The Fountains of Silence (12 page)

22

Daniel stumbles through the swinging door into the room.

“Two more for the card game.”

Ana jumps from her chair. “
Señor
Matheson.” She looks from Daniel to the men playing cards. “This gentleman is a hotel guest.”

The men drop their cards and stand at attention.

“My apologies,
señor
,” pleads the man who drove him into the room. His eyes, taking in Daniel’s clothes, expand with fear. “We have hundreds of employees at the hotel. The corridor is very dark. I assumed you were staff, longing to join the game, but too shy to ask. I did not mean any offense.”

“None taken,” says Daniel.

Everyone stands in awkward silence. Ana looks to the clock on the wall and then to Daniel. “Can we help you with something,
señor
?”

Daniel shifts his feet, searching for an answer. “Sorry, I think I’m lost.”

The men’s shoulders, up near their ears, slowly retreat. They look to Ana.

“
Sí
, I’ll take him back.” She instructs Daniel to follow her into the hallway. “Wait here a moment.”

Ana disappears behind a door. When she reappears, her wet hair is pinned back and she is wearing a green apron with the hotel’s golden
C
crest.

“I’m sorry. I’m putting you back to work. Did you just return from a swim?”

Ana looks at him and laughs, the small gold of her tooth visible. “A swim? Of course not. You are so funny.”

“I am?”

Still smiling, Ana lowers her voice. “Employees are not allowed in the hotel pool,
Señor
Matheson. Those facilities are reserved for guests.”

“Oh, I thought . . . then why is your hair wet?”

Ana swallows hard. She looks to him and changes the subject. “You arrived very recently. You’re not quite adjusted to the time difference. Why don’t I take you back up to the lobby?”

Ana leads Daniel through the double basements. It’s an underground village with countless hallways and alcoves, like Ben described. The late-night pace of the downstairs world is a production all its own. They pass two bustling kitchens, a dedicated pastry workshop, and an entire room housing an enormous machine that makes ice.

Daniel eyes the food in the kitchens.

“Are you hungry,
señor
? Shall we send dinner up to your suite?” asks Ana.

“I can eat here.” He shrugs.

“I’m sorry, guests may not eat in the kitchen. They’ll bring a proper meal service to your room. It’s no trouble.”

Daniel hesitates. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

Ana’s eyes widen. She takes a small step back.

“Oh, I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position,” says Daniel quickly. “It’s just, my parents are gone. I don’t know anyone here yet.”

Ana nods slowly. She speaks to the kitchen staff and upon receiving permission, begins to fill a plate. “Follow me,” she says, carrying a loaded tray. She directs him into the empty staff cafeteria and chooses a small table near the door.

“Maybe we can sit over there?” He points to a larger table in the corner. “Quieter.”

Ana looks to the secluded corner, hesitating. “Well . . . I guess that’s okay. I am assigned to your family.”

Daniel stares at the tray Ana has prepared. Galician bread rubbed with garlic and topped with grated tomatoes and olive oil. Iberian ham and fire-roasted piquillo peppers.

He grins. “How did you know?”

“Your mother is Spanish. Traditional favorites. What are some traditional favorites in Dallas?”

“Chicken-fried steak, barbecue, pecan pie.” Daniel looks at her. “Why are you smiling?”

“Your Texas accent is really heavy when you say, ‘chicken-fried steak.’”

“Is it?” says Daniel. “What does it sound like?”

Ana’s attempt at a Texas accent results in a fit of laughter between them.

“If that’s what I sound like, no wonder people are looking at me,” laughs Daniel. “That’s terrible!”

While Daniel eats, Ana’s questions drive the conversation. “And why photography?”

“I’m not great with words, but I discovered I can say a lot with a photo,” shrugs Daniel. “Each roll is an adventure, waiting for the images to be developed. My mom supports it but my dad doesn’t.”

“No?”

