by Ruta Sepetys
The crowd disperses. Fuga enters the shack with Rafa and the family.
Nick whistles and scratches the side of his head. “Well, there’s a humdinger. I never saw that one coming.”
“We should leave,” says Daniel.
“Nah, there’s generally a dance on Sunday night. We should stick around.”
How does Nick know there’s a dance on Sundays?
Ana emerges from the shack and approaches the car.
“Ana, I’m trying to convince Dan to stay. There’s a dance tonight, isn’t there?” says Nick.
“Yes. Do stay, señor. Rafa will want you here to celebrate. He’s so excited.”
“Looks like El Huérfano is the one who’s excited.” Nick laughs. He gets down on one knee and holds his flask up to Ana.
“Stop it, Nick! I was just as surprised as you were.” Ana looks nervously to the door. “Stand up. It would be very hurtful if he saw you teasing like that.”
Nick gets up. “So, you and the matador aren’t courting?”
“Of course not. He’s barely spoken to me.” Ana steps closer, hands on her hips. “Even if we were, you have no right to my personal life. You might be surprised to learn, Nick, that I’ve moved on from the Van Dorns.” Ana walks back toward her house.
“Yeah? Don’t need my help anymore?” he calls after her. “Got yourself a beau? Who is it?”
Ana stops at the door and whirls to face Nick. “Yes, I do. His name is Tom Collins.” She gives a sweet shrug and walks through the door.
Nick scratches his head, confused. “Well, that’s a sorry break, Dan. Sounds like you’ll have to get in line behind this Tom character and then you’ll have to fight our pal Fuga.”
Daniel smiles. Nick’s wrong. Tom Collins just passed him a private message.
He’s definitely staying for the dance.
83
Puri stands on a chair in her mother’s closet, reaching for the box she knows is there. She has snooped before, but at the time, the box didn’t interest her. Jewelry and lipstick were more interesting than files and correspondence about the war. But now more than ever, all things locked and hidden pull Puri. Tonight her parents are with friends for dinner. There’s plenty of time.
She pulls the metal box from the far corner of the shelf and sits down in the closet.
Although the photos are faded, Puri recognizes her aunt. Ana looks much like her. Two sisters—her mother and Ana’s mother—stand together, arms linked, smiles wide. The smile on her mother’s face is spontaneous and carefree. Puri doesn’t recognize the easy expression. It’s foreign and makes her feel uncomfortable, as if her mother used to be a different person. A thick square of folded paper sits in the box. It’s stained and without envelope. Puri unfolds the paper.
Dearest Sister,
Forgive my hurried hand. Each time I write, it is with the knowing that the end draws closer. The guards remind me daily that the best cure for my suffering is death.
Yet I cling to life. It is my final resistance.
But if you receive this letter, Teresa, I am gone.
Although you are far away in Madrid, you must hide your grief. Hide it well or you will be marked a sympathizer. You will not be alone in your silence. Our country has entered a period of memory hibernation and I fear this “winter” could be long.
You once asked if new schools were worth dying for. I told you they were. I still believe that. Our husbands stood on opposite sides during the war, each defending their convictions. I hold no grudge. But I never fathomed that brutality could exist to this extent. The war is over but the torture continues. A hunting permit is required to kill a rabbit, yet each day I see women tortured and killed at whim. Today, the young daughter of a journalist was dealt such bestial blows she died choking on her own blood.
In many ways, it is the children of our country who will pay for this war—my own included—and for that, I cannot forgive myself. Teresa, there are so many children who are desperate and orphaned. I have seen them tear newborns from a mother’s arms just prior to execution. I know you have long tried for a child of your own, but if you could find it in your heart, dear sister, please give shelter to any that you can. Build a family from the broken pieces.
I’ve begged Julia to stay away but she has found ways to communicate. She will get this letter to you. What indescribable sorrow it causes me, knowing that my elder daughter will sacrifice her childhood to take care of the family. Julia will contact you when appropriate. She understands the necessity of silence.
Take comfort that this silence is not yours alone, Teresa. In the fields, across the mountains, under the streets, and beneath the trees lie thousands of souls, condemned to silence. But one day, far into the future when the pain is less sharp, the voices of the dead will find harmony with the living. They will make a melody. Listen for the music, Teresa. I sing for you, for my children, and for the better day I know will come. Until then, I send you all my love, sister, and my eternal gratitude for helping my children.
Yours, Belén
Puri stares at the faded, handwritten letter. The sorrowful note provides no real answers, but raises an additional question.
I know you have long tried for a child of your own, but if you could find it in your heart, dear sister, please give shelter to any that you can. Build a family from the broken pieces.
Was Aunt Belén telling her mother to adopt a child?
Puri swallows. Broken pieces. Is she one of them? No. It can’t be true.
Or could it?
84
A schoolhouse on weekdays, the dilapidated building now serves as a sweltering dance hall. There are no crystal chandeliers, no champagne fountains, no circulating hors d’oeuvres, and everyone is having a grand time.
Antonio looks through the lens of Daniel’s camera.
