by Ruta Sepetys
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. You remember these folks from the event at the embassy, don’t you?” Daniel eyes the girls in dresses and the young men in ties. Once again, Nick has led him astray. “I thought you said it was casual,” he whispers.
“It is! Look at me. I’m not wearing a tie. I can’t help that they did.” Nick walks to the table and makes an announcement. “My friend feels he’s underdressed. Would you please assure him that his Dallas ranch wear is just fine?” Nick lifts a glass in a toast. “To comfort, Daniel Matheson.”
A girl at the table perks up. “Your people are the Mathesons from Dallas?”
“My people? Uh, yes,” he says.
The girl gives an immature squeal. “Then you must know my parents’ dear friends? The Joyce family from Preston Hollow? They have a daughter our age, Laura Beth.”
Society’s noose casts long shadows. Half a world away and this girl knows his family and also Laura Beth’s? His mother would be thrilled. Of course they know the Joyce family. Everyone does.
“I’m sorry,” says the girl. “Did I say something to offend?”
“Not at all,” recovers Daniel, realizing that his face gave him away. “Just looking for a place to put my camera.”
“Unlike the rest of us loafers, my pal Dan’s been on assignment this morning. He’s an award-winning photographer and a finalist for a big photography prize.”
Nick actually sounds proud. His mention of Daniel as a pal feels genuine.
“Holy cow, that’s impressive,” says one of the guys. “What did you photograph this morning?”
Five faces stare at him from the fancy lunch table, waiting for a response.
“I photographed Franco,” says Daniel quietly.
The table erupts with impressed chatter.
“I see you’ve got the press badge to prove it,” whispers Nick. “How’d you swing that? Shep says those are worth gold.”
“I’ll be returning it to Ben after I leave here,” says Daniel.
“Sure you will.” Nick nods with a grin.
Daniel moves to place his camera on a nearby table. Behind is a wall of shelves holding dozens of framed photos—Nick with his Le Rosey rowing team, Mr. and Mrs. Van Dorn with President Eisenhower, Mr. Van Dorn with Conrad Hilton. There are also several group photos and family photos. One image catches his eye. He moves closer. Standing in the back row of the group is Nick. Standing next to him is Ana.
Nick approaches from behind. “Evaluating the photo technique?”
“Nope. The people in the photo.” Daniel points to Ana. He looks at Nick.
“I told you, we’re friends. Nothing more,” whispers Nick. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
But Daniel has lost his appetite.
98
Ana stands in the office of her supervisor. “This message just came through the hotel operator. It says it’s urgent.”
Urgent? Ana’s mind pulls to Julia and Lali.
“If it truly is urgent, you may use the phone in my office. But do not make this a habit, Ana. The hotel cannot take calls for employees. Do you understand?”
“Sí, señor. Of course. Gracias.” She looks at the telephone message:
4:30 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn
Urgent. Please call.
As unpredictable as Nick can be, he’s never claimed urgency. Ana looks at the clock. She has just ten minutes before meeting Daniel on her break.
“You may call while I’m gone.” The supervisor exits the office.
A servant answers and Ana requests Nick. She twists the telephone cord, anxious.
“Hi.” Nick’s voice lacks the usual bravado.
“I got your message.”
“Yeah, listen. Dan was here for lunch. He saw the photo of our family. The one with you in it. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Why do you still have that photo?”
“I don’t know. It was on the shelf. But look, he’s asking questions. I watched you two last night at the dance. He likes you. He really likes you. Do you like him?”
Ana pauses, debating what she should share. “Nick, there’s something I haven’t told you. Please don’t be mad.”
“Oh, am I the last to know?”
“It’s not about Daniel.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I’ve been getting notes again.”
There’s no response.
“Nick, are you still there?”
Nick’s voice is deep, measured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure who was writing them,” says Ana.
“You weren’t sure? You mean you have multiple men threatening you?”
“No. I thought maybe he put someone up to it. Part of me wanted to just let it go.”