“Nah, he wants me in oil. He needs to steer everything. When I was fifteen, I was too small to play American football. Dad feared I wouldn’t be able to hold my own so he enrolled me in boxing—anything to get me away from cameras and art. I was good at sparring and loved the technique behind it. But now that I’m a lot taller he’s suddenly decided he doesn’t want me boxing either. He says it’s not a good college sport.”

“Which college will you attend?” asks Ana.

“Well, I’m supposed to go to Texas A&M, but just between you
and me, I’ve been accepted to journalism school,” says Daniel. “I’m competing in a photo contest, and if I win, the prize money would fund the journalism program. But my parents aren’t exactly in the know about that yet.”

Ana nods.

“Now that you know my secrets,” says Daniel, grinning, “it’s only fair that you tell me one of your own.”

Ana lowers her voice and gives a quick glance over her shoulder. “My secret,” she whispers, pausing to pull out the suspense, “is that I’m very good at keeping secrets.” She laughs and leans back in her chair. Daniel throws a piece of bread at her.

Keeping secrets. He’s noticed. When he asks Ana questions, she quickly diverts. Their discussion sways like a dance. He steps forward with a question. She pivots back, holds for a moment, then moves in closer with a question of her own. Despite her caution, Ana has enthusiasm that’s natural, a shine underneath.

She leans in, changing topics. “Tell me, why do Americans love ice?”

Daniel leans in, challenging her earnestness. “Tell me, why do you ask such difficult questions?”

“Stop,” laughs Ana. “I’m being serious,
señor
.”

He shrugs. “I guess ice is just one of those things you get used to.”

Ana nods. “I imagine there are many lovely things to get used to in Texas.”

Daniel rocks back on the chair, looking at her expression of solemn curiosity. He wishes he could photograph it.

Ana opens her mouth to ask something else but changes her mind.

“What?” Daniel grins.

“I love reading American magazines and newspapers. It helps my English. I recently read something in a magazine. What does this mean?” Ana’s brow creases as she recites. “‘Rustproof aluminum
shelving . . . controlled butter-ready.’” She lets out a tiny exhale when she reaches the end.

“Those sound like features of an American refrigerator,” laughs Daniel. Ana smiles and laughs too. He looks at her. They’re close in age. She’s easy to talk to, but she’s holding back. He thinks of Ben’s comments.
What about the people of Spain? What is life like under a dictatorship?

“Ana, do you always work so late?” he asks.

“No. I stay overnight two days per week. Sometimes I babysit for the guests who—” She stops speaking and quickly begins to clear the dishes. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”

Daniel looks toward the door. Why did she halt the conversation?

They head up the staircase side by side. Daniel tries to catch her eye, but Ana stares straight ahead. “I feel like I’ve told you a lot about Texas. I’d like to know more about Spain,” he says.

“I’m not really the person to ask. The concierge can be of great help, though,” says Ana.

They arrive at the lobby and Daniel is certain—Ana is exactly the person to ask. She’s full of questions. Is it curiosity or is she gathering information? Regardless, he feels more comfortable with Ana in one day than he did after months of dating Laura Beth. There’s something inside Ana that’s natural and fun, but she’s roping it in. Is she following hotel rules, or someone else’s? Or maybe she’s following the master in Spain that Ben spoke of.

Fear.

23

There’s so much Ana wants to say. So much she wants to ask. Is she being rude? He’s a hotel guest. Should she apologize for not answering his questions? She thinks of the swallowed note, of Julia’s warnings, and decides to say nothing. She must remain silent.

Silence is so tiring.

“Now that you’ve found your way out of the basement”—she points down the hallway—“perhaps you’d like to visit the Rendezvous Room,
Señor
Matheson? It’s the hotel’s nightclub. It’s open until four a.m.”

“I’m not really interested in a nightclub.”

“Are you sure?” Ana smiles. “Nick is probably there.”

“Don’t you mean
Señor Van Dorn
?” jokes Daniel.

