The Fountains of Silence (46 page)

126

The confrontation with Sister Hortensia remains trembling inside of Puri. Her stomach rolls, dread pounds at her temples. The threats. What should she do?

“What’s wrong with you, Puri?”

“It’s late and I’m very tired. I want to go to bed.”

“It’s an emergency,” scolds Puri’s mother, clutching the large bag to her chest. “Julia wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”

Puri exits the taxi in the dark and follows her mother through the pitted road into the village of Vallecas. They pass a shawled woman sitting outside a shack who gives them a prickled stare.

“Do you know where you’re going?” whispers Puri.

Her mother nods.

“You’ve been here before?”

Her mother doesn’t reply. More secrets.

Puri has never visited Ana’s house. Generally, the family meets in a café.

Doors to the shacks stand open, allowing the heat of summer to escape. Puri eyes the crumbling, huddled structures and the people inside. A sewage trench carves its way through the side of the road. This is where they live? How could her parents allow it? Why haven’t her parents brought them to live at the apartment? It would be crowded but certainly better than this.

Puri follows her mother and darts through an open door.

“Aunt Teresa,” gasps Julia. “Thank you for coming.”

“Is she any better?”

“No. She seems to be getting worse,” says Julia.

Puri stands in the doorway of the shack, hesitant to enter. Ana approaches and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “
Hola
, Puri.”

Ana’s beautiful face is forlorn. “Are you not feeling well either?” asks Puri.

Ana gives a sweet smile and shakes her head. “Our spirits are a bit low.”

“Where is Julia’s husband? Where is Rafa?” asks Puri.

“Antonio is at work. Rafa . . . he’s at work too,” says Ana.

“I don’t have any ice or rubbing alcohol,” says Julia.

Puri snaps to attention. “You mustn’t use either of those with an infant. Alcohol can seep into the bloodstream and lead to poisoning. If her fever is high, we must take her to the hospital.”

“No!” The response comes from Ana and Julia, in unison.

“No hospitals,” pleads Julia. “Please, Aunt Teresa.”

“I understand, dear,” she replies.

Have they all gone mad? Of course they should take the infant to the hospital. A fever indicates infection. If left untreated, the child could have a seizure or convulsions. While her mother digs through the bag she brought, Puri rushes to look at the baby.

“Remove the bundling and blanket,” instructs Puri. “It’s trapping the heat.”

Puri holds Lali while Julia pulls off the blanket. Lali cries of discomfort and fever. Once the blanket is removed, Puri dips it in a nearby bucket of water and begins to sponge the child. She looks down at Lali. Her heart goes still. A shiver rises to her skin.

Puri’s eyes dart to Julia. “What . . . what is this?” asks Puri.

“What do you mean?” asks Julia. “It’s my baby. She has a fever. Help me!”

Puri stares at the baby. She closes her eyes.

¡Virgen Santa! What have I done?

127

Daniel sits at the table, staring into the flickering flame of the candle. He runs his finger across the blue cursive, arched across the bottom of the plate.
Lhardy
.

Nick said he told Ana about the dinner. Did he? Or did he drink too much and forget?

His mother has been shopping for baby clothes, his father arranging immigration paperwork. He spent the day by himself.

Daniel walked through the entire cemetery. He stood alone in the empty metal shed thinking of Rafa and Fuga and the width between their lives and his own. He photographed the soft depression in the bed of straw that used to hold Fuga. He gathered what appeared to be Fuga’s sole possessions: a magazine clipping of a Miura bull and a small gold pendant with a crackled enamel image of Blessed Mother Mary. Carlitos will get them to Ana.

He picked up his last rolls of film from Miguel and had lunch with Ben to return the press pass.

“These are some of the pictures Miguel and I chose for the contest. Miguel reprinted the missing photos.”

Ben scans the line of images:

General Franco with his father—Shoeless children in Vallecas—Women in line for blood—Fuga in his suit of lights—Children saluting the photo of Franco—Champagne glasses on the Van Dorns’ dinner table—The nun with the dead baby—The empty infant coffins—The wicked silhouettes of the Guardia Civil.

Ben rustles with excitement. “Jiminy Christmas. These shots,
they’re downright provocative, Matheson.
Provocative
, that’s the word.” Ben exhales a snake of smoke. “That shot of the Guardia Civil—holy Moses.”

“Thanks. I need a title for the essay submission. I was thinking . . . ‘War After War.’”

“YES!” bellows Ben. “Quick, write that down!” He waves his cigarette enthusiastically, decorating his tie with flakes of burning confetti.

