿Qué piensas?”
Daniel asks Miguel for his thoughts.

Miguel studies the squares like a chessboard. He opens his hands, asking for Daniel’s permission.

“Por favor.”
Daniel nods.

Miguel moves the photo of the hungry girl outside the candy shop next to a shot of the Van Dorns’ lush dinner table.

“
Sí
,” agrees Daniel. “That’s good.”

Some lines create a narrative with pictures from the same setting. Others build a story by the positioning of opposites.

Daniel and Miguel stand in silent evaluation, arms crossed, brows
creased. Daniel suddenly jumps to the counter. He pulls the photos of children and creates a new line. The poor girl at the candy store window, Carlitos posing proudly in the hotel lobby, and the small son of an American diplomat in a miniature suit and tie.

“
Sí
,” applauds Miguel. “The next generation. The future.” Miguel then takes the photo of the American child and positions it between the two Spanish children.

“That’s it,” says Daniel. “America within Spain.”

They both smile, satisfied with the story threads they’ve created.

Miguel steps back from the counter. “
Muy bonito
. Is this how you always do it?”

“It’s not how I do it; it’s how I see it,” explains Daniel. “A single photo has to be powerful to tell a story on its own, like Capa’s. I haven’t mastered that yet. For now, I create stories by positioning things side by side. But—” Daniel reaches into the envelope for the negatives. “One photograph seems to be missing.”

“¿Ah, sí?”

Miguel remains silent while Daniel inspects his negatives. It’s there. The image is there. Why didn’t Miguel develop it?

Before Daniel can ask, Miguel points to the single photo that sits alone outside the groupings. He turns it over. It’s the photo of Ana, her bright smile reflecting amidst the multiple mirrors in the elevator.

“And this one? Where does she fit in?”

Daniel looks at the picture. It’s perfect. Natural and fun, like their conversation in the basement. “I guess that one’s a story all her own.” He begins to gather the photos.

Miguel bellows a hearty laugh, loud enough to float outside and bounce among the balls on the street. “That’s what Rafael would say.”

Daniel slides the photos back into the paper sleeve. “Rafael’s her boyfriend?”

Miguel watches Daniel avoid his eyes, yet wait for a reply.

“No, Texano,” he says quietly. “Rafa is her older brother.” And after a pause, “She has an older sister too.”

Daniel nods without raising his glance. He reaches for his wallet to pay. “
Gracias
, Miguel. But . . . I think you missed one frame on the strip.”

Miguel takes the money from Daniel and drums his tobacco-stained fingers on the counter. He disappears behind the curtain. When he reappears, he’s holding a photo. “
Ay
, I thought perhaps this one was a mistake.” He sets it on the counter.

The swirling robes of the nun. The empty stare of the dead child. The image is there, just as Daniel remembers it. It’s haunting, unsettling. There’s a story, but what is it? He should have paid more attention to his surroundings, to the buildings on the street.

Miguel clears his throat. “You’re very talented. But remember, Spain is not your country. Be careful,
amigo
.”

The Guardia Civil delivered a similar message. Daniel knows the words of caution are meant to dissuade him. They should.

But they don’t.