Color drains from Ana’s face. She stares at her feet. “Yes, of course.
Señor
Van Dorn. My apologies.”

“Ana, I’m joking. You call Nick by his first name. I want you to call me by mine.”

She stares at his boots, unable to meet his eyes.

“Ana, I wasn’t reprimanding you. You know that, right? I was only kidding.” He reaches out and touches her arm.

A desk clerk approaches. “A telegram has arrived for
Señora
Matheson.”

They both reach for it.

“Your mother asked me to deliver it to her room,” explains Ana, pulling the telegram in her direction.

“I have a key. I’ll put it in their room,” says Daniel, tugging it back toward him.

Ana’s breath quickens. “But your mother, she was very insistent. She might call from Valencia for the message.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll give it to her.”

Ana struggles to find words. “It felt like it might be important.”

“Then you can definitely trust me with it.” Daniel pulls the folded paper into his possession. “Thanks for everything, Ana. And please know, I was only joking.”

Ana nods slowly, watching Daniel make his way across the lobby with the telegram. He reaches the elevator and gives a wave. The fleeting sensation of fun from the basement disappears. The gold elevator doors close, leaving Ana with her one and only companion.

Loneliness.

24

They’re looking at 20 116, Puri’s favorite, the girl she calls Clover. Sister Hortensia grimaces. She stands next to Clover’s bassinet, arguing with a doctor. Across the room, Puri changes a baby’s diaper and strains to hear the conversation.

“It’s been nearly a month. I deserve an explanation,” says Sister Hortensia.

The infant wiggles under Puri’s grasp. She returns her attention to the little boy. He’s a diaper fighter. His short legs are rolls of pink fat. He’s jousting with them and enjoying every minute of it. It makes Puri laugh.

“Purificación!”

Puri stiffens at the sound of her name. She quickly pins the diaper and lifts the baby from the changing table. Worn from combat, he rests his tiny head on Puri’s shoulder.

She smiles and turns to Sister Hortensia. “He’s tired himself out.”

“Put the child down and come at once.”

Puri doesn’t want to put the child down. She wants him to rest upon her shoulder, to feel comfort, safety, and love after the diaper fight. She fears if she puts him down he might develop the trauma of loneliness the doctors describe. But she does as Sister Hortensia instructs. Her first duty is to follow orders.

Puri leans over Clover’s bassinet. The girl immediately responds to her, eyes wide and mouth curving into a smile.

“See, that’s lovely,” notes Sister Hortensia.

“She’s beautiful. Well, they’re all beautiful,” says Puri quickly. They’re not supposed to have favorites. The doctor nods and exits.

“Apparently not beautiful enough. The priest in San Sebastián informs me that there has been a change,” says Sister Hortensia.

“Oh no,” says Puri. “They’re not going to adopt her?”

Puri attempts to conceal her distress. Clover is a special girl who must have a special life. To live amidst the velvet-green mountains of San Sebastián, looking out upon the churning cobalt sea, this is the plan.

And then Puri remembers.

She recalls the article and her parents’ hushed conversation in the kitchen. The floppy Basque beret versus the jaunty military beret. The reported sign, illegally posted on a wall in San Sebastián, that says,
PLEASE REMEMBER
,
THI
S IS NOT SPAIN
.

The Basque people are an indigenous population with their own language and heritage.
El Caudillo
wants to unite everyone as Spaniards so the Basque language has been banned and some of their schools have been turned into jails.

Is this the reason Clover is no longer going to San Sebastián? Confused while eavesdropping and even more confused now, Puri wonders. Why is it all so complicated?

“Purificación!” scolds Sister Hortensia. “Stop daydreaming. We’ll need different photos. Have them focus on facial portraits this time.” She points to Clover, swaddled in a pink blanket. “See, like that she’s perfect.”

Sister Hortensia sighs and exits the room.

What does she mean,
like that
? Puri wonders.