Nick laughs in disgust. “Why do people say that, like it’s so easy. ‘Let it go, Nicky, just let it go.’ I’m so tired of hearing that.”
Ana hears Nick inhale, trying to contain his anger.
“Tell me, Ana. What do the notes say?”
She takes a breath. “He says I’m a liar, Nick. That he’s figured it out and it will be the end of me. He must know about the bracelet. He’s threatening consequences.”
“Consequences. Yeah, there’ll be consequences. I’ll tell my mom. I’ll tell the ambassador. I’ll write to President Eisenhower and broadcast that my father, Shephard Van Dorn, the dashing foreign affairs officer, is a louse and a first-class creep.”
“Nick, no. We agreed. And please, let’s keep your mom out of this. You promised. But . . . I want to tell Daniel.”
“You do?”
“At least part of it. The day I took Daniel to the camera shop he asked about my job before working at the Hilton. I told him I worked for a family in Madrid. But I didn’t tell him it was your family.”
“I didn’t tell him either,” says Nick. “I told him we were friends but didn’t elaborate.”
“Exactly, but it’s not fair. I’m not delusional. I know that I’d never be able to have a boy like Daniel. Trust me, Julia reminds me every day. But I respect him and I want to be honest with him.”
“Just say it. You’re falling for him. I saw it from a million miles away, Ana. And he likes you too. Why do you think I sent him to Vallecas?”
Ana looks to the door, making certain she’s alone. “He’s a guest at the hotel, Nick. I can’t lose my job. I’m trying to work my way up. You know that!” she whispers. “Your father claims I led him to believe we had an arrangement, but it’s not true.”
“Of course it’s not true. This is his notch-in-the-belt game. He’s such a child.”
“He’s not a child. He’s a powerful man who could hurt my family. I love my job and we can’t survive without the income. Please, we have to be careful.”
“And what—hope Shep finds someone else to toy with?”
“I won’t mention your father. I just want to tell Daniel that I used to work for your family. That you’re like a brother to me and you saved me from bad circumstances and got me the job at the Hilton. That’s all I’ll tell him.”
Ana hears a deep inhale and exhale through the receiver. “All right. Fine. But I kinda did like Matheson thinking that I was competition.” Nick laughs.
“Well, now he’ll know the truth. That you’re a knight in shining armor.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you doing something special for your birthday?”
“Mom’s in New York and Shep forgot. Big surprise, right? I threw a celebratory lunch for myself.”
Ana stares at the receiver of the phone. “Happy birthday, Nick. You’re a true friend.”
“I’m only trying to help. I know your family hates me.”
“They don’t hate you. They’re frightened of what your father could do to us.”
“They’re
not the only ones,” says Nick.
99
Daniel steps through the brick-walled archway of the Sorolla Museum. The entry strikes him as an exit, a quiet pause from the bustling outside world. The artist’s villa is margined by a courtyard garden that’s expansive yet intimate. Daniel hesitates to take a photo, as if Sorolla himself puts a finger to his lips for breath and reflection.
He walks quietly around the courtyard. Birds twitter and chirp amidst the ferns and climbing twists of purple wisteria. Pathways of clay tile rowed by box hedges lead to trickling fountains, pergolas, and ponds with hand-painted ceramic tilings. The imagery on each tile tells a story. They could give texture to his photo essay. He takes a picture.
The fountain stands in front of a semicircular room of glass projecting out from the rest of the building. It depicts two figures in long robes. One leans toward the other, as if whispering secrets while the trickling water masks the sound.
A wooden bench, crisped from years of Spanish sun, is tucked into a nearby corner behind a thick banana palm. Hidden from view, Daniel can’t see who is entering the courtyard. So instead of sitting, he stands beside the palm.
Why is Ana in the Van Dorns’ family photos? Is it a game that Nick and Ana are playing with him? Whatever it is, he’s fed up with it.