“But the ending,” says Ben, “add the bloody self-portrait that you took in the elevator mirror, the one after Nick’s fight. That shot, it shows rite of passage.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Your photos have the grit of Capa with the thirst of Dorothea Lange. And seeing a bloody young photographer? That tells a story in itself.”

Daniel nods, silent. He flips through the stack of photos and retrieves the print Ben speaks of. He tosses it on the table without looking at it.

Ben eyes Daniel and his enthusiasm retreats. “It’s not your fault, Dan. Entering a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. Lorenza’s to blame. She felt jilted and became vengeful. She stole the photos from your room. It was Lorenza, not your photos, that led them to Rafa and his friend.”

“How can you know that for sure?”

“I don’t. But what I do know is that you’re the real deal. You’re going to win this blasted photography contest, you’ll go to J-School, and you’ll come back and get your girl.”

“I love your optimism.”

“It’s undeniable. The world is full of Lorenzas: jealous, deceitful people. But you guys?” Ben grabs the stack of pictures, pulls two from the pile, and sets them side by side. It’s the shy picture of Daniel at La
Violeta and the picture of Ana, sweetly holding up her knife and fork. “Look at you two. That—is the truth.”

Daniel stares at the empty chair across from him. The waiters refill his water glass. He replays the room-service dinner with Ana in his head. They’re sitting on the floor, talking, laughing, so comfortable together. He can feel her fingers in his hair, grazing the back of his neck.

No. It’s not over.

An hour passes. Two. Three. The restaurant empties and quiet descends. Daniel sits alone amidst a room of vacant tables. The candle is nothing but a flicker of wick in a tiny well of wax. And suddenly, a figure appears, walking toward the table.

Declining offers from the waiters, Nick takes a seat.

They remain silent, one across from the other.

“You spoke to her?” Daniel finally says.

“In person. I went out to Vallecas.”

The hush of quiet speaks loudly. The pained look on Nick’s face is genuine.

“Her niece is sick. Rafa’s in jail. I told her she’s not thinking straight and—”

“Just tell me what she said.”

Nick takes a breath. “Dan, she says that if you truly do care about her . . . you won’t contact her.”

Daniel remains motionless, absorbing the painful remark while trying to fight the heartache rising quickly to his throat. He thinks of Fuga.
Don’t hurt her
. He vowed he wouldn’t. If he truly cares about her, he won’t contact her. That’s what she said.

“I’m sorry. Maybe—”

Daniel raises a hand to stop Nick, barely managing a whisper. “Got it.”

128

The plane ascends. Daniel stares out the window. The landscape, baked brown, fans out beneath him. He sees downtown Madrid, the cemetery, the hotel, Vallecas, and the road to Talavera de la Reina. He watches as Spain shrinks smaller and smaller. He watches until Ana vanishes beneath layers of cloud.

Has Carlitos discovered the box yet? He left it at the front desk. A letter to deliver to the ambassador. A letter to mail to Washington. Five silver dollars and his belt buckle.

Tex-has. Pow. Pow.

His eyes close, defending his masculinity against the rising tears. He is angry, gutted hollow, and so impossibly sad.

He wakes to the sound of a meal being served. He has no appetite.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” says his mother. “Hold your sister please while I use the restroom.” His mother hands the baby to Daniel.

His sister.

They came to Madrid for oil business. He’s leaving with a shattered heart and his parents are leaving with another child. Had they planned this all along? Did they adopt the child from the Inclusa? Daniel looks down at the infant.

She smiles at him, her face alive with joy and wonder. She quiets his pain.

“You’re happy,” he says. “Did your ears finally pop?”

She bats her tiny feet and in the process one of her socks falls off.
Daniel takes her foot in his hand. The baby’s smallest toe is nearly nonexistent. “You barely have a fifth toe,” he whispers. “Your foot looks like a four-leaf clover.”

The baby smiles and a dimple appears on her left cheek. Her eyes bind to his. They stare at each other.

“Thank you, dear,” says his mother upon her return.

“I’ll hold her for a while. She’s so happy. I like her,” says Daniel.

“Well, I hope so. She’s your sister now.”

“Did you see her foot?”

“There’s nothing wrong with her foot. She just has small toes. Don’t let your father hear you. He’s already groused about the cost of the adoption. She’s perfect.” His mother kisses the baby’s downy hair. “Aren’t you just the sweetest girl, Cristina? Isn’t everything just perfect?”

He hopes his mother feels that way when she returns to Dallas. She’ll have to cope with the questions. Adopting a child from a foreign country will set her even further apart from society. And Daniel has questions of his own. How much does it cost to adopt a child? Where did the empty coffins really come from? Who are the baby’s birth parents? As the girl grows up, will she wonder about them? And—

Will she long for Spain as he already does?