The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “Señora Matheson?”

  It takes a moment for her to begin. “Ana, I owe you an apology. I didn’t recognize you at the fashion show. Martin, my husband, advised me of my error after we left. It must have been horribly uncomfortable with me showering praise and introductions when in fact we had already met and interacted on several occasions.”

  Ana does not want an apology. She does not want the lump swelling in her throat.

  Daniel’s mother continues. “It’s bothered me for days.” She extends a hand and steadies herself on a chair. “Ana, I’ve been consumed with personal difficulties of late, and my preoccupation has obviously left me insensitive to others. I’m so sorry. My dear, please believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful, no matter what you are wearing.”

  Ana’s eyes expand with shock and tears. “Gracias, señora,” she whispers.

  They stand, absorbing the exchange. Daniel’s mother reaches for the desk and seats herself in the chair.

  “Oh my,” says Daniel’s mother. “Look at us, both emotional. We can’t have that.”

  “No, señora.”

  “Well, then.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s move on. My husband and I would like to take our son somewhere special for dinner tonight. What do you know of Lhardy?”

  Lhardy.

  Señora Matheson has mentioned the one restaurant that Ana is desperate to visit.

  “Lhardy is magical. It’s been open for over a hundred years. They say that Queen Isabel II used to steal away from the palace just to eat at Lhardy. Of course, I’ve only been on errands to the foyer for a cup of broth or a croquette, but the doorman and staff are always lovely. At Lhardy, everything is refinement, Señora Matheson. Waiters stand behind screens, so not to interrupt the guests but to watch and tend to their every need.”

  Ana realizes she is blathering. “Of course, you must consult the concierge for his opinion as well,” she says.

  “I see no need. Not after that glowing recommendation. Please ask the concierge to make a reservation for nine p.m.”

  “Yes, señora.”

  Lhardy.

  Tonight Daniel and his parents will dine at Lhardy. Tonight they will taste the delicious cocido a la madrileña under flickering gaslight and sip a full-bodied Rioja.

  Ana swallows hard. Tonight Daniel may learn the truth.

  67

  “¿Estás ahí, Miguel?” calls Daniel into the empty shop.

  Miguel emerges from behind the curtain. “Hola, Texano. Feeling better?”

  “Sí, gracias. I’m sorry I left so quickly yesterday. You said you wanted to discuss my photos?”

  Daniel removes the stack of pictures from his bag and lays them on the counter in pre-organized configurations.

  “I’d like to discuss your photographs, but also how you captured these images.”

  Daniel shifts his feet. “Oh, the photos from Vallecas?”

  “Sí. I recognize Ana and her family. They invited you?”

  “No. That was an error on my part. Someone gave me the address and suggested I visit. I didn’t know it was inappropriate,” Daniel says. “I do now.”

  “And how did you earn these people’s trust to allow you to photograph them?”

  “We talked as I walked through the village. They seemed happy to have their pictures taken. That’s one of the reasons I came back so soon. I’d like to have reprints made so I can give each person their photo this weekend.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” says Miguel, as Daniel hands him the negatives.

  “Thank you for making the enlargement of Rafa’s friend. I gave it to Ana.”

  “I couldn’t resist. The image called for it. Who is he? In your photo he looks like a true matador.”

  “He’s a friend of Rafa’s, someone he trains with.”

  Miguel’s large brows descend over his eyes. “Trains? Trains where? They’re not entering breeders’ pastures, are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Miguel looks at Daniel’s photos, spread out before him. “It’s a hard life there. I’m sure you saw. There’s no running water, no facilities, only fountains. There is beauty in Vallecas, but you have to have the eyes to see it. Your photos, they show a strong human spirit. I hope the judges of your contest will recognize that.”

  Daniel looks at the photographs. They’re portraits of everyday life. People in lines at the fountain, a woman weaving a basket in the doorway while a cat prowls a hole in the roof. The raven-haired girl examining a cut on her knee. Ana washing Fuga’s face. Her baby niece asleep in a wooden crate.

  “What are your intentions with these photos, amigo?” asks Miguel.

  “My intentions?”

  “Sí. You are assembling a story. Are these really for the contest you mentioned or for something else?”

  “They’re for the contest,” says Daniel.

  Miguel nods. “Just remember that images without explanation are easily misinterpreted.”

  “Like the nun with the baby?”

  Miguel puts up his hands and steps back from the counter. “Ay, I know nothing of that.”

  Can that be true? Miguel lived through the war. He’s developed thousands of photos. He understands that the images that speak the loudest are often the most curious, controversial, or dangerous.

  “Miguel, I really want a photo of the Guardia Civil for my contest submission. They’re so menacing, like human crows, pecking at the population. The right image could make a real statement about authority and power in Spain.”

  “It could also land you in jail. Don’t even try.”

  “I did try, but was apprehended.”

  Miguel’s face loses color. His voice is a whisper. “You were apprehended? Trust me, you don’t need that photo. Por favor. Forget about it.”

  “Forget about it? Is that what Capa would have done?” asks Daniel.

  “We don’t know. Remember, Texano, Capa’s dead.”

