by Ruta Sepetys
“It’s what we do. We’re journalists,” says Ben. “Excuse me. Gotta drain the radiator.” Ben closes the bathroom door.
Daniel is equally honored and unnerved that Ben is referring to them together as journalists. He’s also unnerved that so many people are in his room.
“If Ana is too busy, shall I call the manager to make the request?” he asks Lorenza.
Lorenza stiffens. “No. I’ll get her now. Towels, you said?” She scurries toward the door.
“And the breakfast dishes?” says Daniel.
“Señor, you must call room service for the dishes.”
“I did. I thought they sent you. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
The door clicks shut.
Ben emerges from the bathroom, returns to the photos, and lights a cigarette.
“Really, Matheson. I’m impressed. The Magnum judges will be too. These are better than anything in your portfolio. I might even be able to use some.”
Daniel accepts the compliment.
“Has anyone seen these?”
“Just my dad,” replies Daniel. “And Miguel, who developed them.” He doesn’t mention that Ana has also seen them. All of them.
“Keep your negatives in a safe place,” says Ben. “Meet me in the lobby of the hotel Monday at nine a.m. I’ve gotta get some shut-eye.” He gives a wave and exits.
Daniel still has no idea what the assignment is.
71
Lorenza dashes into the supply room. “Ana, where have you been? Señor Matheson has requested towels. I told him you were very busy this morning. He became impatient and said he’s going to complain to the manager.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you weren’t doing your job. Ay, why is he so serious all the time? Max Factor is much nicer. He gave me the prettiest bottle of perfume. It’s a cat with a feather boa and—Ana, are you listening? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” says Ana, grabbing two towels from the shelf.
“Bueno. I thought maybe you were sick.” Lorenza edges closer with a curling grin. “Lovesick.”
Ana ignores the remark and rushes by Lorenza to the elevator. When she arrives at Daniel’s suite, a room-service attendant is removing the breakfast dishes.
“Señor, whatever is the matter? Lorenza said you are calling the manager?”
“No. I didn’t mean to scare you. Lorenza said you weren’t available. I didn’t believe her. I don’t even know why she was here. I wanted to share the news.” Daniel leans against the chair. “I was hoping you’d lose the bet and we’d be working on the project together, but you were right. My parents aren’t separating.” He smiles.
“See! I told you, señor. Your parents are very affectionate with each other. They have no troubles together.”
Daniel says nothing about his mother’s condition. Have they told him the truth? Ana knows that Daniel thinks in frames. Has he considered the portraits she’s seen when servicing his parents’ room? Medicine bottles in the trash. Doctor’s orders next to the bed.
She stares at the wall. “You have so many beautiful photos.”
“Thanks. I have the images, but what I don’t have is context.” He points to the photo his father mentioned, the one of Nick’s grated knuckles. “My dad’s caption was ‘Pretty undiplomatic for a diplomat’s son.’”
“No. That’s incorrect.” Ana looks at the photo. Her voice is steady and lyrical. “Fighting phantoms. There are some problems that even money can’t solve.”
Daniel nods. “Wow, Tom Collins is good at this.” He points to the photo of her niece, Lali, asleep in a box meant for oranges.
Ana looks at the photo for a long time before she begins.
“No money, no cradle. Earnings pay rent on their mother’s grave.” Ana’s voice catches as she continues. “If payment is not made, her body will be dug up and thrown in a common trench.”
“No. Would they really do that?”
She nods, her eyes filling with sadness.
“Ana, I’m so sorry.” He steps closer. “I had no idea.”
“How could you know?” she whispers. “It’s impossible for outsiders to understand. There is a tension that exists between history and memory, señor. Some of us are desperate to preserve and remember, while others are desperate to forget. We all have our reasons. Does your mother ever speak of that?”
Daniel shakes his head. “No, she doesn’t.”
Ana takes a breath and points to a picture of his parents on the wall. “Your turn.”
