The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “That’s swell. What is it?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. But I trust him. Ben’s on the up and up.”

  “Yeah, he’s definitely not on the up and down, if you know what I mean. Poor guy won’t admit it, but he’s been desperate to find a girlfriend in Spain. He hangs on at the clubs even after I’ve left. So that tells you something.”

  “He works hard. He probably needs to unwind,” says Daniel.

  Nick removes a flask from his shirt pocket and takes a swig.

  “Rafa seemed surprised to see you,” says Daniel.

  “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

  He turns to face Nick. “So, let’s hear it. Why’d you send me out to their house last weekend? Kind of a wise-guy move, if you ask me.”

  Nick laughs. “Sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  “Not me. It was embarrassing for Ana.”

  “Nah, she loved it.”

  Daniel shifts his feet. “She loved it or you loved it, Nick?”

  Nick raises his hands in nervous surrender. “Honest. I could tell you were interested, but she can’t socialize at the hotel. Did it all turn out okay?”

  Daniel nods. “Listen, if you have eyes on Ana, be a man. Tell me to step aside.”

  Nick speaks slowly and directly. “We’re just friends. I’ve told you that, Matheson.”

  “So you won’t mind if I spend time with her?”

  “No. But remember, this isn’t the States. You can’t just drive up in your nice car, sweet-talk the parents, and take a girl out. All dates have to be chaperoned. Families are involved, the whole thing.”

  Daniel thinks of his parents. “Ana’s family, what’s the story there?”

  “Her parents were part of the intellectual crowd who opposed Franco. They both wound up dead, and the kids are terrified they’ll eventually be punished as well. Let’s face it, Franco wasn’t exactly forgiving after the war. Ana’s older sister had to carry the load. And Rafa.” Nick whistles and shakes his head. “He had it the worst. He was sent to some reformatory joint up near Barcelona. He and his crazy matador friend were there together. From what I gather, they were tortured. And I’m not talking beat up in an alley by some debt-collecting thugs. I mean really tortured. The two of them escaped somehow and nearly died in the process. We’re a couple of pansies next to those two.”

  Daniel thinks on Nick’s words. Rafa was tortured? He exudes such warmth, enthusiasm, and determination. He doesn’t have an ounce of bitterness.

  Nick lights a cigarette. “Listen, Ana is beautiful. But if you’ve got some rich boy fantasy of a girl from the other side of the tracks, step back. You and I both know our parents want us with debutantes from families on the Social Register. But if you’re looking to have a real conversation and you’re willing to take it slow, Ana’s a girl that you’ll never forget—if you can get around her sister and brother-in-law.”

  Daniel nods. “The brother-in-law, Antonio, already sent me on a fool’s errand. Probably hoped I’d get lost and never return.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nick laughs.

  “Yeah. He sent me to some huge old orphanage. He said I might find a story there to photograph.”

  Nick’s eyebrows lift. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to prove it.”

  “Prove what?” Daniel asks.

  Nick exhales a mouthful of smoke. “That some of the babies they’re selling aren’t orphans.”

  We also had the Basque-Spanish orphans program. We sent a couple of orphans to the United States, alleged orphans. They were no orphans, no question about that. It wasn’t that they didn’t have family to take care of them. That was an interesting time.

  —WILLIAM W. LEHFELDT, U.S. vice consul, Bilbao (1955–1957)

  Oral History Interview Excerpt, April 1994

  Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection

  Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training

  Arlington, VA www.adst.org

  77

  Puri cannot eat. She cannot sleep. Why is a dead baby in the freezer at the clinic instead of the morgue? She sits on her bed, knees to her chin, arms spiraled around her legs. There are explanations:

  The corpse is being used for medical study.

  The infant recently died. Burial is forthcoming.

  She is mistaken about what she saw.

  Could she be mistaken?

  The doctor found Puri in the bathroom, a pale heap near the toilet.

  “Bad eel. It will pass,” she assured him.

  But the nausea hasn’t passed and neither have the questions. Instead, the words from the filed letters scroll through her brain.

