by Ruta Sepetys
Yes, for a baby girl, thinks Daniel. He focuses his lens.
Fuga wrests the lid off the plywood coffin. Daniel snaps a picture.
Rafa jumps back in horror. He turns around, streams of vomit spilling from his mouth.
The small coffin for a baby girl does not contain a corpse.
It holds an amputated adult hand, black and eaten with gangrene.
110
Fuga stands outside the shed, smoking the dirty stub of a cigarette he found on the ground. Rafa sits in the dirt, head in his hands. “¿Por qué? ¿Por qué?”
“How long has this been going on?” asks Daniel.
Fuga shrugs.
“If they’re burying empty coffins, where are the babies? Are there funerals?”
Fuga shakes his head. “The clinics deliver and pay.”
“They’re paying you to bury empty coffins? That makes no sense.”
“Exactamente. That’s why we asked you to come,” says Rafa. “It’s complicated for us. We must do our job. We work to eat. I work two jobs and still, I’m always hungry. As you know, we finally have a chance for a better life. El Huérfano will fight again on Sunday. He will advance, I am sure of it. But this is something that weighs on Fuga. I pledged to protect my friend and this is a distraction. Distractions are dangerous for bullfighters so I’m asking for your help, Texano. We cannot speak of this.” Rafa pauses, looking at Daniel. “But you can. Take your photographs home to America. Show them to people. Ask their opinion. What is happening to the children of Spain?”
Rafa takes a breath. “Will you help us?”
Daniel looks at the press badge hanging from his camera. Should he speak to Ben? Maybe he could talk to Miguel. The nun with the dead baby, Nick’s comment about children not being orphans, the photos of the coffins—does it all tell a story?
Fuga remains by himself. He has replaced the cigarette with a long, dry piece of grass. He stands tall, practicing his passes as if in front of a bull.
“Rafa, can I speak to Fuga alone?” says Daniel. Rafa nods and walks away. The two young men stand face-to-face, equal in both height and courage.
“I get the feeling you don’t like me,” says Daniel.
“I know your kind.”
“So, why did you invite me here to take pictures?”
“I didn’t. Rafa did. The baby coffins make me angry. He says it’s distracting.”
“I understand.”
Fuga gives a disgusted laugh. His voice drops to a hiss. “You understand? No, you don’t. You’ve never been abandoned, ruined by the hands of adults, seen as trash, so hungry you’ve eaten grass, so poor that you have to steal. Tell me, have you ever been hungry, Texano?”
Daniel considers his words. “I’m sorry. You’re right. What I should have said is, I want to understand.”
“Why, so you can print sad pictures of poor Spain in your magazines?”
“No,” says Daniel. “So I can show the effects of war and a dictatorship.”
“You feel powerful because you have money. Your money buys our wine and sunshine, but it doesn’t buy the right to our history.”
Daniel absorbs his words. If there is a story here, whom does it belong to? He looks at the man standing in front of him. Fuga’s face and body are taut, cabled with years of resistance and endurance. He runs from nothing. His truth is his power.
“Is that it?” says Daniel. “No. I think you have something else to say to me.”
Fuga bores deep into Daniel’s eyes, grabbing the collar of his soul. His words are steeped with threat. “No le hagas daño.”
Don’t hurt her.
Daniel stares back in vow, unwilling to even blink. “I won’t.”
The glares hold until Fuga concludes with a satisfied nod.
Daniel extends his hand to Fuga. They shake.
Rafa comes running. “¡Fantástico! See, it’s not so difficult. We can all be friends. But now we must bury these coffins. El Huérfano trains tonight.”
111
“Texano! I’m so happy to see you. I was just about to close.”
“Hola, Miguel. I was hoping I could drop off a few rolls.”
“Sí. Sí. And I was hoping to congratulate you on this.” Miguel reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a newspaper. He points to the photo credit and releases a huge smile. “Front page! ¡Felicidades! This is sure to win your contest.”