Daniel looks at the photo. “The caption is . . .”
When he finally speaks, his deep voice has thinned. “They say everything will be fine. But what if it’s not?”
The vulnerable tone in his voice. Her hand reaches, gently touching his back. He turns to her. When Ana realizes what she’s doing, she draws quickly away. “I must return to work.” She manages a small smile. “Just call if you need more towels, señor.”
Daniel follows her to the door. “Ana, are you sure you can’t come to the bullfight on Sunday?”
“Sí. That is my brother’s passion. But it’s very nice of you to take them. It’s just a capea. The animals won’t be harmed, but the amateurs might be. Make sure you bring towels for your car.”
“For what?”
Ana looks at him with surprise. “For the blood,” she replies.
72
Puri sits at the front desk of the clinic, nervously rolling her apron between her fingers. It is her new assignment, the plan of Sister Hortensia. One day per week, she will work at the maternity clinic down the street from the Inclusa.
“Special cases are handled here,” explains Sister. “Difficult and high-risk pregnancies are brought from the hospital for direct attention. You must be sensitive to the fact that women at the clinic have been informed of a possible complication. They are often fearful, which is understandable. Labor and childbirth can be a lengthy process, so the doctor may ask you to sit with the women to calm their nerves. During labor they are administered an anesthetic. You may also have to sit with them after the birth until they are fully awake.”
Puri’s nerves roil, releasing a chilled sweat on her palms. The tour of the clinic was too brief. The doctor heaped so much information upon her. How is she to remember it all?
There are already two women in labor in the clinic. One is a young, unwed mother. When Puri sat with her, she expected the girl to wail with remorse for her carnal sins. Instead, she told Puri she was an actress and was anxious to take her child to Barcelona.
“I’ll pray for you,” Puri assures her.
But Puri doesn’t pray for her. She sits and wonders whether the woman really is condemned. The girl is excited both to be a mother and to pursue her interests in Barcelona. Does she not remember the teachings about motherhood and her duty to Spain?
Puri looks at her notes. She is expected to ferry supplies if needed. Water, towels, basins.
Basins. Where did the doctor say the metal basins were?
Puri walks quietly down the gray tile floor of the hallway. The clinic feels cold and sterile, not homey like the Inclusa. The Inclusa smells of baby powder, soap, and bleached diapers. The clinic smells . . . what exactly is the smell? Puri locates the room with the towels and laundry. Farther down the hall is a room that looks familiar, similar to the bottling room at the Inclusa. Is this where the doctor said the basins are stored? Puri enters.
Perhaps the basins are in the metal cabinet. She pulls the handle on the silver door. A rush of cold air flows out, causing her to blink. Her knees lock. Her hand flies to her mouth, muffling a scream.
The refrigerated cabinet does not hold a basin.
It holds a dead baby.
73
Rafa waits at the end of the road. He shields his eyes from the sun, watching for the shiny black car. Ana a
ssures him the Texano will come, that he won’t forget. He paces the road, hoping she’s right. Without a ride, he and Fuga will miss the capea entirely. The truck with the dead animal parts left yesterday.
Rafa gave confession this morning and professed regret for a mixture of trespassing and fibs. Following the issuance of penance, the priest leaned forward toward the latticed screen.
“Today is your capea.”
“Sí, Padre.”
“At the back of the sanctuary, I have left three votive candles. Take them with you. Help your matador follow the proper ritual.”
“Sí, Padre. Gracias, Padre.”
Fuga has been absent for two days, but it does not worry Rafa. He knows that his friend was in the cemetery, practicing with the cape, becoming El Huérfano. Early this morning Fuga walked silently into Vallecas, just as Rafa knew he would.
Most matadors begin training very young. Will they ask how old he is? Fuga doesn’t know. When they lived in the boys’ home and Rafa had asked his age, Fuga just shrugged.
“Well, when’s your birthday?” Rafa inquired.
“What’s a birthday?” asked Fuga.
