The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  His low voice breaks the silence. “Lo siento. No era mi intención asustarte.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” smiles Ana.

  “Oh, you speak English,” he says quietly.

  “And you speak Spanish very well, señor, but not Spanish from Spain. Perhaps you speak Spanish”—she pauses—“from Mexico?”

  The side of his mouth lifts, almost reaching a smile. “Texas. Must be my accent. But my mother is from Spain.” He points to the door. “My parents are in the suite down the hall.” He attempts to smooth his tousled hair and that’s when Ana notices. His sleeve is torn.

  He sets down the camera and moves to retrieve the magazine. Ana reaches it first.

  She feels his eyes upon her as she swaps the magazine for the towels.

  “Ah, yes. Your parents are the Mathesons of Dallas. You arrived yesterday. Welcome to the Castellana Hilton, señor. I hope you are enjoying your stay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nods.

  Unlike “sugar” or “doll,” Ana has been told, “ma’am” is a term of respect, not endearment. She looks at the young man. At most, she is two years older.

  “My parents,” he says quietly. “Have they stopped by my room?”

  “No, señor.”

  His shoulders retreat with relief.

  A knock sounds at the door. His blue eyes flash wide and a finger flies to his lips, requesting silence. Ana stands facing him, clutching the towels.

  The knocking continues, followed by a woman’s voice behind the door.

  “Daniel, are you back?”

  He looks to Ana and shakes his head quickly. His lips form the word no, followed by a sheepish grin.

  Ana stifles a laugh, trying to contain her wide smile. She hates the spot of gold that tops her lower side tooth.

  “Maybe he left the radio on and that’s what you heard,” says a man’s voice.

  Radio? Daniel mouths the word.

  Ana points nearby. He leans across her and snaps it on low. He smells . . . nice.

  After a few moments, Daniel cocks his ear toward the door. “I think they’re gone,” he whispers. He exhales deeply, as if trying to calm himself. “Sorry about that. I’m trying to avoid my parents.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” she says with a laugh. She turns and takes the towels to the bathroom.

  The telephone rings.

  “Aw geez, now they’re calling from their room,” says Daniel.

  She wants so desperately to be conversational, to discover why he’s avoiding his parents, but heeds her sister’s warning. “Is there anything you need, señor? If not, I’ll be going,” says Ana.

  “No. Thanks a lot for your help.” He pauses, looking at her. “Say, your English is better than my Spanish. Are you from Madrid?”

  Ana looks him straight in the eye. She smiles and lies.

  “Sí, señor, from Madrid.”

  When I first went there, to Spain in ’55, you had the feeling of depression when you got into Spain, repression. It was true. Everybody was careful what they said, what they did, how they disported themselves.

  —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

  6

  “‘Rebellious, bohemian, vulgar. These are the words used to describe Miguelín, the new bullfighter.’”

  Rafael looks up from the newspaper. His friend Fuga sits on a crate in the cemetery shed and nods, urging Rafa to continue.

  “‘Following his presentation at Las Ventas in Madrid,’” reads Rafa, “‘this torero assures audiences that he is one to watch.’”

  Fuga points to the image of a matador in the newspaper.

  “Sí, that’s him, Miguelín,” says Rafa. “Shall I show you how to write his name? I’ve told you, if you’re going to be a famous bullfighter, you have to learn your letters.”

  The offer is ignored. Fuga teeters back on the arthritic box, stabbing the dirt with a shovel. His mane of black hair, wild and unkempt, cannot conceal his feral eyes. Those who pass him look twice. They not only see him, they feel him. He is a gathering storm.

  Fuga’s gaze ticktocks between Rafa and a miniature plywood casket, the size of a large shoebox, that sits near his feet.

  “Ay, another baby?” says Rafa.

  Fuga says nothing, just stares at the little coffin.

  Some friendships are born of commonality. Others of proximity. And some friendships, often the unlikely ones, are born of survival. Rafa and his friend are comrades of hardship. They refuse to speak of the boys’ home in Barcelona. It was not a “home.” It was a hellhole, a slaughterhouse of souls. The “brothers” and “matrons” who ran the institution took pleasure in the humiliation of children. The mere memory is poison.

  The torments, like mental cockroaches, still crawl through Rafa’s mind: holding a coin against the wall with his nose; kneeling on chickpeas; being held down and burned with cigarettes. He remembers pure fear causing him to wet the bed, then the brothers tying the soiled sheet around his neck, insisting he wear his cowardice like a cape for all to see. He remembers losing weight, losing his hair, losing his courage.

  “¡Basta!”

  Stop. The word reaches him before his friend’s punch. The sting of pain is the customary antidote, a promise fulfilled when memory grabs hold. The memories are poison. Don’t take the poison.

  “Gracias.”

  Fuga nods, his fierce eyes softening beneath the wilderness of his hair. His hand suddenly extends from his pocket, offering a small mandarin to Rafa.

  Rafa craves the citrus of the orange, but it’s too generous. He can’t take his friend’s only meal. He shakes his head.

