The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “Sure. It’d be fun to have another pair of eyes.” Daniel gives her the camera along with instructions, while the girl outside watches from behind the glass.

  Ana looks through the viewfinder. “Okay, say, ‘Texas boys like violet candy.’”

  “Wait, what?” Daniel laughs.

  And at that moment, when his smile is wide and eyes uncomfortably shy, Ana snaps the picture. “We have to hurry. Miguel will be closing the camera shop soon,” she says, moving toward the door.

  But Daniel is at the register, buying a candied chestnut wrapped in gold foil. “We’ll give it to the little girl outside,” he says, motioning to the window. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  Ana nods slowly.

  Of course she’ll like it. Any girl would like it.

  * * *

  The camera shop is the size of a long closet. Room for one and cramped with two; a wooden counter divides the small space. Between rows of shelves that hold film and accessories hangs a black curtain. The acrid and wet metallic scent of photo-developing fluid exhales from the back of the shop.

  “That smell, I love it,” says Daniel.

  “Ana!”

  Miguel emerges from behind the curtain wearing a timeworn Panama hat. His darkroom hours give him a youthful complexion for a man in his late fifties, but his hair and eyebrows have tones of a black-and-white photo.

  He greets Ana with a broad smile. “I was just about to close.”

  “I’m sorry, Miguel. I have a guest from the hotel. He speaks Spanish, so we won’t be long.”

  Miguel gives a wave of his hand, indicating that he doesn’t mind. His eyes shift to Daniel’s camera. “¡Caray! That’s a serious camera for a young man. Do you know how to use it?”

  “You’ll have to be the judge, sir.” Daniel removes a roll of film from his bag and winds a second from the camera.

  “I’ve only seen a couple of these new Nikons. Both with American journalists. They told me they paid over three hundred U.S. dollars for that camera. I hope it’s worth it.”

  The familiar pang of sadness thuds within Ana’s heart. Three hundred American dollars? That’s eighteen thousand pesetas. Eighteen thousand pesetas is more than the average Spaniard earns in five years. The cost of Daniel’s camera could move her entire family of five from their leaky hut in Vallecas to a decent apartment in Lavapiés, closer to the city center. The cost of the camera could eliminate the debts and threats that strangle her life. She thinks of the note she swallowed in the hotel basement. A shiver trills up her spine.

  “Yeah, it’s probably too nice for me,” says Daniel. “It was a gift for my graduation. But really, my old camera was swell.” He removes a portfolio from his bag. “I took these with my old camera.”

  Miguel slowly turns the pages of the album. “¡Ave María Purísima!” He points to a picture.

  “Sí,” says Daniel. “There was a tornado in Dallas last April. It obliterated sixteen miles and hundreds of homes.”

  Ana stares at the massive, twisting tornado. It’s positively demonic, unholy. And he was in front of it. “Weren’t you terrified?” she breathes.

  “I didn’t have time to think about it. I really wanted the shot,” says Daniel.

  Miguel continues to page through. He stops on a photo of dozens of men in cowboy hats. They stand in the dark, one light overhead, hands raised in the air. Fatigue and sunburn line their weathered faces.

  Ana peers at the photograph. “Who are they?”

  “Braceros,” says Daniel, “manual laborers from Mexico working in Texas. At the end of the day they’re inspected and searched, to make sure they haven’t stolen anything.”

  Miguel pauses, absorbing the image in front of him. “Qué duro,” he says quietly. Daniel nods in agreement. Rough.

  “This is Texas?” asks Ana.

  “Not all of it. Just part of it.” Daniel flips the portfolio forward several pages. “This is also Texas.”

  Ana stares at the black-and-white photos. A parched landscape dotted with oil rigs, bathed in a sunset of fire. The photo is so evocative she can imagine the colors. He turns the page. A lavish garden party. Carpets of thick grass surround a swimming pool that sparkles like a suit of lights. Groups of glamorous people cocktail and make merry against the backdrop of a massive estate.

  Miguel points to a young woman lying by the pool in a bikini. “She would be reprimanded in Spain.”