Following their escape, they traveled the roads, begging. Outside of Barcelona they came upon a small town where an old Catalonian woman shared kindness and food. That night they lay on their bellies in the dirt, peeking through a crack in the stone wall. The villagers were assembled in a dark building to watch a flickering film. The hero of the movie was Currito de la Cruz, “Curro,” an orphan from the slums of Sevilla who becomes a bullfighter. They couldn’t hear the sound, but they didn’t need to. The visuals told the story. That night Fuga did not sleep. He lay on the grass next to Rafa, staring at the darkened sky.
“Is it really possible for us, amigo?” Rafa had asked.
Fuga nodded. It was.
That night, Rafa pledged support and protection to his friend. They shook hands.
Now there is pulling, a twisting in Rafa’s stomach that for once has nothing to do with hunger. Life has never offered him triumph. Despite his hopes and dreams, he cannot shake the shadow of guilt that has followed him since the death of his father. He had sat in the bushes, frozen with fright. He did nothing to help his papá.
Although Rafa is determined to face fear, a quiet part of him worries that he may be luckless. What then? If they actually take part in the capea today, the participation alone will be the most fortune he has ever known. As he considers the potential for victory this afternoon, an overwhelming sense of joy emerges. The voices in his head, the questions—they are his own. They are not voices from the shadows, creeping forth to taunt him.
A black bull suddenly appears in the distance.
It’s the Texano’s Buick.
74
“Hola,” says Daniel. “Ready to go?” Rafa slaps him into a huge hug.
Daniel is not alone. Asleep in the front seat is Nick Van Dorn.
“He wanted to come. I hope that’s okay?” whispers Daniel.
Rafa stares at Nick. He finally shrugs. “Sure, your car.”
“Is your girlfriend coming?” asks Daniel.
Rafa throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “Shh. No. Just us. I’ll get Fuga.” Rafa turns and makes his way toward the encampment of crumbling shacks. Daniel follows.
Only Fuga, Julia, and the baby are present in the shack.
“Buenos días, señora,” Daniel greets Julia. “I brought you a couple of pictures.” He hands Julia the photo he took of Lali and also the picture of Julia fitting Fuga’s suit of lights.
“Gracias, señor. I will cherish these. I saw the photo you took of our matador. It’s fabulosa.” Julia shoots Fuga a prompting look. Fuga shrugs.
“I have photos for some of the people in Vallecas,” says Daniel.
“¡Qué fantástico! You can share them upon our triumphant return!” says Rafa.
Julia hands Rafa the bundle of clothes. She whispers to both young men and gives them each a kiss. She then lifts the stiff cape from the table, prepared to follow them.
“No, you needn’t come,” says Rafa quickly, blocking her from the doorway.
“Lali is sleeping. She’ll be fine. I just want to see you off.”
Rafa whispers to Julia. Her face shrinks with alarm. “Nick? What is he doing here?”
Daniel tries to conceal his frustration. Why didn’t he trust his instincts and just say no to Nick?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was a problem. He wanted to come along,” says Daniel.
Julia gives a tired wave of her hand. “Just go. Go!”
The three men trudge from the shack.
“It’s a long story,” says Rafa. “And not mine to tell.”
They take a few steps and are bombarded by teams of shrieking children, grabbing at the bundled suit of lights.
“¡Basta!” yells Rafa. “Enough. But if the afternoon goes well, we will all celebrate,” he assures them.
Daniel opens the trunk of the car so Rafa can put in the clothing. Seeing crates of food, the children squeal with delight. Tortilla de patata, oranges, and Manchego cheese.
“I thought we might get hungry,” says Daniel.
Rafa slams the trunk. “No food. Not until after. He’s on a restricted diet.”
A boy tugs at Daniel’s sleeve. “The torero must have an empty belly. That way it’s easier for the doctor to sew him back together if the bull tears holes in him.” The little boy smiles and nods, proud of his macabre knowledge.