  My wife is certain there must be a mistake. She said the child she gave birth to was completely bald and had a red birthmark on his arm. The deceased infant shown to us was larger than our son, had a bit of hair, and did not have the marking on his arm.

  And the letter that still haunts Puri:

  You stole our child.

  The question clings. Whom does the child in the freezer belong to?

  For the first time, Puri eagerly seeks confession.

  * * *

  “Hail Mary the Purest.”

  “Conceived without sin,” replies the priest.

  “I am deeply troubled, Padre, by a question that plagues me. I ask for your wisdom and guidance to soothe my heart. In our beloved country of Spain, is it better for a child to have no parents than the wrong parents?”

  “Are you with child?” asks the priest.

  “No, Padre!” gasps Puri. “I ask only because I am committed to the preservation of our noble country.”

  “We owe it to our children and our future to protect Catholic values and morals.”

  “So that means,” leads Puri, “it is better to be raised by the right parents, even if they are not the birth parents?”

  The priest gives a tired exhale. “You seem to have answered your own question.”

  No, I haven’t, thinks Puri.

  But I will.

  78

  The miniature, portable ring has been set up at the edge of the village. The maletilla amateurs stand in a stone shed. Rafa kneels on the earthen floor, securing the bottom of Fuga’s trousers. There will be no picadors or banderilleros today. Only half a dozen young men who have come to brave the bulls and prove themselves to anyone who may care to notice. Only one other participant wears a suit of lights. He is a boy of sixteen or seventeen with a husky frame. He dons an ill-fitting amber suit. But Rafa sees that the cloth is cursed. There’s a faint smear of blood across the thigh. The other boys throw worried glances at Fuga. His suit of lights, age, and demeanor raise expectation.

  Although the suit is old, Julia has altered it so perfectly that it appears to be expressly for the torero wearing it. Fuga’s frame is tall and hungry. He is cut from the same strong wood of the olive tree he has slept beneath for so many years. The strength of his form is lean legs. His extended gait lends drama to his every step. His long arms, ungainly for a common man, are an asset for a torero. The muleta cape handles more easily and melodically with elongated arms.

  Rafa looks at the beautiful silver embroidery that climbs and vines the outside of the trousers. He gives thanks for Julia and for her boss, Luis. No other tailor creates suits as special as his.

  “Comb your hair,” instructs Rafa. “Do it the way Ana did for the photo.”

  Fuga spits thick saliva on the small comb and rakes it through his hair.

  Uncertain what to do, the cluster of other boys press and lunge into leg stretches because they have seen photographs of famous matadors doing the same.

  Rafa removes the priest’s votive candles from his pocket. He positions them upon a shelf in the shed and strikes a match to light them. He pulls out a small faded portrait of the Virgin, salvaged from an outdated pocket calendar, and carefully sets i
t behind the glow of the candles. Another boy contributes a broken mirror and balances it on the shelf.

  Reflected in the quivering candlelight is a motley assembly of young men before a makeshift altar. If they succeed today, they may pick up a peseta or a handful of grapes. If they do not succeed, they will be laughed at and dismissed. If they are gored, Rafa hopes someone will be generous enough to squirt alcohol in the wound.

  Rafa says his prayers and allows the others to do the same. Each young man leaves the shed until only Fuga is left.

  “I’ll give you a moment of privacy,” he tells his friend.

  They exchange a formal handshake. Rafa issues a message of luck.

  “Suerte, Huérfano.”

  79

  Fuga stares into the cracked mirror.

  He is not frightened.

  He is not frightened of the bulls. He is not frightened of the breeders. He is not frightened of the Crows. He is not frightened of poverty or hardship.

  He is not frightened of Franco.

  Fuga’s death came as a child, at the hands of a monster in the boys’ home.

  He stares at his reflection and begins the internal conversation.

  It is impossible to kill a man who is already dead. The mirror is broken, but the reflection is intact. Resurrection is possible, Huérfano. You fight for the forgotten, the abused, the hungry, and the unwanted. You fight for your one and only friend, just as he fights for you.

