by Ruta Sepetys
Ana looks in the mirror and adjusts her hair. It’s pinned up. Should she have let it down? She pulls one strand loose, letting it spiral against her face. Daniel’s shaving kit sits open on the counter. A blue bottle with a white top says, Arrid Men’s Spray. Stops perspiration odor on contact. Lorenza says American men wear perfume under their arms. Is this what she was referring to? Daniel smells so good it sets her heart fluttering.
She hears the door close but doesn’t dare move. Is the waiter still in the room? She stands still, unable to identify the sounds. A few moments pass until Daniel’s voice emerges.
“Should I wheel the tray in there?” he asks.
Ana opens the door.
The lights are dimmed. The sheer pearl curtains sway amidst the soft music and quiet breeze from the terrace. The room-service table sits in the middle of the room topped with a pressed white tablecloth, silver cloche domes, and formal serving pieces. Positioned in the center of the table is a single shimmering candle.
Daniel stands next to the elegant table, entirely relaxed in his jeans and dusty boots. He’s not looking through a camera lens. He’s looking at her, directly at her. He sees her.
“Ready, Ana?”
Her field of vision narrows. Daniel stands at the end of the long tunnel she has so long been walking.
She is not in the hotel.
She is not a maid.
She is on a date with a gorgeous boy.
A boy who likes her.
Threats, yellow cards, war, fear, and silence fall like leaves from a tree abandoning its season. She lets it all flutter away. One night. She will allow herself this one night.
She looks at Daniel and utters the word that sings in her heart.
“Yes.”
106
4:00 a.m.
Empty plates. Abandoned table. Thumb of a flickering candle.
Daniel’s boots are tossed on different locations of the carpet. Plaid shirt peeled to his white T-shirt. Ana’s hair hangs loose around her shoulders.
They sit on the floor in front of the sofa, facing each other.
Daniel trails his fingers along Ana’s hand. “That very first day, on the sidewalk.”
“The sleeping tourist. We both saw the photo,” says Ana.
“Exactly! Then you took me on the Metro. You were standing so close. I was sweating,” laughs Daniel.
“Your Arrid wasn’t working?”
“Not in the slightest. I kept thinking, holy cow, who is this girl? And then at the dance.”
“What about the dance?” she asks.
“What do you mean? You kissed me.”
“Are you sure?” says Ana. “Maybe you’re mistaken. What did it feel like?”
Daniel leans in toward her neck and ear. “It felt like this.”
Knocking sounds at the door. Ana’s body pops with fear. Daniel pulls her into him and puts a finger to his lips.
“I know you’re in there,” calls a voice from behind the door. “I hear the music. Open up.” The doorknob rattles.
Ana jumps up in a panic and runs to the bathroom.
Daniel heads to the door. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”
“Nice try. Want me to wake your parents?”
He opens the door a crack.
Ben leans against the doorframe, shaking his head. “Did you really think you’d get away with it?” Ben pushes past him and enters the room. “It’s one thing if you want to be stupid, Matheson, but you’re on dangerous ground with—” Ben jerks to a halt as if he’s hit a wall. His eyes read the romantic table, the purse on the sofa, and the last of the trembling candle. A grin appears.
“Bad timing?”
“Really bad timing,” whispers Daniel. “Why are you here?”
“Because you made off with the press pass!”
“Come back tomorrow. C’mon, Ben, please.”
Ben nods, chuckling. “It’s Ana. The girl from downstairs. Am I right?”
Daniel pushes him toward the door. Ben grabs a piece of bread from the table on the way. “Your life, Matheson. What I’d give to be you right now.” They arrive at the door and Ben puts a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “You realize it, right? Soak it all in, cowboy. You’re going to return to this summer for the rest of your life.”
“Let me return to this night right now.”
Ben exits and turns in the hallway. “By the way, great job today. Your photo—”
Daniel closes the door. He locks it.
Did Ben’s interruption ruin the moment? He doesn’t want her to leave. They still have two hours. “Ana, he’s gone.”
She emerges from the bathroom.
“It was just Ben.” He walks toward her. “Sorry about that, where were we?”
Ana leans back against the wall. “I think we were here.” She pulls Daniel in and kisses him. Her hand reaches for the light switch.
They stand at the door, fighting the pull of the evening and the push of the coming day.
“It’s six thirty. They’ll expect me downstairs soon,” says Ana.
Daniel says nothing. Just nods, staring at her.
“Are you tired?” she asks.
“Not a bit.”
“Me neither.”
“So don’t go.”
“I have to,” she laughs. “Maybe I can pick up your breakfast dishes.” She gives him a kiss and tries to pull away toward the door.
“Wait, I have something for you.” Daniel goes to the closet and returns with a book. “I visited the Sorolla Museum like you suggested.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is. I got you this.” He hands the book to Ana. “It has pictures of all the paintings, including the ones you love of the seaside. Now you can visit the museum anytime you want.”
Ana opens the cover. She sighs, touching a finger to his lips.
