The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

“In Vallecas? Ay, several years. It’s a special place, especially here in El Pozo del Tío Raimundo.” He swats a fly from his curly hair. “Where in America are you from?”

  “Dallas, north Texas.”

  The men who’d approached Daniel’s car stand at the nearby corner.

  “They don’t like outsiders,” whispers Rafa. “But really, we’re all outsiders. Here in Vallecas we are from many provinces of Spain—Andalucía, Extremadura—but Vallecas is a family of its own. We have to share with our family.”

  Rafa sets down the buckets and removes the package of American cigarettes from his pocket. He gives one cigarette to each man on the corner before heading to Daniel’s car.

  “You must be brave,” says Rafa. “One Texano against three Vallecanos.”

  “Bravery and stupidity are sometimes interchangeable.”

  Rafa lights up. “Yes! But fear brings dimension to our lives. Without fear we will never meet courage.”

  Daniel thinks on Rafa’s words, on the dimension he sees before him in Vallecas. Beneath his exuberant exterior, Ana’s brother radiates sincerity and heart. “Rafa, would it be okay if I take some pictures?”

  “Sure, why not.” Rafa stops walking. “¡Madre mía! Is that your car?” Rafa sprints to the vehicle. “Texano, take a picture of me with the car!” Rafa abandons the buckets and leans against the car with a casual air. “Wait! I have to be holding the keys.”

  Daniel tosses Rafa the keys and photographs him with the car. His smile is bright, like Ana’s, and contains two gold teeth.

  “I’ll give the photo to my girlfriend,” says Rafa. His smile suddenly disappears. “Ay, don’t mention my girlfriend to my sisters,” says Rafa. “Julia doesn’t want us to socialize outside of Vallecas. Besides, if I’m part of Fuga’s cuadrilla, I won’t have time for girls. And what about you?” Rafa grins. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Daniel shakes his head.

  Daniel and Rafa move the car to a nearby cemetery, where Rafa assures him it won’t be disturbed. They carry the buckets to the fountain for water, and Daniel takes photographs along the way. Amidst the poverty, there is beauty and camaraderie in Vallecas. People in the street stand tall, unapologetic. They wave Daniel forward with his camera.

  The line at the fountain snakes down the road.

  “It’s Sunday, the day we wash clothes and bathe,” explains Rafa.

  Children crowd around Daniel, slipping their tiny hands into his pockets fishing for coins. When they reach the fountain, Rafa pumps the long arm, sending water sloshing into a wooden pail held by a shrunken white-haired woman.

  “Should we carry the bucket for her?” asks Daniel.

  “She won’t let you. Besides, that woman is stronger than both of us combined,” says Rafa with a laugh. They fill their buckets and make their way back to the shack.

  “Have you heard of Agustín García Malla?” asks Rafa. Daniel shakes his head.

  “Malla was a bullfighter from Vallecas. In his very first fight, the bull tore his mouth apart. But he was very brave and continued to fight. He lacked the elegance of some matadors but he was long on courage. In the end, Malla was gored through the heart during a fight in France. You see, Texano, there are many here in Vallecas with rips and tears like Malla. When I need advice or time to think, I go to Malla’s grave. Sometimes I find answers there.”

  Daniel thinks on Rafa’s comments. He feels guilty. He doesn’t have to visit a grave for answers. When he has questions, he goes to his parents or teachers. When he is thirsty, he goes straight to his faucet. “And your parents?” he asks.

  Rafa looks to him, grief rising quickly to his face. He shakes his head. “War is a thief, isn’t it?” He coughs to clear the emotion from his throat. “And now,” says Rafa, kicking a stone in the road, “we work day and night to pay for our mother in the grave, even though we can never have her back. Life is a strange story.” Rafa’s head and shoulders twitch, as if he were trying to clear pesky flies of memory from his mind.

  Daniel has never known theft as Rafa does. He has never sipped from a bucket or bathed in one. He was unprepared for Vallecas. Presumptuous. What an idiot. Did he assume that everyone in Spain lived in apartments or villas? Why didn’t Nick say anything?

  He must tread carefully. There’s a thin line between helpful and humiliating. He does not want to humiliate them.

  As Miguel warned him, Spain is not his country.

  54

  Ana’s niece sleeps in a wooden crate instead of a cradle.