  He takes the wrinkled card of the Virgin and kisses it.

  Without hesitation, he walks out of the shed.

  80

  Rafa stands with Daniel and Nick amidst a small crowd at the edge of the ring. They watch as the ragged troop of young men emerges from the shed. The burly boy in the amber suit yanks constantly at the waistband of his trousers.

  “Oh, boy,” says Nick. “This could be unpleasant.”

  “Ana says the animals won’t be harmed,” says Daniel.

  “Sí. This is just a capea, a caping,” replies Rafa. “As you can see, the audience is less than a hundred people. If we were at Las Ventas in Madrid, there’d be twenty-five thousand people in the arena and it would be very different.”

  Daniel stands with his lens on the shed, waiting for Fuga. Rafa nervously assures the men that there is one remaining matador.

  “Wait, El Huérfano is coming.”

  “Maybe Huérfano has chickened out,” says a man. But there is no time to laugh. At that moment Fuga emerges from the shed in the turquoise suit of lights, silver embroidery shimmering beneath the afternoon sun.

  Women nearby chatter. Men issue commentary and judgment.

  “Nice suit.”

  “Ay, he’s too old.”

  “Why such a suit? It’s just a capea.”

  “I think I’ve seen him somewhere.”

  Fuga walks to the ring, radiating reverence and strength. He is not arrogant, but calmly disconnected from all that titters around him. Rafa recognizes the spell. It is the same trance he has seen in the dark willow fields, when the world seems to fall away and a solitary light shines only on Fuga and the bull.

  The group of animals is less ragged than the toreros but still disappointing. Rafa was relieved when he saw them, but he knows Fuga will be disappointed. Fuga has faced full-grown bulls in the fields. He hopes Fuga does not complain when he sees the collection of scrawny, dull-coated bulls, young bull calves, and a restless Corriente cow with massive horns.

  The first young man enters the ring, holding a newspaper as a cape.

  “Ten pesetas. He’ll last less than two minutes,” Nick wagers with a nearby attendee.

  The young bull calf is released into the ring. It runs around and the boy dodges it, flapping the newspaper. The energy is frantic. The calf chases the boy in circles. Nick wins the bet. The next torero is the same. The third ends up running from the ring amidst a serenade of boos. The husky boy in the floppy suit of lights marches into the ring. He is arrogant and demands to face the irritable cow with the big horns.

  The cow enters the ring and simply stands there. The torero moves closer to the animal but it does not respond. The boy begins jeering and taunting the animal, flapping the cape, looking for a reaction. Without warning, the cow charges at the boy. He tries to spin away but the animal’s horns catch on his loose jacket.

  “¡AY!” The boy is lifted from the ground and yells in a panic.

  Rafa jumps into the ring. He has pulled Fuga from clips in the fields. Rafa and another man dislodge the boy from the cow and escort him from the ring. The boy wails as blood spills through the sleeve of his suit. The cow’s horn has punctured his shoulder.

  The cow is angry, snorting, and rearing.

  Fuga jumps into the ring. The crowd pulls a collective breath.

  The animal is not calm.

  But Fuga is.

  With slow and graceful steps, El Huérfano emerges. His gaze is strong and steady, showing reverence to the animal, acknowledging the exchange about to begin. He allows adequate distance and gives the cape a subtle twirl. The cow charges. At the last possible second, Fuga snaps the cape high and away, allowing the cow’s horns to pass so close to his torso that Nick gasps. Subsequent passes are completed with similar strength and grace, eliciting an “Olé” from a few men.

  The cow becomes tired. Fuga comes alive.

  The cow is exchanged for a young bull. Fuga exhibits similar resolve. He performs a set of tandas, a series of passes, displaying his skill and form. His respect for the bull is evident. He continues the passes with the young bull until the animal achieves sentido, the knowledge that Fuga is his challenger, not the cape. Each pass then becomes more dangerous. The animal suddenly charges straight for Fuga. He drops to his knees in front of the bull. Left hand on his hip, he guides the young bull with the cape extended in his right hand. The crowd issues “Olés” and applause. The breeder corrals the bull from the fight.