For Tom Collins From Robert Capa—x DM 1957
* * *
After much swaying and many long goodbyes, Ana finally leaves, stealing down a staircase to another floor. Daniel leans against the door and pulls a breath, holding close to their unbelievable night together. He feels Ana all around him. And it feels incredible.
He sits on the balcony, watching night retreat to light. The plan falls swiftly into place. He’ll attend university in Madrid. He’ll work with Miguel. He’ll enter the photo competition as planned. If he wins, maybe Ben can get him a job in the Madrid Bureau of the Tribune. Or perhaps Mr. Van Dorn can get him a press job at the embassy.
The sun is up. He returns to his room and passes the photos on the wall. He needs ten for the contest. Ana and Miguel will help him choose. He’ll think about it later once he learns what Ben needed the photos for.
* * *
He’s sleeping so soundly he barely hears the noise. How long have they been knocking? Is it Ben? Hoping that it’s Ana, he pulls on his jeans and walks shirtless toward the knocking. He yanks open the door with a smile.
His parents, smartly dressed and full of energy, stand smiling in the hall.
“Why, Daniel, did you forget? We agreed to have breakfast.”
Daniel runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “Sorry, I’m pretty tired.”
“Well,” says his father. “We have a surprise that will wake you up.” As if on cue, his parents step apart.
Standing behind them in the hallway is a familiar face.
It’s Laura Beth.
107
“Why, Puri, what a surprise to see you here.” Julia hugs her young cousin. “Are Aunt and Uncle all right?”
“Yes, they’re fine. I’m sorry to visit you at work, Julia. I know you’re very busy with the matadors.” Puri’s voice is soaked with urgency. “But I have nowhere else to go.”
“Puri, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?”
“Very unwell.”
“Come in. We can speak in the fitting room.”
Julia leads Puri through the workshop.
Puri has spent endless nights thinking of the handsome matadors. She knows her thoughts warrant confession. The visual feast of colors, fabrics, and suits in front of her is what she’s dreamed of seeing on, and off, the courageous men. But recent distractions have pushed her interest in matadors aside.
They enter a small room with wood paneling and mirrors. Julia motions for them to sit together on a bench.
“Tell me why you’re here, Puri.”
Puri looks at her older cousin. “Because you know about secrets.”
Julia’s eyes dart. Her fingers clutch her skirt. “What are you referring to?”
Puri takes a deep breath. “Julia, when should a secret be kept and what should be kept a secret? If I see something that troubles me, that doesn’t feel correct, do I have the right to question it? Should I say something?”
Julia looks at her cousin, evaluating.
“Well, we all have the right to question things in our own minds, Puri. But some things are complex, nuanced. They stand at a cliff of truth. They might appear as fact when in reality we don’t have all of the information. So, at the time, it’s beyond our comprehension. Speaking of things we don’t understand might only complicate things.”
“In that case, what do I do?” asks Puri.
“Is this related to your social service work at the orphanage?”
“Yes, and at the clinic.”
“Does it pertain to the babies?” whispers Julia.
Puri nods. “And adoption in general.”
“Puri, you must give your best self to those children. Whatever they were born of, whatever their circumstance in coming to the Inclusa, they are innocent. Shelter them and show them they are worthy. If you can help them find a loving and stable home,” Julia’s voice catches, tearful. “Please, Puri. Please do that. Mothers pray for someone like you. Someone who cares enough to hold their children, to love them, to think of their future.”
Julia reaches out and takes her hand. “I know it’s difficult, Puri, but if you can, try to imagine yourself in the place of those children. What do they deserve?”
A woman enters the fitting room. “Julia, Luis is asking for you.”
“I’m so sorry, Puri. I must return to work.” Julia gives her a kiss and guides her out of the fitting room.
Try to imagine yourself in the place of those children.
Was Julia speaking generally of the orphans at the Inclusa or, Puri wonders, was Julia giving her a more direct message? What does she know?
108
Daniel stares at his plate. Laura Beth and his mother have talked nonstop. His mother does that when she’s uncomfortable. His father hasn’t spoken a single word. He does that when he’s uncomfortable.
His father had made a big production of introducing everyone in the lobby to Laura Beth. He referred to her as “my son’s sweetheart from Dallas.” Daniel feels sick. His sweetheart is somewhere in the hotel and might emerge at any moment. Laura Beth tries to engage him in conversation.
“Your mother showed me the photo with Franco. Front page of the newspaper. Congratulations,” says Laura Beth.
Daniel nods. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps you can show Laura Beth a bit of Madrid today,” suggests his mother.
“No, ma’am. I have two photo shoots.”
“You can take her along.”
“The first one is at a slaughterhouse and the second is at a graveyard,” says Daniel. “I don’t think she’d enjoy it.”
“Well, Laura Beth has traveled a very long way. It would be awfully rude not to spend time with her,” says his father.
A cloud of tension hangs above the table. Daniel wants to punch something.
“Actually, I’m the one who was rude,” says Laura Beth. “That’s part of the reason I’m here.” Daniel shoots her a pleading look but she continues anyway. “Mrs. Matheson, I’m not sure if Daniel told you, but I broke up with him.”
The silence is momentary until Laura Beth continues.