  “Would you take a photo of Lali, señor? I know that film and developing are very expensive, but my family would cherish a photograph of her,” says Ana.

  Daniel quickly obliges and takes a portrait of the sleeping child.

  Four peeling chairs and two wooden crates are placed on the dirt floor around the table. Everyone takes a seat and Antonio pours wine into chipped glasses and dented enamel mugs. Fuga, still wearing the trousers from the suit of lights, does not sit. He stands behind Rafa.

  “Again, my apologies for interrupting,” says Daniel. “In Texas, we sometimes visit friends on Sunday.”

  Ana nods. Her loose curls are now pinned back and her face freshly scrubbed. Daniel sits across the table from her, making it impossible to avoid each other’s eyes.

  “This wine . . . I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.” Rafa sighs.

  “It is lovely, thank you, señor,” says Ana. She recognizes the wine. She’s seen it in the Placita shop of the hotel. The bottle costs more than she earns in two months. She can’t help but think of the money she could have earned from selling it. It must be painful for her sister to drink. Each delicious sip is a step backward from their new apartment.

  Julia insists Ana sell all gifts from hotel guests. She eyes the two lavender boxes of candy on the table, desperate to keep them. She reaches across, pulls the ribbon on one and opens it. Julia kicks her under the table. Ana pretends to misunderstand and holds the open box to her sister. Reluctant to offend, Julia takes one of the violet clovers from the box. Perhaps she can retie the bow and still sell it as new.

  “In Spain, we generally meet in cafés, not in the home,” says Antonio.

  Julia smiles, softening the reprimand. “How is it that you speak Spanish so well?”

  “My mother was born in Spain, señora. She’s from Galicia,” replies Daniel.

  The table falls quiet.

  Fuga leans over to Rafa. He whispers something and points.

  “My friend has a question,” says Rafa. “He’s heard that in Texas you don’t fight the bulls, you ride them. Is that true?” Fuga pokes his shoulder. “Oh, and he wants to know what happened to your hands.”

  “Yes, bull riding is popular in Texas.” Daniel avoids Fuga’s menacing stare and the question about his hands. “When is your friend’s bullfight?”

  “A week from today. Near Talavera de la Reina.”

  Daniel seizes the opportunity to expedite his exit. “That’s soon. We better take the photos now, in time for developing.”

  “Yes! Good point,” agrees Rafa. “Julia, we need the rest of the suit for the photos.”

  Julia and Fuga are both apprehensive, but Rafa rushes around the small space, gathering pieces of clothing. Ana instructs her brother’s friend to sit. She removes a comb from her pocket and tames his wildly snarled hair. Daniel snaps a picture as Ana dips a soft cloth in the bucket of water and gently cleans the matador’s face.

  “The light will be better for the portrait outside. I’m going to find a spot,” he says.

  Antonio intercepts Daniel in the doorway.

  “Mucho gusto,” nods Daniel.

  “Nice to meet you too.” Antonio lowers his voice. “For interesting photos, you should explore the city center. Take your camera to the Inclusa or the hospitals in Madrid. People love photos of children but can’t
afford them.”

  It’s an odd suggestion. Why would a hospital or orphanage allow him to take photos? Is Antonio being sincere or is it a veiled dig about his expensive camera and being so out of place in Vallecas? The word Inclusa, it sounds familiar. Daniel thanks Antonio and steps outside the shack.

  A woman standing nearby eyes him as he walks down the dirt road, her stare thick with suspicion.

  “Don’t you hurt our Ana,” hisses the woman.

  Daniel looks over his shoulder. Is she addressing him? The woman nods and viciously points a finger.

  He reaches for a reply, not sure what to say.

  “No, señora, I would never hurt Ana.”

  55

  Rafa bursts from the shack and runs to Daniel. “Texano, it is decided. You must come to the bullfight next Sunday!”

  “I’m not sure your friend would like that,” says Daniel. “He hasn’t been too friendly.”

  “Ay, that’s just his way. Like many, the war has stolen his trust. His pain makes him not so friendly, but a very brave bullfighter. Please come with us. It will be a great adventure for your photography.”

  Daniel considers the idea, photos for his contest submission.