  “My mother claims some should be reprimanded for wearing them in America,” says Daniel, laughing.

  Ana eyes the picture. The woman looks beautiful, relaxed. There is nothing offensive about a bikini, but of course she could never say that aloud.

  Miguel picks up the rolls of film that Daniel has set on the counter. “What’s your name, Americano?”

  “Daniel Matheson.”

  Miguel reaches over the counter to shake hands. “I’m Miguel Mendoza. You have a clear eye, Daniel. You see many angles.”

  “Gracias, señor. I had a great teacher at school. Those photos were part of a contest I entered. So maybe it’s not fair. I’m showing my best work.”

  “Who knows,” says Miguel, holding up the two rolls of film. “Maybe this is your best work. They’ll be ready in a day or two.”

  Their words are muffled noise to Ana. She stares at the photo of the Texas garden party, absorbing every detail. Tables of endless food. Cardigan sweaters, strings of pearls, the nice teeth, glowing faces, the vibrancy of freedom. Young girls and boys stand around a phonograph, holding record albums. Women are smoking. Dozens of carefree people—happy instead of lonely—oblivious to the camera. And then she sees it. In the corner of the frame, a beautiful girl with beckoning eyes stares straight into the lens. She looks like a movie star. She’s blowing a kiss to the photographer.

  “I should return to the hotel,” says Ana. “I have to mend your mother’s blouse.”

  “Sure,” says Daniel, sliding the portfolio into his bag. They bid goodbye to Miguel.

  Ana rushes through the street, back to the Metro station. Daniel jogs to catch up. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m taking too much of your time. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”

  Ana shakes her head. “My work is helping your family, señor. The hotel has assigned me to you. And besides, I really like your pictures.” Ana’s steps slow. She turns on the sidewalk, looking up at Daniel. “May I ask you a favor, señor?” She pauses, gathering strength. “The picture you took this morning in the elevator. Please don’t give my picture to anyone.”

  His eyes are upon her as the hot breeze lifts her thick hair. “No, I would never share your photo without your permission. I’ll give it to you.”

  Ana exhales relief. They resume their steps toward the Metro. After several yards, Daniel volleys back. “Ana, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course, señor. What is it?”

  “Don’t call me ‘señor.’ Call me Daniel.”

  She pauses, waiting on the reluctant words as they rise to the surface. “I’m sorry, that’s impossible, señor.”

  Ana looks away, confident that concealing her face will conceal her truths.

  16

  Puri sits on the grass, wearing her black pinafore apron embroidered with a cluster of arrows. A little girl points. “Look, the arrows on your apron match the arrows on the building.”

  “Very good!” Puri looks up to the familiar emblem etched into the exterior of the Inclusa.

  The Inclusa spans three large stone buildings, positioned in a U-shape, with a plaza garden in the middle. Puri likes to mentally remove the exterior walls and imagine the Inclusa like a dollhouse. The lower floors house dining areas, administration offices, a medical wing, and learning rooms. The upper floors are divided into sections with the capacity to house five hundred children and a hundred mothers.

  Puri looks to the base
ment windows at ground level. In the farthest corner of the basement is a private file library. The file room is locked, accessible only to the nuns and doctors. She can’t help but wonder—why is it always locked?

  “¡Toro!” yells a boy, racing by Puri.

  Most children delight in being outdoors, anxious to run and jump. On sunny days, Puri and the mothers bring the children outside in shifts. The doctors advise that without adequate sun exposure the orphans may develop rickets, skeletal deformities that cause bones to soften and bow. Fortunately, medical care is rigorous at the Inclusa. But Puri hears some physicians lament that mortality rates of newborns in Spain are particularly high. Cases of polio increase each year.

  “Other countries have a new vaccine for polio. Why aren’t we using it in Spain?” asked one of the young mothers.

  “Maybe other countries need a vaccine. They don’t have the faith to pray it away,” replied Sister Hortensia. “The Holy Spirit will see to polio.”

  Will it?

  Puri wonders. She wonders so many things but is reprimanded for her questions.