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s a bit complicated because of the man in the photo.”
“The man with Generalísimo Franco?”
“Sí. He’s my father.”
Miguel nods, absorbing the situation.
“The judging committee might find it odd. ¿Nepotismo, no? But I have some photos on these rolls that could be very strong. I’m also bringing you my negatives. I want you to make duplicate prints of every photo I’ve taken.”
“Every photo?”
“Sí.”
Miguel points to the press badge. “An official press badge probably gets you very interesting photos.” Miguel reaches to inspect the credential.
“Claro, but I have to give it back. Once the shots are developed, would you help me select some for the contest?”
“I’d be honored. And tell me, how are Rafa and his matador?”
“Very well. El Huérfano has a fight this Sunday in Arganda del Rey.”
“Qué bien. And Ana? How is she doing?”
Daniel looks at Miguel, unable to contain his smile. “We’re doing very well.”
“Ah, I see,” says Miguel. “That makes me very happy.”
“Me too,” says Daniel.
* * *
Daniel exits the Metro, thinking of the first time he rode with Ana. He feels at ease in Madrid now. Perhaps he can rent a car again and surprise Ana with a trip to Valencia. Then he can share his plan about studying in Madrid.
He finds the hotel lobby thrumming with its usual bustle. Carlitos passes Daniel, carrying a suitcase as big as his body.
“Hola, Buttons. Have you seen Ana?”
“Wait for me,” whispers the boy.
Daniel waits near the elevators. Carlitos sprints back and grabs him by the sleeve. He leads him to the basement staircase, tucked into the wall. They descend two steps and Carlitos stops.
“Is everything okay?” asks Daniel.
Carlitos shakes his head, his eyes full of fear. “Señor, Ana was fired.”
112
Fired.
“No one knows why,” whispers Buttons.
Daniel frantically presses the button for the elevator, hoping Ana is in his room.
Lorenza holds a tray of cigarettes in front of Mr. Van Dorn and Paco Lobo. Standing next to them is Laura Beth. As if on cue, they all turn to him. The walls of Daniel’s brain begin to fold, like the sides of a melting candle. He opts for the stairs and takes them in twos until he’s reached the seventh floor. He runs down the hall and clatters through the lock and the door.
“Ana?”
His suite is empty.
Don’t you hurt our Ana, said the women in Vallecas.
I love my job, I could not bear to lose it, Ana had said.
And Fuga’s threat. Don’t hurt her.
Daniel paces the room. Someone must have seen Ana in his room last night. Ben wouldn’t tell, would he? Did Ana mention their dinner to anyone?
He can help. He can fix this. He’ll go to the hotel manager and say it’s his fault. He’ll beg forgiveness. He’ll ask his father to help. He’ll pull any and all favors.
Favors.
Shep Van Dorn owes him a favor. He said so, at the hospital, the morning after he defended Nick in the fight. The Hilton is an American hotel. He saw the picture of Mr. Van Dorn with Conrad Hilton himself. A special request from the U.S. Embassy would certainly carry favor. Daniel runs from
his room, hoping to catch Van Dorn in the lobby before he leaves.
* * *
“Hi there, Dan,” greets Van Dorn. “I just met your friend, Laura Beth. What a poised young woman, and quite a looker,” he says.
“Yes, sir. Could I speak to you privately for a moment?”
Van Dorn is ever eager. “Certainly. Let’s take this table in the corner. Are you okay? You’re out of breath.”
Shep Van Dorn folds his lean body into a chair. His dress shirt is paper white and perfectly pressed, his suit jacket brushed. With the heat in Madrid, Van Dorn must keep spare clothes in his office for an afternoon change.
Lorenza stops at their table. “Cigars, cigarettes, señor?”
“Just matches, baby,” replies Van Dorn. He smiles at Lorenza. “And say, send the waiter over with a scotch and soda.”