  “Also, I must be honest with you,” says Rafa. “We need transport to Talavera de la Reina. My boss at the slaughterhouse said we could ride in a truck with dead animal parts, but that is not confirmed. If we could ride in your nice big car, we could make a grand entrance.”

  Ana emerges from the shack with Fuga. His face is clean. His hair, the color of black crude oil, is parted on the side and slicked expertly back from his strong, architectural face. The turquoise suit of lights throws sparkles with each small movement. The man who looked like a murderer now looks like a matador. Julia leans against the doorframe, a small smile upon her face. Rafa cannot contain his excitement.

  “Ay, look at the maestro! Quick, let’s take the photos before the children come running. Ana says film is expensive, but could you take two pictures?”

  Daniel positions Fuga in the center of the long dirt road. The late afternoon sun throws golden light onto the young man’s face. Rafa is right. Fuga looks handsome and regal in the suit of lights. But he eyes Daniel with such contempt it won’t make for a good portrait. So Daniel instructs Fuga to look toward Ana, who stands nearby. Fuga’s expression eases and Daniel snaps the photos in profile.

  “Please, Texano, say you’ll drive us in your car.”

  “Rafa, stop,” says Ana. “Perhaps Señor Matheson has plans next Sunday.”

  “I don’t,” says Daniel. “I can take you if you’d like.”

  “¿Sí? ¡Gracias!” Rafa showers Daniel with gratitude and discusses details. He then follows Fuga, who has stomped back into the shack. Daniel says goodbye to Julia and Antonio.

  “Ana, will you be going next Sunday?” asks Daniel.

  “No, señor. I know it must sound strange, but I don’t care for bullfights.” She sighs and looks off in the distance. The sun transforms her faded dress and kindles highlights in her hair. Daniel snaps a picture.

  “Okay, Robert Capa, let’s walk you back to your car,” says Ana.

  They walk without speaking. Daniel smiles. He feels so comfortable with Ana, there’s no need to fill the space with conversation. But when the car is in sight, she asks the inescapable question. “Señor, why did you come here today?”

  Daniel lets out a breath. “I’m so sorry. Nick told me he thought it was a good idea.”

  Ana nods stiffly and continues walking. “I’m grateful to you,” she says, arriving at the vehicle.

  “It was nothing, just some small gifts. I know you like the purple candy.”

  “I do,” says Ana, looking up at Daniel. She reaches out and touches his scabbed fist. “But I’m grateful to you for saving Nick.”

  “Oh.” Daniel takes a moment to swallow. He’s not sure what to make of the gesture. Ana’s touching him, but she’s speaking of Nick. He looks at her fingers resting upon his hand. “I didn’t save him.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” says Ana.

  “It wasn’t a fair fight.”

  “Life isn’t a fair fight.”

  They stand by the car in silence. Echoes of gypsy guitar rhythms climb in the distance. Her sudden expression of quiet sadness—it’s the same look he saw at the embassy, the look that pulled and spoke without speaking.

  “Ana, is there some way I can help?”

  She gives a soft laugh. “No, señor. Everything is fine here. But perhaps now you understand that I wasn’t swimming that evening at the hotel. I am allowed to bathe there twice per week.” She looks up at Daniel, full of both sincerity and humiliation. “Do you see? I am so fortunate to work at the Castellana Hilton. I could never jeopardize my job to help you with your project”—she pauses and her voice drops to a whisper—“even though I desperately want to.”

  Her hand slides from his. She turns and departs down the dirt path toward the shack.

  Daniel stands, watching Ana. As the distance between them grows, his thoughts call silently after her.

  Ana, if you desperately want to, then please don’t walk away.

  56

  Fortune.

  Born into, unearned. The mute accomplice of fate that determines futures and carves lines to divide. It’s the word Ben mentioned the very first night, the word that Daniel thinks on during his drive back to Madrid.

  Upon his return to the hotel, the lobby feels opulent to Daniel. Too opulent. It’s the way he feels when he returns from the oil fields to their estate in Preston Hollow.

  Ben Stahl gives a beckoning wave from the upper lobby. He’s sitting with Paco Lobo.

  “Have you two met? Dan, this is Fred Wolf, but everyone calls him Paco Lobo.”

  The portly, bald gentleman wears wire-rimmed spectacles and nurses a fat cigar as if it were his last meal. He’s the man that Ana says has adopted a village. Is his village similar to Vallecas?