“Sí, like that. Turn it slowly to focus,” instructs Daniel. He looks around the room to see what Antonio might see. Fuga stands in the corner in what appears to be an angry exchange with Lorenza. Does Lorenza live in Vallecas?
“I won’t take a picture. I know that film is expensive,” says Antonio.
“That’s okay. Take pictures if you’d like. Do you see Julia?” Daniel points. Antonio finds his wife in the crowd of dancers and snaps a photo.
“Have you taken a lot of pictures in Madrid?” asks Antonio. He hands the camera back to Daniel.
“I have.” Daniel fiddles with the camera, his foot tapping to the music. “I went out to the Inclusa like you suggested.” Mention of the Inclusa triggers Nick’s comment about babies not being orphans. Could that be true? Does Antonio know something?
The lines on Antonio’s forehead lift in surprise. “The Inclusa, was it interesting?”
“A boy came crying on the sidewalk. He had a note from his mother, sending him to the orphanage. I felt badly for him. He was only five.”
Antonio nods attentively. “Did you take any photos inside?”
“No, it didn’t really feel appropriate.”
“They might be pleased for you to take photos. You can show America how wonderful Spanish social programs are. You should ask.”
Daniel is only half listening. His eyes are on Ana. She’s dancing with Nick, whose steps are clumsy. Spaniards hold their drink. If Nick weren’t holding on to Ana, he’d probably be stumbling.
Antonio follows his gaze. “Texanos don’t dance?”
“We do.” Daniel hands his camera to Antonio and walks out onto the dance floor. He taps Nick on the shoulder to cut in.
“Time for the switch, cowboy?” Nick’s voice brims with false enthusiasm. He steps aside and makes a grand gesture of departure to Ana.
“Think you can stand a Texas two-step?” asks Daniel.
“If you show me, I’ll try to follow.”
“Do we need a chaperone?”
&n
bsp; Ana laughs, her smile glowing. “We have a hundred chaperones here, señor.”
Daniel slides his right arm under Ana’s left, placing his hand on her shoulder blade. He takes her hand. She looks to the floor, following his steps. Quick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow.
Daniel slides in to her ear. “Look at me, not your feet. It works best if you feel it, not think it.”
She looks up at Daniel. Eyes clasped, he guides her and they fall in step.
“I think I’ve got it.” She smiles.
“Yeah? You got it?”
She nods.
His arm is suddenly over her head, spinning her away, then pulling her back in. Each time he pulls her back, it’s tighter, her smile wider. When their bodies finally meet, he holds her close, moving her into the steps.
Girls in Texas wear fabric chaperones—stiff dresses and petticoats that rustle and crunch with each movement. Ana’s dress is handkerchief light and sways silently as she moves. Daniel turns Ana away from him, sliding his hand across her waist. When he twirls her back in, her dance-thrown hair presses against the side of his face. She smells like lemons. Her dress is so thin it’s like touching her skin. Can she feel his belt buckle through her dress? Ana’s mouth is suddenly to his ear.
“Ay, I think we need a chaperone.” There’s a light pull at his earlobe.
Did she just kiss him?
Ana kissed him on the ear.
Did she?
The song ends and Daniel steps back quickly, putting respectable distance between them. He nods politely to Ana as he would a partner in a Texas dance hall. Her black hair, full and tousled from the turns, hangs in wild, loose spirals around her face. She looks at Daniel and throws her head back with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
Ana shakes her head. “You. Your expression.”
Nick approaches, holding Daniel’s camera retrieved from Antonio. “Didn’t you say you had a photo shoot tomorrow?”
Daniel nods, staring at Ana.
“Well, it’s late,” says Nick. “We better get going.”
“You’re worried about staying out late, Nick? That’s a first,” says Ana.
Daniel runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Actually, he’s right. I told Ben that I’d shoot for him tomorrow morning.” He looks at Ana. “But maybe sleep is overrated.”
Ana nods, grinning. “It is late. I’m sure turndown service was completed in your suite long ago. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow at the hotel. Buenas noches, señor.” Ana turns and walks away.
“Let’s get out of here,” says Nick. “Looks like Fuga’s planning his own ‘turndown’ service for you. Man, that guy is scary. Did you ever notice that he actually looks like a bull?”
Daniel hasn’t noticed. Why did Ana laugh at him? He was trying to be polite and respectful. Did he come off as an amateur?
Nick falls asleep the moment the car leaves Vallecas. But Daniel is wide-awake. He drives through the dark Spanish night with all the windows rolled down. He feels her whisper upon his ear. The melody of Ana plays on in his head.
85
Julia watches her sister from across the room. Ana is flushed, aglow after her dance. The Texas boy is trouble. His jeans, his boots, his dancing. Trouble.
Antonio wraps a comforting arm around Julia. “Ay, don’t worry so much. He’ll go back to Texas soon. They’re just having fun.”
“Exactly. Remember the intensity of everything at that age? It results in bad decisions.”
“It’s fine. He’s gone for the night. Mi amor, would a rich Texano really be such a bad decision?”