“I felt that our family differences were too difficult to bridge. I’ve felt badly about the way I handled it. I’ve missed Daniel so I decided to come to Madrid.”
“You came all the way here to tell me that?” says Daniel.
“Well, no. There’s a new designer, Oscar de la Renta, who lives here. He designed the debutante gown for the ambassador’s daughter and he’s designing our dresses for the Ford ball. Mother had the idea. She’s here too. No one else will have a gown from Spain,” says Laura Beth.
Of course. She didn’t come to Spain for him. She came for a dress. “Thank you, Laura Beth,” nods Daniel. “It’s kind of you to come. I’m seeing someone else.”
“You’re seeing someone else?” asks his father.
“What do you mean by ‘family differences’?” asks his mother.
“Well, ethnicity . . . culture,” says Laura Beth.
“I see,” says Daniel’s mother. She clasps his hand beneath the table and whispers in Spanish. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
Laura Beth sighs and turns toward Daniel’s father. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matheson. I told you this wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure my father will reimburse you for the plane fare.”
She hands her napkin to Daniel. “You have lipstick on your ear.”
109
They stand in line for blood.
June’s bright sun shines across a string of women waiting patiently at el matadero. Fans snap open and flutter, replying to Madrid’s warmth and the scent of open flesh wafting from the slaughterhouse.
The women carry empty jars and cans, bladders for the blood. Daniel lies on the ground, snapping photographs of their well-worn shoes painted with dry dirt and life mileage.
A woman scowls at him until another points to his press badge. Periodista, she advises. Upon seeing the government-approved badge, the woman’s grimace dissolves. To the rear of the slaughterhouse, young matadors train with their promoters. Daniel snaps a picture.
“Sí, that’s where El Huérfano will eventually train,” announces Rafa.
Daniel takes pictures of empty meat hooks dangling from the ceiling, of Rafa scrubbing and hosing blood from the floor, and tacking his apron at day’s end.
“You must return to take training pictures. But for now, let’s go to the cemetery.”
Rafa flags down a gasping truck. He and Daniel join a dozen men in the back of the vehicle. Their faces are soot stained, labor worn, and hungry. Three men share a clay jug of wine. No one speaks. The violent bouncing upon the pitted road makes Daniel’s teeth clack and his tailbone hurt. The man next to him is fast asleep.
He sits on his shins, pulling up to his knees to photograph the men whenever the truck pauses or stops. Daniel has been granted access to a world outside his own. He is inside the photo.
And he loves it.
And then, at an intersection, he sees the shot he has been waiting for.
A group of Guardia Civil stand on the corner. The Crows.
Patent-leather men with patent-leather souls.
Light hits their faces, and their winged hats throw ominous, bruised shadows on a nearby wall. The men in the truck stare into their laps. Daniel looks through the lens. This is it.
Ben’s lecture returns to him. Be smart about it. Daniel holds the camera in position but moves his face away from the lens as if he’s looking elsewhere. He presses the shutter. He quickly hunches back down in the truck, holding his breath. The vehicle drives on.
Rafa shakes his head. “Estás loco, Texano.”
A sense of triumph floods through him. He’s not crazy—he’s happy.
After several minutes of driving Rafa bangs on the cab of the truck, and it comes to a
stop. They jump down and Daniel follows Rafa to a quiet side street that runs along the edge of the cemetery.
“Have you got enough film?” asks Rafa.
“Plenty.”
They enter through a small maintenance gate. A corrugated metal shed, the size of a single-car garage, stands at the perimeter. It’s dented, rusty, and crooked.
“Welcome, amigo, to the house of El Huérfano,” says Rafa, opening his arms. “Come inside.”
Fuga lies in the corner of the shed, asleep on his straw. Near his sandaled feet are two small coffins made of wood. Daniel crouches, photographing Fuga as he sleeps.
Rafa gives a whistle that awakens Fuga.
“Hola,” says Daniel.
Fuga says nothing.
Daniel props open the shed door for light. “I’m here to take some pictures?”
“Sí. Fuga believes there is a news story here.”
“What kind of story?”
“A confusing one,” says Rafa. “These tiny coffins. We receive a couple each month. They are brought by the hospitals or the maternity clinics. Of course it’s very sad.”
Daniel looks at the coffins, each the size of a bread box. One has a hand-drawn blue cross on the lid, the other a pink cross.
“Take a picture,” commands Fuga.
“Of these?” asks Daniel.
Fuga kneels in front of the coffin. He lifts a small tire iron from the dirt.
“Wait, you’re not going to open it, are you?” Daniel’s head snaps to Rafa.
“Tranquilo, Texano,” advises Rafa.
“That’s probably illegal,” says Daniel.
Fuga pries open the lid.
“Stop!”
Fuga grabs a fistful of muslin from the coffin. He holds up the empty box.
“Wait,” says Daniel, exhaling in relief—and confusion. “It’s empty?”
“Sí,” says Rafa.
“They’re asking you to bury empty coffins?” asks Daniel.
Fuga moves to the coffin with the pink cross on top. “¿Bebita?” he asks Daniel.