  68

  The moment Daniel is seated with his parents at Lhardy, a waiter appears and ceremoniously lights the ivory taper candles on the table. His mother loves extended meals. Three to four hours is not uncommon and that’s a long time to be in a suit. Daniel appreciates fine food, but prefers Texas backyard suppers where he can relax in the grass and wait for the stars to reveal themselves.

  Thick red curtains drape the windows in the mahogany-paneled dining salon, while gaslight dips and quivers in lamps suspended from the walls. His mother orders a glass of sparkling cava; his father, vermouth from the Lhardy tap.

  “Daniel,” says his mother. “You don’t have to keep your hands under the table. I know everything. The Van Dorns sent a beautiful Spanish fan as a gift of gratitude.”

  The Van Dorns sent a thank-you gift for a fight? Is that a common occurrence in their family? Daniel slowly lifts his hands from beneath the tablecloth. The small remaining scab is now a deep black.

  His mother releases a gentle smile. “Really, cariño, a mother always knows.”

  But knows about what, Daniel wonders. Does she know her telegrams have been opened? Does she know about Laura Beth?

  “I received a few cables from the office,” says his dad. As his father recounts the updates from his colleagues in Dallas, Daniel considers what his friends at home might be doing. The guys are probably seeing a picture show at the Majestic. The girls are probably at Titches Tea Room.

  Although he thinks about it, Daniel doesn’t miss it. His genetic connection to Spain feels deeply inscribed. He loves the narrow, cobbled side streets of Madrid, the plate-glass windows with piles of pink shrimp, dried tuna, and advertisements for squid cooked in their own ink. He loves that the walls of every café on the Calle de Victoria are pasted with faded posters of bullfights and portraits of matadors. He appreciates the convenience of the Metro and that so much of life in S
pain is lived outside, instead of inside. He enjoys his photography mentor, Miguel, the monologues from Ben, and most of all, his exchanges with Ana. In Madrid, Daniel finally feels adult, free to pursue what inspires him, and able to navigate the world on his own.

  His mother reaches across the table, interrupting his thoughts. She takes his hand. “I’ve begged your father not to tell you, but perhaps you’ve figured it out. I’ve been sick, tesoro.”

  69

  Daniel stares out the window of the taxi. It’s well after midnight. Lights and life sparkle in Madrid. He’d prefer to walk on his own, but fears it will offend his parents.

  Sick.

  His parents are not separating. His mother had what she calls an “incident.” They assure him all will be well. In time. After the “incident” she was sick and there may still be a “procedure.” But she is recovering and wanted to visit Spain. She has no remaining relatives in the country, but it is her country. She gathers strength and grounding here. It will aid her healing.

  She shared the cryptic news in a restaurant. This is her way. It would be unacceptable to become emotional in public. So the details were conveyed over cava and vermouth at a candlelit table, where they could be explained flatly, without tears. The plan seemed to work until he began to ask questions.

  “Mom, I had no idea you were sick. What’s wrong?”

  His mother is silent. After a moment, she looks to his dad.

  “There was a baby,” whispers his father.

  A baby. Was. Past tense.

  “Your mother had wanted another child so badly. We tried through the years but then gave up. A few months ago your mother became pregnant. We were both shocked and elated but said nothing. It seemed too good to be true and we wanted to consult the doctors before sharing the news.”

  His mother takes a breath, her lips quivering. “And it was too good to be true. I lost the child.”

  His father reaches across the table and gently takes his mother’s hand.

  Daniel looks at his parents’ clasped fingers. He fumbles for words. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  His mother quickly moves her hand to his shoulder. “No, no. I’m okay, tesoro. Really. I’m suffering most from the injustice of it all. It seems incredibly unfair that such a blessing and dream were given and then lost. My spirits were terribly low and so your father has brought us along to Spain. It’s already done a world of good.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was devastated, emotionally and physically. The last thing I wanted was to worry you or for anyone back home to know. I made your father swear the doctors to secrecy. I’ve confided only in the priest and your uncle.”

  “Mom, you can’t keep all of this bottled up.”

  “I will not plague our family with indecency or gossip.”

  “A miscarriage is not indecent.”

  “Shh. People talk, Daniel. You must know I hear the whispers and jokes. That we’re a ‘mixed marriage,’ that your father married a Spanish dancer. You don’t understand, dear.”

  He does. He hears the jabs too. Oil money is new money. His family is nouveau riche. Laura Beth’s family claimed they weren’t a good fit because his mother was “too ethnic.” Considering the news, he’s relieved he didn’t tell her about the breakup.

  “Mom, forget about other people. Your health is what’s important, right?”

  The tension at the table is palpable. His mother sits wholly erect, as if a yardstick had been placed down the back of her dress. She holds the stem of her glass delicately, with her thumb and two forefingers. Her large diamond rings reflect and sparkle amidst the bubbles through the glass.

  The stiffness, it’s the American part of his mother and it pains him.

  “Excuse me.” She smiles and departs for the restroom.

  Daniel fiddles with the fork on the table. His father releases a deep sigh.

  “What did the doctors say?” asks Daniel.