Ana appears in the courtyard and hurries toward the bench.
“Hola, señor. I only have a few minutes.”
“Hola.” Daniel moves to sit next to her but she stops him.
“Would you mind standing to keep watch?” she whispers. “My hotel uniform is very recognizable.”
Daniel gives a frustrated exhale.
She raises a hand to stop him. “Please, let me explain. The day I took you to the camera shop, the first day we really spoke, I told you that I used to work for a family in Madrid. The family I worked for was the Van Dorns. They treated me very well, made me feel like I was truly part of their family. I have never dated Nick, nor am I attracted to him. He’s like my brother.”
Like a brother. Daniel attempts to conceal his happiness. “So why the secrecy? Why didn’t either of you just tell me that?”
Ana’s hands bunch, grasping the skirt of her uniform as if it’s a railing and she’s about to fall.
“Because something happened,” says Ana. She looks up from her lap and squarely at Daniel, honesty tumbling forth.
“Someone accused me of something I didn’t do. They threatened me. I had to make changes. Nick offered to help and promised to keep it a secret. He got me the job at the Hilton, where I can work my way up to a better position. I was grateful to you for defending Nick in the fight because he saved me. He gets himself in trouble, but he’s not a bad person. And you, you are a wonderful person. You’re kind and fun and talented. You’ve been very respectful to me, señor, and you deserve the same.”
Daniel looks at Ana, processing what’s most important to him. She isn’t dating Nick. She’s in trouble. A charge flows to his fists. Who is threatening her?
“Is anyone nearby?” asks Ana.
Daniel peeks around the palms. He shakes his head.
“The dance last night . . .” Ana lowers her voice. “It was special, dancing with you. I just wanted to tell you, well, in case you were wondering.”
He smiles. What he’s wondering is when he can kiss her.
“But the missing photos—I’m frightened,” says Ana. “Who was in your room and why did they take them?”
He’s concerned too but doesn’t want to worry her. “I don’t know. I hope it was Ben. When someone steals a photo, there’s a reason. That’s good news for my contest entry but bad news for hotel security.”
“It’s bad news for me too. Those captions were personal.” Ana stands to leave. “My break is nearly over. I must get back. I’m babysitting for the next few hours and staying at the hotel tonight.”
“Ana, have dinner with me. We’ll figure this out together.”
“Señor, I cannot be seen dining with a hotel guest.”
“You won’t be seen. I’ll order room service for us. Say you’re visiting Puri and her family. I’ll give some excuse to my parents.”
Ana hesitates. “I don’t think so. I mean, no, I can’t.”
“Please? How can I figure this out by myself?” He gives an imploring look.
“Oh, stop.”
“Say yes. But only if you want to.”
Ana shakes her head. She looks over her shoulder and then suddenly blurts, “Okay, maybe. Yes. I’d like that. I have to go. But promise me you’ll go inside the museum. It’s magical. Sorolla is my most favorite painter.”
“Really? Why?”
Ana smiles widely. She is lighter, unburdened by sharing a truth with Daniel.
“When I look at Sorolla’s pictures of the seaside, I feel the wind and the water. I can feel what it might be like—to be free.”
100
Rafa hacks the shovel into a patch of dry earth, waiting for Fuga. Madrid’s soil is untender, strong and enduring like many who walk upon it. He reviews his rehearsed points. If the Texano takes pictures of the empty coffins, the story will be captured. It will bring Fuga peace and he can focus on bullfighting. This is the plan. But now he must convince his friend.
Fuga appears in the distance, walking over a hill, shovels on each shoulder. The image is solitary, quiet, like Fuga. How can courage be so still, when fear is so powerful? For Rafa, fear wears many faces. It may arrive through a nerve, fluttering upon his eyelid like a moth to a light. Sometimes it’s a hand that awakens him in the night, reaching through a seam of sleep to punch his tired mind. When he asks Fuga about his stillness, his friend shrugs and says, “El momento.”
The moment.