“Yes, Antonio. He’s not serious about her. He’s just another American who thinks he can take whatever he wants.” Julia sighs with concern and looks to her husband. “He’s going to break her heart,” she whispers.
Antonio shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”
“I am?”
He nods. “She’s going to break his.”
86
Daniel pulls the Buick onto the apron of elegant pavers in front of the hotel. A man in a green-and-gold uniform sprints to the car.
“Welcome back, señor.”
Nick yawns, groggy. “You want to get something to eat?” he asks Daniel.
“No, I’m gonna head up.”
Daniel briefly checks the lobby to see if his dad might be there. His father is not in the lobby, but Paco Lobo is, peering over a wrinkled map spread out in front of him. He waves Daniel over.
“Hello. I was just checking to see if my father was here.”
“Your parents had drinks with Max Factor. They went up about an hour ago,” says Paco, looking up at Daniel through his glasses. “Say, my eyes are so bad, I can’t see the small print. On the coast, south of Valencia, can you find a city named Dénia?”
Daniel leans over the map. “Here.” He points to a city in the Costa Blanca region. “Are you adopting another village?”
“No,” Paco Lobo says with a laugh. “I have to visit for work.”
“Oh, I thought philanthropy was your work.”
He shakes his head and pushes the wire frames higher on his nose. He puts a finger to the map. “Yes, there it is. Thank you.”
Daniel notices a small notepad near the map. “The names and words you’ve got there, they’re German, aren’t they?”
“My, your eyes are good.” Paco Lobo quickly slides his notes beneath the map. “Daniel—” Paco speaks without looking at him. “During cocktails, I overheard your father tell Max Factor that you met the Guardia Civil. He sounded proud, said you held your own. I’m sure it was nothing, but Franco’s police and guards”—his eyes leave the map and lock to Daniel’s—“they’re thorough. Have a good night.”
The statement is a dismissal. Is it also a warning? Daniel wonders as he heads for the elevator. His father and Max Factor—the makeup mogul. They couldn’t be more different. The cocktail conversation must have been lacking if his father had to bring up the incident from the first day in Madrid. And proud? No. That’s not a word he’d use about his son being reprimanded. Perhaps Paco Lobo is the one who had a few drinks.
Daniel enters his suite; it’s quiet and comforting with just a glow of the desk lamp. A telephone message sits squarely within the lamplight.
11:45 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl
Lobby 9:00 a.m. Pros wear suit and tie. 100 ASA. Bring your passport.
100 ASA is for bright light. The shoot is probably outside. Why does he need his passport?
Daniel takes off his shirt and tosses it over the back of a chair. Ana was right. Turndown service has been completed. Did she do it herself before leaving for the night? Daniel turns and finds the answer. Taped under each photo on the wall is a small strip of paper. A caption.
From Tom Collins.
He snaps on the lights.
The picture of Nick, face bludgeoned, slumped in the back of the taxi:
Sometimes, when there’s nothing left to burn, we set ourselves on fire.
The happy girl from Vallecas with the raven braid and holes in her shoes:
She has a name for the tapeworm that lives inside of her. She calls him Chucho.
The hairy-chested tourist asleep at the sidewalk table:
The drink he spills costs more than many earn in a week. Who benefits most from tourist dollars in Spain?
Shep Van Dorn, entertaining guests at the dinner party:
Expensive clothes or cheap drapes of emotional poverty?
Rafa, smile beaming, standing by the Buick:
The lashing scars on his back live like veins above the skin. But sometimes, a good smile can chase the memories away.
Each caption provides a new lens into the image, peeling back invisible layers to reveal a human story. He can’t wait to discuss them with h
er. As he scans the wall, his eyes land on the picture that Ana took of him that day in the candy shop.
The caption is just two words, but says everything.
Hola, Daniel.
87
Rafa removes his bloody apron for lunch. A fellow slaughterhouse worker passes behind him.
“Rafa. Supervisor wants to see you. By the way, I heard about yesterday. Sounds like your torero made an impression. ¡Felicidades!” he says, patting Rafa on the back.
“Gracias, amigo.” Rafa smiles. His colleagues have been generous with words of encouragement and congratulations. His announcement and their enthusiasm have made for a very happy Monday. He heads to the office and knocks on the frame of the door.
“Adelante.” His supervisor waves him into the small, windowless room with brick walls. “A gentleman called this morning asking about you. Did you tell someone at the capea that you work here at el matadero?”
“Just the man in the big hat. The one who gave me his card.”
His supervisor nods. “He asked me to confirm that you are employed here and then he asked a lot of questions about your torero.”
“Questions about El Huérfano? What kind of questions?”
“About his training, his background. Questions I couldn’t answer. But I told him I do know you and that you’re a good worker.”
“Ay, ¡gracias!” says Rafa.
“He wants to see your friend fight again.”
“When? We’ll be ready!”
“Sunday. Just said he’ll be in touch about a fight in Arganda del Rey. But if he’s calling around the morning after the capea, seems like a good sign to me.”