He extends the offer of a beverage but Daniel declines. Van Dorn leans back in the chair, threading his fingers together. His gold cuff links blink from beneath his sleeves. Daniel notes Shep’s body language. Nonchalance pleated with power. “So, Dan, what can I do for you?”
Daniel pulls a breath. “At the hospital you mentioned that if I ever needed something I could come to you.”
Van Dorn smiles. “Yes, I did.”
“Well, a friend of mine who works here at the hotel, she was fired and it’s my fault. I have to get her rehired.”
“I see,” says Van Dorn. “We’re speaking of Ana?”
“Oh.” Daniel hesitates before replying. “Yes, sir. I know she worked for your family. She said you were very good to her.”
Van Dorn gives a low laugh. “Did she now.”
Daniel pauses at the sarcasm, confused. “Yes, and since you know her and know her character, I thought you could vouch for her.”
Shep Van Dorn leans forward toward Daniel, his expression smug. “Well, you see, Dan, that’s not really possible. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Ana is a hustler and a thief. She’s a con artist.”
The words hit Daniel like a punch.
Van Dorn nods and releases a sigh. “Yes. It’s such a shame. She stole a gold bracelet from our villa. By the time I found out it was too late. She melted it down for teeth for both her and her brother. Crafty, eh? With all the tourism coming to Spain, some of these beggars have become talented swindlers. You can’t even give them anything. They’ll sell it.”
Daniel recalls the conversation in Vallecas, about selling the gifts he brought. Has Ana been conning him this entire time? No, it’s not true.
“I wanted to alert the authorities but unfortunately Nick took part in some shenanigans with Ana and I didn’t want to draw attention to him. They’re a duo of sorts. So we transferred her here to the Hilton, hoping that she’d change her ways under the watchful eye of a supervisor. But it seems she’s up to her old tricks again. She’s a pro.”
Daniel stares at Van Dorn, unable to speak.
“I know, terrible. Such a beautiful little thing. What a waste.”
Lorenza appears at Van Dorn’s side. “The waiter is coming with your scotch, señor. He wanted to open a new bottle.”
“You don’t want to open my bottle, little mouse?” says Van Dorn with a grin.
Lorenza purses her lips, staring at Van Dorn. She twists a piece of her hair and throws her head back with laughter.
In an instant, Daniel’s lens changes. His focus sharpens.
Van Dorn watches Lorenza saunter away before he returns to the conversation. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, Dan. Between you and me, it’s fine to try a new swimming hole once in a while, but smarter to fish in your own pond, if you know what I mean,” says Van Dorn. “Laura Beth, she’s a great girl.”
One punch. That’s all it would take. And it would feel so good. Assault? No. A gift to the Foreign Service.
Daniel stands to leave, fighting the desperate urge to clench his fists. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Van Dorn. I sure do appreciate it.”
“Oh, are we done?” Shep Van Dorn stares at him with a grin.
Daniel smiles back. “Oh yes, sir. We’re done.”
113
Daniel makes his way to the elevator.
“Texano!” calls Carlitos. “I have your postage stamps.” Carlitos gives him a discreet tip of the head and slides a piece of paper into his hand.
Tom Collins. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Sorolla.
“Is she still here?”
“They escorted her off the property after she gave me the message.”
“Thanks, Buttons.” He reaches in his pocket for a tip.
“No, no.” Carlitos shakes his head. “This favor is for Ana. I don’t understand how this could happen to her.” The boy is on the verge of tears. “Texano, can I ask you something? The pretty girl from Texas—is she really your girlfriend?”
“No, Buttons, she’s not.”
“Ay, I didn’t think so.” Carlitos releases a satisfied smile.
Daniel knows that Carlitos sees much at the hotel. “Buttons, just between you and me, what do you think of Mr. Van Dorn over there?”