  When the radio broadcasts announce, “Spain is the chosen country of God,” does that mean that God has abandoned other countries? And if foreigners are indecent, why is Spain catering to them as tourists?

  “Why must you question everything?” scolds her mother. “Have you no faith?”

  She most certainly has faith, but she also has questions. Can’t she have both? Puri turns to watch a group of six-year-olds sitting under the silvery leaves of an olive tree. She worries about the older children. Newborn babies are the most desirable for adoption. It is more difficult to find homes for the older orphans. If the child’s parents or grandparents were known to be Spanish Republicans, those who opposed Franco during the war, then the child must be rehabilitated and reeducated as a rational human being. Puri heard one couple tell Sister Hortensia that they didn’t want a child who had been “circling the drain.” They said they wanted an infant—“a bright, fresh canvas.”

  It made no sense to Puri. Shouldn’t the most vulnerable children be rescued first? When she asked her mother, even she agreed.

  Puri knows all of the six-year-olds by name. Soon they will be gone. If a child reaches seven and is not adopted, they are taken out of the Inclusa and sent to separate boarding schools for boys and girls. The orphan girls receive more assistance. Puri hears that at the age of fourteen, a matchmaking process secures husbands for the girls.

  “Isn’t fourteen young?” she once asked.

  “Enough questions. One is never too young to honor their country,” replied Sister Hortensia.

  Thankfully, the children ask as many questions as she does.

  “Are the arrows on the building a scar? I have a scar,” says a boy, pointing to his arm.

  “No, chico, that’s an etching on the building. Your scar is special. It’s warrior skin, very strong,” Puri assures the boy, rubbing his thin arm and wishing she could remove all of their scars.

  To Puri, the children’s beauty certainly eclipses her own. Her frame is so much wider than her mother’s. Her brown hair is not shiny like other girls’, not nearly as pretty as her cousin Ana’s. It seems unfair that Ana and Julia received all of the family beauty. But she would not trade places with either of them. Their parents were Spanish Republicans. In school, Puri learned that Spanish Republicans killed many priests during the war. How could someone kill a priest or a nun?

  Sister Hortensia appears in the garden. She walks slowly around the edge of the grass, hands hidden beneath her thick white robes. Only her face is exposed, framed by the starched coif of her habit. Are nuns also susceptible to rickets?

  Sister Hortensia is squat, with a strong jaw softened by gentle eyes. Sister devotes her entire existence to the protection and care of the orphans. She is firm with the children, yet kind. Some young mothers at the Inclusa whisper about Sister Hortensia. They prefer Sister Pilar, a woman of their own age, with a loving laugh and patient heart.

  Although Puri respects Sister Hortensia, a tiny part of her fears her. If what the young mothers whisper is true, Sister Hortensia has tremendous power. And now, out of the corner of her eye, Puri watches the wooden rosary swing from Sister’s robes as she moves closer. A small boy tugs at Puri’s hand, pulling her attention to the children. A little girl tries to braid her hair. A third child climbs onto Puri’s back.

  “Good afternoon, Sister,” greets Puri. Sister Hortensia nods and then stops, staring at her. Puri feels the nerves beneath her skin begin to tiptoe. She glances down at her apron. It’s smeared with diaper cream and talcum from the nursery. Cleanliness is a sign of spiritual purity. “I’m sorry, Sister.”

  Sister gives a forgiving nod, turning her gaze to the row of olive trees. She speaks without looking at Puri. “I saw you from the window yesterday. A woman approached you on the street. What did she say?”

  Puri is eager to share the odd experience. Perhaps Sister will have answers.

  “She was confused. She was told that her baby had been taken for baptism. The child was never returned to her. She asked if he was here.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Well, I explained that he could not be here, that this is an orphanage. And then she scurried away. I think the poor woman was suffering emotional distress.”

  “Indeed,” agrees Sister Hortensia. “Pray for her,” she says, and walks away.

  Puri nods. She wants to ask if emotional distress can be prayed away like polio, but tucks the thought aside. She asks too many questions.