To Fuga, the past no longer exists. The future is yet to exist. Fuga pledges loyalty to the “is,” not the “if.” When he meets a bull, he is fully present. Fuga is passionate but exists in the moment, gives himself to the moment. Rafa envies his friend’s singular presence.
Rafa wipes the sweat from his brow and looks out amidst the graves. Families of Republicans are not able to publicly mourn those they have lost. Even if the location of his father’s body was known, they could not visit the grave. Rafa is lucky to have a job as a gravedigger. He is able to whisper words to his mother each and every day. And sometimes, she whispers back.
Fuga arrives and gives a nod to Rafa.
“I have news. The promoter called. You will fight in Arganda del Rey on Sunday.”
Fuga’s habitually knitted brow rises. A small smile emerges on his cloudy face.
“Sí. Es fantástico,” nods Rafa. “But we have just a few days to prepare. You must listen to me, amigo. You must be focused.”
“¿Yo?” Fuga points to his own chest, offended.
“Sí, tú. You can’t lose your temper and break coffins. You’ll end up in jail and then everything we have worked for is lost. When you become a famous matador, you will save many children and support the orphanages. But as you often say, the future is yet to exist. We exist right now. And right now you must work to become a famous matador.”
Fuga chews on a piece of grass, gazing upon the cemetery, content within his silence.
Rafa begins his rehearsed speech. “Antonio had an idea. I think it’s a good one. The Texano—”
Fuga turns to Rafa with a glare.
“Tranquilo. Listen. The Texano has a camera. He wants to be a photojournalist. If the Texano takes pictures of the empty coffins, he can take photos back to his big papers in America. The issue is no longer silent. Let him share these dangerous stories and the consequences. You stick to the bulls.”
Fuga pauses, digesting Rafa’s words. He then jams his shovel into the dirt and begins to dig.
Dig. Throw. Dig. Throw.
Rafa’s conscience calls out a warning. Dangerous stories. He didn’t imply that t
he Texano would be in danger, did he? That’s not what he meant. Should he have said important stories?
Fuga pauses, wiping sweat that weeps from his brow. “Sí. Bring the Texano,” he mutters.
Rafa nods, noting the snap of intense determination within his friend.
Fuga returns to his shovel and digs with vigor.
The grave opens like a jaw.
101
Puri walks down the gray tile floors of the clinic. They look cold, like wet concrete.
The clinic serves only one woman today. She’s been in labor since Puri arrived, moaning and asking for her husband.
“You must calm yourself, señora,” instructs the doctor. “Hysterics put undue stress on both mother and baby.”
Puri thinks on the doctor’s comment. The woman is in pain but she isn’t hysterical. Perhaps it’s less dignified to moan about, but giving birth must be extremely difficult. Puri once asked her mother if giving birth was painful. Her mother cringed and waved away the question as if it was not only painful, but too painful to discuss.
Puri takes her place at the front desk. She studies her own frayed cuticles, blocky black shoes, and saggy nylon stockings. Adoption would explain her lack of resemblance to her parents or Ana’s family. Could she really be adopted? If so, did her mother wear a pillow like the woman who came to the Inclusa? Is that why she waved away the questions about childbirth?
After two hours, Puri hears the loud wail of a newborn. The cry is strong and fortified. Good lungs. Vitality. Puri wishes all the orphans at the Inclusa had the strength of this newborn. Especially Clover. Will the handsome couple decide to adopt her?
A man rushes through the door of the clinic. His face is flushed and glistens with sweat. “I came as soon as I was able. My wife is Señora Sánchez. How is she?”
Puri knows that only the doctor can provide information. During her training that rule was drilled repeatedly. She was quizzed on it.
“I’ll let the doctor know you are here.” Puri smiles, wishing she could share the happy news with the perspiring father. She heads through the door and down the hall to the nurse’s area. A nun, still wearing a birthing apron, holds the bundled newborn in a white swaddle. The doctor stands next to her.