  “An issue with the uterus. They may eventually have to remove it. It’ll all be fine, partner.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  The nervous edge in his mother’s voice, the crying behind closed doors, his parents supporting an orphanage, the pieces complete the picture. He and his father sit, silent, until Daniel speaks.

  “Now I understand—the orphanage deal,” he says. “Nick mentioned it.”

  “That kid’s a loose cannon. No wonder he’s getting beat up. Nothing’s been decided. I need to close this drilling deal first.” He flags a waiter for another vermouth.

  His mother returns to the table full of smiles. “I just love this restaurant, don’t you? It’s a shame you didn’t bring your camera. We could have taken a family picture. You look so handsome in a suit.”

  Her enthusiasm is genuine. But he knows his mother. She uses happiness as a shield. She’s trying to protect him or prepare him. Maybe both.

  * * *

  Daniel unlocks the door to his suite. On the coffee table is a plate with round chocolates bearing the gold crest of the Castellana Hilton. Neighboring the plate are several notes and messages. The first is a folded piece of paper. He hopes it’s from Ana.

  ¡Amigo! My sister is bringing you this note. Thank you for the photograph. It’s fabulosa! Everyone is impressed by it. Fuga is now El Huérfano, isn’t it great? Please don’t forget us on Sunday. We will be waiting for you and your big car. See you soon, Texano!

  —Rafa

  The next notes are message slips from the hotel operator.

  8:25 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl

  Call me at the Bureau. An opportunity.

  8:30 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

  Meet us at Taberna de Antonio Sánchez.

  9:45 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

  Eating at Botín. Join us.

  11:10 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn

  Heading for Pasapoga club on Gran Vía.

  11:15 p.m. From Tom Collins

  Sleep well.

  Tom Collins. He smiles. The message was an hour ago. Is Ana home in Vallecas now? Or is this one of the days she stays overnight at the hotel? He thinks about stealing down to the basement to check.

  At the very bottom of the stack is a Western Union telegram. The envelope is sealed and addressed to Daniel. Is it from his uncle? He tears it open.

  WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

  —VIA NIGHT LETTER CABLE

  SENDER: LAURA BETH JOYCE—DALLAS, TX

  MR. DANIEL MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON, MADRID

  CAN WE TALK? I’M SORRY. I WANT TO COME TO MADRID.

  70

  Daniel calls to have the breakfast dishes picked up, hoping to see Ana. Just as he hangs up the phone, there’s a knock at the door.

  Ben Stahl leans on the doorframe, tie wrestled loose. Pieces of his normally slick hair stand in exclamation points. His flapping shirttail is stained with red wine. “I called you.” Ben’s voice sounds like he’s gargled with gasoline.

  “I got back after midnight. I figured it was too late,” says Daniel.

  “Late? You’re joking, right? I haven’t been to sleep yet. But the word late, let’s think about that word. It’s such an important one, isn’t it? Late—often paired with regret or disappointment.” Ben’s lungs chime in, hacking up a nightclub of cigarette smoke.

  “How did you know what suite I was in?” asks Daniel.

  “I’ve got connections to get me where I need to be. Listen, I need a photographer on Monday. My guy has to be in Barcelona. Are you available?”

  Daniel’s heart hops. He tries to act casual. “Sure. What’s the assignment?”

  “You’ll be perfect for this. But I don’t have a budget so there’s no pay.”

  “That’s fine,” says Daniel. As the words leave his mouth, he knows he responded to
o quickly.

  Ben nods. “That’s fine because you’re stinkin’ rich or that’s fine because you understand the value of an opportunity?”

  Daniel accepts the challenge. “First, I’m not rich. If I were, I’d be on my way to J-School. Second, if you need a free shoot it sounds like you’re the one who grasps opportunity value.”

  Ben laughs. “There he is, swingin’ those punches. Hey, can I use your john?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ben pushes past Daniel into the room. He sees the wall of photos and stops.

  “Actually, I’m not ready to share those yet,” says Daniel.

  “You’re not ready? Looks like you’ve got your own exhibition here.” Ben scans the photos. He moves in, pushing his face close to the pictures. “Holy hell, Matheson.”

  A knock echoes at the door. Daniel opens it and finds not Ana, but Lorenza, lips candied like an apple, hip swung to one side.

  “Buenos días, señor.”

  Unlike Ana, Lorenza enters without invitation. Her eyes are instantly glued to the photo wall. Ben’s eyes are instantly glued to Lorenza.

  “Hi there, sweet cheeks.”

  Lorenza gives Ben a wave and turns to Daniel. “Do you like flamenco, señor? You should photograph some flamenco dancers.” Lorenza stares at him. Her beckoning gaze reminds him of Laura Beth and how her every expression looks staged, like she’s posing for a camera.

  “Flamenco, sure. Say, Lorenza, could you have Ana bring up some towels?” asks Daniel.

  Lorenza makes a clucking with her tongue. “Ay, no. Ana is very busy, señor.” Lorenza slaps the back of the chair with a cloth, as if she’s dusting it, sauntering closer to the photos.

  “Ay, look at the matador. Oh and Ana, washing his face. Qué bonito. Oh, look at the pequeñines! Sweet little ones. How did you get such photos?”