by Ruta Sepetys
Nick nods and disappears into the crowd. Daniel spends another fifteen minutes snapping photos and declining invitations to dance. He’s making his way to the door when Ben grabs him.
“Dan, hurry. It’s Nick.” Ben pulls Daniel through a back door into an alley behind the hotel. Nick writhes on the cobbled ground while two men hover above kicking and punching.
“Hey!” yells Ben, approaching. “Knock it off.”
“Not your business, culón. Go back inside.”
The assailant, charged with adrenaline, shoves Ben while the other continues to punch Nick. His fist makes an awful cracking noise across Nick’s jaw.
“Oh Christ,” says Ben, stumbling, “they’re gonna kill the kid. I said, knock it off!”
Nick has clearly surrendered, overpowered by the two men. Daniel hands Ben his camera. “Come on. That’s enough,” he says, advancing between them. He pulls the man off Nick. As soon as he does, they both turn their attention to Daniel.
“Look, I have no problem with you,” says Daniel. “You should leave.”
One man nods to the other. “Nenaza.”
The word creates a strange pulse at the base of Daniel’s throat. He doesn’t want trouble with his father. He doesn’t want trouble with the guards. But, no, he’s no sissy. Daniel’s feet move into stance.
The men lunge toward him, fists swinging. His coach’s voice is in his ear.
Hands up. Elbows low. Move your head.
Left-hand jab to the face, right-hand punch to the body. Dodge. Breathe out when you punch. They’re brawlers, not boxers.
Broken nose. First man down. Keep your feet moving. Always look at your target. Pivot. Stay alert but stay calm.
Throw the hard punch when you’re sure you can land it.
He lands it.
* * *
Ben grumbles from the back seat of the taxi. “Jiminy Christmas, Nicky. What did you get yourself into this time? What a pounding. And the night was just getting started. It’s barely three a.m.” Ben lights a cigarette. “Hey, Dan. Dan! You okay up there?”
Daniel turns around from the front seat. His face is streaked with sweat. “I’m fine, but will they call the police?”
“Don’t worry, the hotel knows to call Shep with Americans, not the police,” says Ben.
“Really, they can’t call the police,” stresses Daniel.
“You got a rap sheet, cowboy? Relax, they won’t call the cops,” says Ben.
Nick groans. He’s slumped next to Ben in a heap of bloody towels. His face is battered and swelling. Daniel raises his camera and looks through the viewfinder.
Ben nods. “It’s a good shot. He won’t mind. Not after what you did, Matheson.”
Daniel snaps a picture as they speed to the hospital.
42
Ana turns and looks over her shoulder. Her wavy, dark curls swing gently, taking flight. The crystal flowers on her pink gown create shards of colored light, as if glowing through a prism. They glisten upon her bare back. Daniel snaps a picture.
“Dan. Wake up, fella.”
Daniel opens his eyes. Shep Van Dorn stands in front of him. Crisp blue suit, red tie, shoes with high shine. Daniel rubs his eyes.
“Where’s Ben?”
“He left. You were sound asleep,” says Shep.
“Is Nick okay?”
“He’ll recover.” Shep sits down. “Dan, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate what you did. The doctors said one more blow and the damage could have been permanent or fatal. Ben said you fought hard to defend Nick.”
“Why did they go after him?”
Shep lowers his voice. “Nick’s had a rough couple of years. It’s difficult being a diplomat’s kid, hard to make true friends when you’re moving so often. But sometimes Nick’s his own worst enemy. He recently fell into some gambling debt. Of course I never imagined it would come to this and that you’d be dragged into it.”
Van Dorn takes a measured breath. “Your father’s going to have my hide when he hears of this. He was adamant about keeping you out of trouble. I owe you one, Dan. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask. I mean that.”
“No one’s going to call the authorities, are they?” asks Daniel.
Shep shakes his head. “As public affairs officer, I manage American affairs privately—if you know what I mean. Franco’s men are trained to shoot, no questions asked.”
Daniel takes a breath. No questions asked. It feels like the mantra for Spain.
* * *
Before leaving the hospital, Daniel stops to look in on Nick. His face—the color and shape of a deformed plum—is monstrous with swelling.
“Hola, prizefighter,” says Nick. “They’ll discharge me by tonight, in time for us to go back to the club. Think my face will be ready by then?” He laughs and then winces in pain. “Did my old man find you?”
“Yeah. We spoke.”
“He’s worried that your dad will be angry.”
“My father knows I fight. I’ve done some boxing in Texas.”
“Really?” Nick shakes his head. “You’re a riddle, Matheson. I owe you one.”
Why do both Nick and his father speak so freely of “owing”? Daniel wonders. “You don’t owe me anything. Get some rest.”
“Take a picture. I know you want to. I’ll hang it in my dorm room.”
Daniel looks through the viewfinder of his camera. Lying in the hospital bed is a young man with every opportunity. Despite being a slick diplomat, Shep seems reasonable and would probably pay for J-School or any school Nick wanted. Father-son dynamics. A complex portrait, indeed.
Daniel snaps a picture.
43
“¡Buenos días, señor!” Carlitos meets Daniel at the entrance to the hotel, bouncing with enthusiasm.