  17

  “Welcome back, señor!”

  Carlitos greets Ana and Daniel at the entrance of the hotel. “No telegram yet,” he announces.

  “Gracias, Carlitos,” says Ana.

  The round upper lobby of the hotel brims with people, all chattering in English. Daniel sees his mother, as well as Shep Van Dorn and Ben Stahl, the reporter.

  “It’s the monthly luncheon for the American Club of Madrid,” whispers Ana.

  A voice appears from behind. “And what are you two doing?”

  The voice belongs to Nick Van Dorn. He stares intently at Ana. “Hello, Ana,” he says, and then nods to Daniel.

  Daniel nods in reply, noting Nick’s unbroken gaze toward Ana.

  “Buenas tardes,” says Ana quietly. After an elastic pause, she adds, “I was on errands for the Mathesons. I’m sorry, but I’m in a rush. I have a task to finish for Señora Matheson.”

  “Thanks again for your help,” says Daniel.

  “My pleasure, señor.” She turns and darts through the crowd.

  “How do you know her?” asks Daniel.

  “Just a friend,” replies Nick. “Come on, have lunch with us.”

  Daniel eyes the men in suits and ties. “I’d better change first.”

  “Nah, then you’ll be boring like the rest of us. Let the girls think you’re the Marlboro Man.”

  Daniel follows Nick to the circular upper lobby, where beverages are being served. Waiters balancing silver trays of sangria thread through dozens of well-heeled guests. Nick helps himself to a drink.

  “Most of these people are families of American diplomats or officers from the U.S. air bases,” explains Nick. “The hotel is constantly hosting functions for them.”

  Daniel spies Paco Lobo, the hotel’s resident guest, petting the bilingual parrot that serves as the lobby mascot. He’s about to reach for his camera when he hears the laugh.

  It belongs to his mother. It’s not her real laugh, it’s the one she uses when she’s nervous. Turning toward the counterfeit sound, Daniel sees Shep Van Dorn regaling his mother with a story.

  Nick lets out a breath of disgust upon seeing his father. “Where’s your dad?” he asks.

  Daniel shrugs. “Probably working. He’s always working.” And somehow always working against m
e, thinks Daniel. He’d love to tell his father about Miguel and the camera shop but knows he’d dismiss it as a waste of time.

  He follows Nick through the crowd toward Ben.

  “Do you know who Ben’s talking to?” asks Nick. Daniel shakes his head.

  “That’s Max Factor Jr., the Hollywood cosmetics mogul. He and his wife are staying at the hotel. Franco allows some of the Hollywood studios to shoot movies here.” Nick approaches, close enough to listen but not interrupt.

  “When I saw the black winged hats and long coats, I assumed it was a costume and they were filming,” says Factor with a laugh. “I was going to mention our new product line.”

  “Trust me,” says Ben, “the Guardia Civil are not actors. Where did you see them?”

  Daniel takes a step closer. His stomach drops a step back.

  “Around the corner an hour ago, speaking to a hotel employee. Thankfully, the little bellboy stopped me before I pitched Hi-Fi to them. It’s a new foundation that’s lighter than our Pan-Cake makeup used for Technicolor. Don’t imagine you’d be interested in covering the new Hi-Fi line for the Tribune, would you, Ben?”

  Ben’s hair is immaculate but his dress shirt is missing a button and shows freckles of a prior meal. His generous stomach makes his tie appear short. “Sorry, Max, I focus more on world news,” says Ben.

  Max sees the drift of Ben’s gaze and turns to Daniel.

  “Well, howdy there, partner. Are you straight off a movie set?” asks Factor.

  “No, sir, just inappropriately dressed for the function,” says Daniel.

  “Nonsense. Nothing wrong with being comfortable, young man.”

  But he isn’t comfortable. Despite Mr. Factor’s compliment, he knows his mother will be annoyed that he’s underdressed.

  “Let’s get this kid into a Hollywood picture,” says Factor.

  “Dan’s a photographer, not an actor,” says Ben.

  “Really? Sure seems like he belongs on the other side of the lens.”