  “I’ve seen you, but we haven’t been introduced. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Nice to meet you, Daniel. Are you enjoying your stay in Madrid? That is, when Ben isn’t dragging you into brawls.”

  “I dragged him outside, but the brawling was all his,” laughs Ben. “Your paws doing okay, Dan?”

  “They’re fine.”

  Paco Lobo stands. “Well, I’m off. Ben, give some thought to our discussion. This one might be easier than you think. We just need the right team.”

  Paco Lobo departs and Ben’s posture eases. He sits back in his chair and reaches into his blazer for cigarettes. The package is empty. He crumples it and tosses it into the ashtray. He runs a nervous hand over the back of his neck and looks across the room. He motions to Lorenza, who is circulating the lobby, selling cigars and cigarettes.

  “So, what did you do today?” asks Ben.

  “I went to church, gave a good Catholic confession, and then went to Vallecas.”

  Lorenza arrives at their chairs. Ben selects a package of cigarettes. “Vallecas, what the hell were you doing out there?” Ben puts a wrinkled bill on Lorenza’s tray. “Thanks, doll face, keep the change.”

  “Gracias, señor,” says Lorenza. Instead of leaving, she hovers nearby.

  Ben leans in to Daniel. “I think she likes me.”

  “I think she’s eavesdropping,” whispers Daniel.

  “Could be.” Ben waits for Lorenza and her red lipstick to saunter off. Once she’s out of earshot, his words come freely. “Don’t tangle with her. She gets away with a lot but there’s a reason. Word from the bird is that her dad’s a Guardia Civil.”

  “He is?” Daniel looks off toward Lorenza.

  “Keep that between us. Hotel management knows but the employees don’t. Like I said, steer clear of those fire engine lips. You don’t know who she’s flapping them to.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t worry, she’s not my type.”

  “So, what pulled you out to Vallecas?” Ben repeats.

  Daniel hesitates, wondering whether he should tell Ben. After all, Ben’s the one who told him to peel back the layers of Madrid. “Nick gave me directions to Ana’s, the girl here at the hotel. He assured me it was fine to visit.”

  “You went to her house? Oh, Dan, people don’t do that here. This isn’t Texas.”

  “So I’ve learned. But it worked out okay in the end. I think I got some great shots for the contest.”

  Ben’s head lifts from the cloud of cigarette smoke. “Really? I’d like to see those. I might be able to use them. Boy, you’re my kind of guy, Matheson. Most photographers would beg Max Factor to get them onto a movie set. But you head out to Vallecas.” Ben points his cigarette at Daniel. “Intrepid. That’s the perfect word for you. I like it.”

  “Thanks. It definitely showed me a face of Spain that I haven’t seen here in Madrid. I’ll take the film to Miguel tomorrow. Say, Ben . . . what do you know about Valley of the Fallen?”

  “The Valley? The paper sent me out there, but I haven’t reported on it yet. Don’t think I will.”

  “Why not? It’s a symbol of reconciliation, right?”

  Ben laughs hard and loud, which leads to a fit of coughing. “Reconciliation? Where’d you hear that, Matheson?”

  “I didn’t. I was just wondering. The hotel magazine makes it sound like it’s a tribute, but it seems to upset some people.”

  “Sure it does.” Ben lowers his voice. “It’s being built by Republican prisoners. Forced labor. Some have died building the Valley. And now there’s talk of exhuming mass graves all over Spain and bringing the remains to the Valley. When it’s done, the forest floor could hold over forty thousand exhumed bodies. Imagine that walk in the park.” Ben shakes off a shiver.

  “Bodies from both sides of the war?” asks Daniel.

  Ben looks at Daniel carefully. “Yes, bodies from both sides of the war. But since the war ended, there’s only been one side, Matheson. You were in Vallecas today. You saw. There are so many villages like that throughout Spain.” Ben lowers his voice. “For years Spain was collapsing, people were starving, and Franco, he was spending money on this monument?” Ben shakes his head and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. He speaks as he exhales. “After World War II, even Germany, our archenemy, was a recipient under the Marshall Plan, but Spain?” Ben forms a “zero” with his hand. “Spain was the only major Western European nation excluded from the economic recovery plan. What do you think that says?”