“Hola, Buttons.”
“May I see?”
“See what?”
Carlitos points to Daniel’s hands. “Tex-has! Pow! Pow!”
Daniel slides his hand into his pocket. “How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knows, señor.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“The hotel staff at the nightclub saw. The two bad men who hurt Señor Van Dorn tried to hurt you too. They say you punched them both, while the newspaperman was smoking. Did they have big knives?” asks Carlitos, pointing to the blood on Daniel’s dress shirt.
Daniel walks into the hotel. Carlitos trails close behind, peppering him with questions. If Carlitos knows, has the news already reached his parents? He dreads his father’s reaction. He’ll tell him the truth. But what is the truth? That it felt good to fight?
The morning quiet of the lobby falls even more still as Daniel walks across the chessboard-marble floors. Employees cease talking and silently watch him make his way to the elevator. A young porter points and whispers.
The elevator climbs to the seventh floor. The attendant does not make eye contact. Instead, he clings to the wall, keeping distance from Daniel. In the mirrors of the elevator, Daniel sees his reflection. His left hand is caked with freshly clotted scabs. His dress shirt is torn and bloodied. He’s missing his tie.
Daniel holds his camera to the side and snaps a self-portrait in the mirror.
Hoping to avoid his parents, he quickly walks past their suite and quietly enters his own. A note has been slipped under the door.
AT MEETINGS. HEARD ABOUT YOUR NIGHT. LET’S KEEP IT BETWEEN US. YOUR MOTHER IS RESTING. WE LEAVE FOR TOLEDO THIS AFTERNOON IF YOU’D LIKE TO COME ALONG.
—DAD
Let’s keep it between us. No reprimand? No anger?
The suite has been cleaned. Has Ana been there? A large silver tray sits upon the table in the center of the room. Fresh juice, coffee, a large plate of churros with a cup of chocolate, and a small bucket of ice. Daniel p
uts several ice cubes in the cloth napkin and presses them against his torn fist. He leans back in the chair, exhausted. He is about to close his eyes, but then he sees it. A newspaper, strategically folded and propped next to the coffeepot, displays a photograph.
He’s in it.
44
There is a category of unspeakable things, a dark drawer where inexpressible truths live in exile. Julia knows them well.
Don’t speak. Don’t tell.
Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut. That’s what her aunt Teresa says.
Julia sits in the corner of the shop, repairing a pair of trousers for a matador. The ornate embroidery that scrolls down the outside of the leg is expertly designed and measured to flatter the matador’s frame. Julia tugs at her thread, pulling it taut.
When life is hectic, Julia is able to keep thoughts and questions tucked in the back of the drawer. Today, during a rare quiet of early morning, her thoughts turn gently inward as she works. Each stitch a meditation.
What is the cost of silence? If she remains quiet about her suspicions, is she granting acceptance of what is happening? If she imposes silence upon Ana and Rafa, what is that telling them? That she is ashamed of their parents? Their parents did nothing wrong. They were academics, hardworking, sophisticated people. Their father wanted to create a school outside of the Catholic Church. That is all.
Her mind reaches deeper into the drawer. That is not all.
After the Francoists killed her father, Julia’s mother joined the resistance. Despite the pleas of friends and family, her mother secretly sewed Republican flags for nearly a year. When Franco’s troops arrested her, no one came to her aid. Neighbors hid behind their curtains, full of fear and panic. Those who shared her convictions did nothing to protect her. The price was too high.
They shaved her head in prison. They branded her bare flesh with the yoke-and-arrow symbol of the Falange. They force-fed her castor oil so she would soil herself. They paraded her mother through the streets, human dignity excreting down her legs for all to see. Their mother, a teacher, became a human billboard:
This is what happens when you become a Rojilla, a little Red.
There is so much heartache, so much pain. Tired of being fearful, tired of being hungry—most days Julia is too tired to fight. But keeping the drawer of secrets tightly locked doesn’t mean she condones the dictator or the Falange. It means she wants to protect all that remains. So she repeats Aunt Teresa’s mantra: Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut. Life is prettier with its mouth shut.
Her siblings feel otherwise. Full of energy, they long for truth and justice. It is difficult for the younger generation. Rafa believes he can liberate himself through the conquering of fear. He will assist the gravedigger matador. The bullring will become his theater of courage. Ana believes she can author her own destiny and eventually leave Spain. But her sister’s dreams are too large. Too dangerous. Ana thinks Julia does not see her pain. She does. Last night Ana cried herself to sleep after returning from her day at the hotel. Her sister’s tears, the audible famine of isolation, it made her cry as well.
“Julia.”
The drawer of thoughts closes. Her boss, Luis, stands at the front of the workshop. “May I speak with you?”
Julia follows Luis through the workshop to his small office. He closes the door and motions for her to sit.
“I want you to see this, before someone else does.” He hands Julia a newspaper and points to a photo.
The caption reads:
America’s Distinguished Sons—Nicholas Van Dorn, son of embassy diplomat, and Daniel Matheson, son of Texas oil baron, attend the fashion gala at the U.S. Embassy. The model wears a gown from the Pedro Rodríguez boutique at the Castellana Hilton.