Carlitos leans in to Daniel. “Ay, Texano, I know nothing. But my aunts once told me the story of Don Juan, a disguised man who was able to manipulate language and seduce women. Our Spanish flu epidemic many decades ago? It was initially believed harmless but proved deadly. Some still refer to it as Don Juan. So you see, I know nothing of Mr. Don Juan over there, except he never tips. The staff prefers his generous son.”
And this time, Carlitos does accept a tip from Daniel.
* * *
Daniel returns to his room. Should he call Nick? He moves toward the phone.
No. He’s calling Ben.
114
To keep his friend sharp and awake for training, Rafa recounts historical details.
“Francisco Romero of Ronda,” says Rafa. “Think of him on Sunday when you fight. This is the man they say invented the red muleta cape. Remember, for many years bullfighting was used to train knights. Only nobles on horses faced bulls.”
Fuga says nothing. He marches ahead as if in a trance.
“Of course red is only a matter of tradition. Bulls are color-blind and—”
Fuga motions for silence. They stand still as statues on the dark dirt road, listening.
Rafa moves his hands in a stepping motion. Fuga nods.
Horses.
They steal to the side of the road, taking cover beneath a line of scrubby bushes. “We’re early today,” whispers Rafa. “Perhaps the breeders are still in the fields?”
Rafa hopes it’s the breeders. The alternative is far worse. The Crows.
Noise is not uncommon. They must wait for others to leave or move to another side of the pasture. Rafa lies on his back, staring at the bright glow of the moon. He glances at his friend, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. But Fuga’s brow is arrowed. He is troubled.
They have spent so many nights sleeping in the dirt of Spain that they feel part of it. But slowly, things are changing. If Fuga performs well on Sunday, he will be granted another fight. He will be allowed to train at the slaughterhouse. A promoter with a fat cigar will drive them from city to city, where Fuga will fight young bulls in the novilladas. They will sleep in a nice car instead of the dirt. And once Fuga makes his alternativa—his graduation ceremony from novice—he will become a full-fledged matador. Then they will sleep in hotels.
The quiet of night finally descends. Fuga stands from the dirt and begins stretching. Fuga has faced full-grown bulls in the fields for over a year. He became El Huérfano not recently, but the first time he crawled beneath the barbed-wire fence.
There is something special that lives inside Fuga. A sense. A knowing. He fights in the dark, the lamp of the moon his only guide. As part of the cuadrilla, Rafa will be by his amigo’s side, helping him, learning from him. It w
ill be a big life, better than an education at a university. Ernesto Hemingway, an author whose books are banned by Generalísimo Franco, once wrote, “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up, except bullfighters.” Rafa agrees with Don Ernesto.
Fuga sets off alone across the road to the pasture fence. Instead of the rust-soaked blanket, he carries the red muleta cape from Julia’s suit. Rafa follows patiently behind his friend, knowing Fuga will never leave him behind. He will not cross the margin of the pasture without a prayer.
Rafa kneels in front of the barbed wire with his friend. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen,” recites Rafa. He makes the sign of the cross.
They crawl through the fence.
115
The night is thick with the smell of grass. The bulls graze quietly in a herd, fifty yards away. Fuga stands near the grouping, making a single connection. He does not taunt nor jeer the animal toward him. The bull willingly departs the herd and walks to face Fuga. Two meters lie between them. The full-grown bull stands large, head and horns level with Fuga’s shoulders. Rafa steps silently away from his friend so he is close enough to aid but far enough to remain separate.
The muleta hangs from Fuga’s extended left hand in a graceful drape. His left foot slides in lengthened step under the cape, shifting weight to his right hip. Rafa stands, breathless, watching El Huérfano’s form emerge, waiting for the subtle movement of the cape. A moment passes. The cape does not move. El Huérfano remains in magnificent stance, but unmoving.
Why is he not twirling the cape? Why does he stand as a statue? The stillness continues. Rafa does not dare speak, nor interrupt the exchange between Fuga and the bull. This is presence. The moment of complete stillness feels divine. Transcendent.
Bang.
The sound.