  Fuga crosses the ring toward Rafa.

  “No, walk the ring!” Rafa whispers. Fuga’s face is blank. But Rafa recognizes the stare. It’s presence.

  Fuga has a keen readiness but no fear. What he has experienced in life is far worse than anything that could transpire at a capea. In the streets he is ignored and denied. He is labeled a wild orphan, a mad gravedigger. Fuga reveals himself to the animal only. In life, he falls to his knees for the animal only.

  At Rafa’s insistence, Fuga walks the small ring, collecting pesetas, grapes, and most of all, respect. He says nothing, interacts with no one, just turns and walks to the stone shed.

  Rafa runs to Daniel. “Did you get photos?”

  “I did. Wow, your friend is very talented.”

  “Sí, he is very brave.” Rafa lowers his voice. “This was nothing. An angry cow and a young calf. Wait until you see El Huérfano with a real bull.”

  A man in a wide felt hat approaches Rafa.

  “How old is your friend?” he asks.

  “We don’t know. He’s an orphan.”

  “So, that’s part of your pitch, huh? He’s faced bulls before, that’s obvious.”

  “Well, señor, we have an old wheelbarrow. We tied a set of horns to it. I run it around so Huérfano can train.”

  The man looks at Rafa, clearly skeptical.

  “That is why we are here, señor. We were lucky to find these Americanos to pick us up and drive us here. With the recommendation and backing of a fine man such as yourself, Huérfano can begin to train properly as a novillero. I work part-time at the slaughterhouse, but a torero must have a sponsor to train there.”

  “So, you’re telling me that this—Huérfano—has never faced a bull.” The man chews on his cigar, staring at Rafa.

  Rafa skirts the question. “He has yet to face his destiny, señor.”

  “And what about that suit? Did he steal it?”

  “No,
señor. My dear sister works for the best tailor in all of Madrid. The suit must be returned tomorrow.”

  The man extends a business card to Rafa. “Don’t return the suit just yet.”

  Rafa breaks out in a grin.

  Daniel snaps a picture.

  81

  Daniel turns the Buick onto the dusty path. The youngsters spot the car and stampede toward it. Rafa hangs out the window, waving wildly as the children explode into cheers, jumping up and down. Elderly residents awaken in their chairs. Neighbors emerge from their shacks. The community pours into the road to watch the big black car glide toward Rafa’s house.

  Antonio stands in the doorway, holding Lali. Julia and Ana appear just as the car pulls to a stop. Rafa jumps out, stands in the center of the street, and hoists the business card above his head.

  “¡Novillero!” he yells.

  The crowd gives a huge cheer.

  Ana looks to Daniel, her mouth open in surprise. Daniel nods.

  “¡Toro! ¡Toro! ¡Toro!” scream the children.

  Rafa walks to the rear door of the Buick. “Vallecanos, congratulate our friend, El Huérfano!” Rafa opens the door and Fuga steps out amidst the chaos.

  Still dressed in the suit of lights, Fuga looks princely, strong. He ignores the adults but acknowledges the children, giving them his grapes. He then walks straight to the door of the shack, carefully cradling a handful of coins.

  Fuga bends to one knee and bows his head. He raises his hands and offers his winnings.

  To Ana.

  82

  The worthy opponent is someone you respect, someone who has similar goals, and someone you must overcome. Daniel looks at Fuga.

  He is a worthy opponent—and he has caught him completely off guard. As he snaps the picture, it all rolls back at him.

  Fuga’s glares. Instant. The moment he entered the shack Daniel felt Fuga’s eyes upon him, saw his hands ball into fists. While taking his photo, Fuga’s menacing stare softened only when he glanced—toward Ana. At the time, Daniel thought nothing of it. Was his lens biased? Did he dismiss Fuga because he was a gravedigger? The most dangerous adversary is the one you underestimate.