Julia stares at the photo. Some people appear awkward in glamorous clothing. Ana is not one of them. She wears the expensive dress more naturally than her threadbare clothes or hotel uniform.
Julia looks at the tall, dark-haired Texan. Ana mentioned that she is assigned to his family for the summer. She did not mention his looks. Handsome. His suit is expensive, privately cut, and expertly tailored to his strong frame. His tie is imported from Italy; Julia can tell by the size of the knot.
The photo speaks a private language. Ana leans toward the Texan. The Texan leans toward Ana.
“I saw the photo and nearly fell off my chair. At first glance I swore it was your mother. She looks so much like her,” says Luis.
Julia smiles softly. “She looks exactly like her. She’s beautiful.”
“And that one. He’s the one you told me about?” asks Luis.
Julia sighs and points to Nick Van Dorn. “Yes, he’s the one.”
45
“I have an important meeting. I am not to be disturbed. Do you understand, Purificación?”
“Yes, Sister,” says Puri. “But . . . did the boy find my surprise from Ratoncito Pérez?”
“Indeed. He was overjoyed.” Sister Hortensia removes a small envelope from her desk drawer and hands it to Puri. “I’m going to trust you with something important. While I am in my meeting, take the tooth downstairs and put it in the boy’s file. The file number is on the envelope. Are you responsible enough to handle this?”
“Yes, Sister.” Puri slips the small envelope with the tooth into the pocket of her apron.
“Good.” Sister removes a large ring of keys from her rope belt and extends a key to Puri. “You will give the keys to Sister Pilar when you are finished.”
Puri swells with pride. She has won Sister’s trust. As long as Puri can remember, her parents have been overprotective, not allowing or trusting her to explore on her own.
The locked file room, located underground, is generally off-limits to anyone but the doctors, nuns, and priests. The dark basement is much cooler than the upper floors. The heavy keys echo in the windowless space as Puri unlocks the door. Her hand feels along the rough stone wall for a light switch. She pushes the button and a dim, caged light glows from above. Puri decides it’s best to do her work in private. She shuts the door.
Rows of wooden filing cabinets create aisles in the room. Puri walks down the lines of cabinets, looking for the range of numbers that will house the envelope in her hand. She finds the drawer and pulls it open. The files are neatly arranged in numeric order.
“There you are,” says Puri, retrieving a file. She puts the envelope with the tooth in the file. She pauses, curious. What sort of information is kept in the files? She begins to leaf through. The file contains the child’s arrival form, annual medical summaries, classroom reports, and various other notations and correspondence. A postmarked envelope addressed to Sister Hortensia is included in the file. Should she? Puri peeks inside.
Thank you for your letter, Sister. I am happy to hear that José is a good little boy and that you feel he is gifted and smart. Unfortunately, we cannot accept him back at home. We have seven other children and no means to care for them. José will be better off with an adoptive family. Since he is smart, he will be able to make his own way in life.
Puri’s heart sinks. How could parents not want their son back? How can a six-year-old make his own way in life? Adopting couples and families want newborns, perfect infants they can raise as their own. Chances are very slim that a family will adopt the sweet boy. This means that José may never feel truly wanted or loved. She returns the file to the cabinet and closes the drawer. Puri is grateful for the information. She will dote on little José. It is her duty to serve the children.
Heartsick, Puri suddenly thinks of Clover. She makes her way down the cabinets and looks for 20 116. She finds files for 20 115 and 20 117. The file for 20 116 is missing. Perhaps Sister Hortensia has the file in her office because she is so actively looking for a good home for Clover?
Near the door, Puri spies a ta
ble with several files. Maybe Clover’s is among them. She opens an unmarked file and sees columns with the assigned numbers that correspond to each orphan. In a row to the right of each number is a list labeled ADOPTION FEES.
They can’t be correct.
Puri looks at the numbers more closely. The figures are astronomically high.
She scrolls the list to find 20 116. She runs her finger across the line and lands on Clover’s adoption fee. There has to be a mistake.
200,000 pesetas.
46
Rafa steps into the dark confessional box. He kneels and awaits the priest. Bound by the sacramental seal of confession, Rafa knows the Vallecas priest will not divulge his sins. The words spoken in confession are guarded by complete confidentiality.
The small square window slides open and through the latticed screen, Rafa sees the silhouette of Father Fernández. He greets the priest with the sign of the cross.
“Hail Mary the Purest.”
“Conceived without sin,” replies the priest.
“It has been seven days since my last confession.” Rafa takes a breath. “Padre, I have trespassed upon another’s property.”
“And where were these sins committed?”
“In the pasture of Don José Isasa Cuadros, Padre.”
The priest remains silent.
“Oh, and I fibbed again to my sisters. They still don’t know about my girlfriend.”
Rafa clears his throat. “For these and all my sins, I ask pardon of God, penance, and absolution of you, Padre,” he recites.
Rafa hears the priest breathing behind the screen. He issues the penance.
Rafa begins. “I am deeply sorry for all of my sins and for offending Thee, my God, who art deserving of all my love. I detest my sins and will make efforts to do better.”