“It’s true,” says Rafa. “But there will be no specialized surgeon today. No doctors or chaplains standing by.”
Daniel gets in the car. He is grateful he took Ana’s advice and brought towels.
The children surround Fuga’s side of the car, waving and pushing their faces against the glass. They wish him well, bubbling with joy and excitement. The faintest hint of a smile emerges on Fuga’s lips. He takes his finger and touches the window, replying to the girl with the raven braid, who is kissing the glass. Daniel grabs his camera from the floorboard and takes a picture.
Daniel spent the night reading a book he bought on the history of bullfighting. In ancient times, bulls were revered as mythological gods. Those who stood before the bulls and presented their life for sacrifice were considered high priests. Symbolically, in facing a bull, some believe a matador achieves closeness with God and unifies himself with death.
Daniel looks in the rearview mirror. Fuga’s eyes are closed, a quiet smile crossing his face. He is composed. Ready.
The Buick pulls slowly out onto the road.
75
Ana makes her way down the corridor of the seventh floor.
Do guests realize that personal details reveal themselves in a hotel room? Lorenza shared her daily brief earlier in the basement:
The man in 615 eats in bed (crumbs in the sheets), has high blood pressure (medicine in the bathroom), and plays Casanova (leaves his wedding ring in the room while out for the evening).
The woman in 248 secretly likes gin (bottles under the bed), sleeps with her makeup on (evidenced by her pillow), and has a penchant for mystery (books with “Murder” in the title by someone named Agatha Christie).
Ana unlocks the door to 760.
Daniel’s suite is not neat, but also not messy. Coins, expensive cuff links, and a fountain pen sit exposed on the bureau. He is trusting. She looks to the undressed bed. The hotel coverlet lies bunched at the foot of the mattress. He sleeps with only a sheet, his head on the left pillow. Most American guests have pajama sets or nightclothes. He doesn’t. She blushes. On the nightstand sits his Capa book. Daniel reads before going to sleep.
Ana opens the narrow closet and runs her hand across his clothes. His jeans are not from Neiman-Marcus. They have a leather patch on the back pocket that says Blue Bell Wrangler. She tries to adjust the jumbled hanger
s but they put up a fight. As she removes the hanging clothes, she discovers the cause. Stacked from top to bottom in the back of the closet are the countless towels Daniel has requested—requested so she would come to his room.
She smiles and removes them so he’ll ask for more.
His toiletries in the bathroom are housed in an expensive leather travel kit. A single bottle, his shaving tonic, sits on the bathroom counter. Ana brings the glass bottle, marked Old Spice Holiday Edition, to her nose. It’s the scent she smelled the very first day in his room, the scent she smelled on the Metro, and the scent she smelled in the courtyard at the embassy. It’s masculine and steady, like Daniel. It smells of leathery cloves and herbal woods, with hints of sweet tobacco. Ana removes a thin handkerchief from her apron and dots a tiny pop of the aftershave on it.
Holding the fabric to her nose, she walks into the living area of the suite. She’s happy that Daniel is with Rafa and hopes she’ll get to see him when they return to Vallecas. If only Julia could understand. Daniel is different. He’s kindhearted, genuine, and honest. He didn’t have to share his fears about his parents but he did. Each time they’re together, Ana cares less about the recommendation letter and more about Daniel. Thoughts of Julia’s disapproval bring the threatening notes to Ana’s mind. She whisks the thought away.
A lone chair is placed in front of the wall containing Daniel’s photographs. Ana sits in it. The images are evocative, full of story and truth. The captions come to her immediately. She walks to the desk to retrieve a piece of hotel stationery. And that’s when she sees it.
Sitting in the trash is a Western Union telegram. It’s addressed to Daniel from someone named Laura Beth.
It’s torn apart.
76
While the others prepare, Daniel and Nick stand at the back of the car, eating lunch from the trunk.
“Ben has a photo assignment for me tomorrow,” says Daniel.