  Fuga shrugs. “Entonces, ask her?”

  “Her” means Julia, his older sister. The favor is one only she can fulfill.

  “Sí, I’ll ask her.” Rafa tears the newspaper into a stack of neat squares. “Ana says they don’t use newspaper in the American hotel. She says the guests are provided rolls of soft white tissue in the toilets. When you become famous, amigo, you’re going to buy us all white tissue for the outhouse.”

  Fuga stares at the baby’s casket. “No,” he hisses. “When I become famous, I’ll unmask the evil homes and rescue the children.” He stabs the shovel into the dirt. “Tell me the words from your book again.”

  He is referring to a thin volume that Rafa cherishes. It’s a favorite book of his father’s, containing the philosophy of Seneca.

  “Gold is tried by fire and brave men by adversity,” says Rafa.

  “Sí,” whispers Fuga. “I will emerge from this fire and when I do”—his head snaps to Rafa, wild eyes ablaze—“I’ll burn them all down.”

  7

  Daniel reluctantly takes a chair in his parents’ suite. How could he be so stupid? Why didn’t he tell the guards he was staying at the Ritz? They could have followed him there and no one would have known. The guards must have better things to do than chaperone a kid with a camera. It’s not a big deal.

  But if it’s not a big deal, why is he still sweating? The images flash constantly through his mind.

  The gray baby. The nun’s face snapping toward the lens. Her look of shock as she scurried away. The sudden appearance of the guards.

  Daniel stares at the camera in his lap. Thankfully, they didn’t notice the roll in his pocket. Will the image of the infant appear on film as it remains fixed in his mind?

  Bringing the camera to his eye, he frames his broad-shouldered father against the small hotel desk. His dad looks up and shakes his head. The disappointment presses Daniel’s well-worn guilt button. Why can’t he find passion in oil drilling like his father? It would be so
much easier.

  His mother evaluates her dresses and clears the annoyance from her throat.

  “It was an accident, Martin. Daniel didn’t know.”

  “I’m getting tired of these ‘accidents,’ María. Two days before our trip he got into a fight at the movie theater.”

  “I didn’t pick a fight, Dad. I was defending a friend,” says Daniel. He was defending a friend—while enjoying the opportunity to slug a longtime neighborhood bully.

  “You’re mighty lucky the Dallas police let you off with a warning. You’re eighteen. You can be tried as an adult. And this?” His father opens his arms in query. “We’ve been in Madrid barely twenty-four hours, and the lobby manager tells me you were escorted back by the Guardia Civil?”

  “I wish the valets wouldn’t have seen,” says his mother.

  “I wish you hadn’t bought him that camera,” snaps his father.

  “I wish you’d stop arguing,” says Daniel.

  “We’re not arguing.” His mother sighs and turns to Daniel. “Your father and I, we have weeks of engagements and trips, cariño. I thought it would be exciting for you to explore on your own. But maybe it’s not safe. I no longer have family in Spain if something happens while we’re away. And now you’re so far from Laura Beth.”

  He still hasn’t told his parents about the breakup. They’ll ask all sorts of questions. Daniel examines his camera, dodging the topic of Laura Beth and wishing he had photographed the pretty girl in his hotel room. “I’m sorry. It was a dumb mistake. I’m completely fine on my own. Really.”

  He gives his mom an apologetic shrug. Recently, his mother’s tone has developed a tired edge. She’s the one who begged to return to Spain, but since arriving, she seems nervous. Daniel recognizes his mother’s reaction—it’s her fear of not fitting in.

  María Alonso Moya Matheson was born in the Galicia region of Spain but raised as a Spanish American in Texas. In public, his mother is the wife of an oil magnate and appears completely American. She baked fund-raiser cakes for the Eisenhower campaign. She supports the Hockaday School and the Junior League, and is accepted by the socialites of Preston Hollow and Dallas at large. At home, his mom speaks to him only in Spanish. He is cariño, darling, or tesoro, treasure. Many of their servants have Spanish heritage. His mother makes certain that Spanish food and customs are fixtures in his life.

  “It’s difficult navigating two cultures,” she once told him. “I feel like a bookmark wedged between chapters. I live in America, but I am not born of it. I’m Spanish.”

  His mom is thrilled that oil business has brought them to Spain. She wants to expose them to the country her late parents so adored. Pure Spain. Noble Spain. This is her plan.

  His father snaps open his briefcase.

  “I’m not here to bail you out of trouble, Dan. This isn’t a vacation for me. Franco will only grant drilling rights to a few American companies. I’ll tour the sites and close a deal before summer’s end. That’s the plan,” says his father. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” replies Daniel.

  Daniel is freshly graduated from St. Mark’s School of Texas. In the fall he’ll enter Texas A&M University and following graduation he’ll join the family oil operation—his college tuition is contingent upon it.

  Daniel’s thoughts return to the image of the dead baby; the photograph could anchor his portfolio submission. The cash award from the Magnum prize could easily pay for a year of journalism school instead of Texas A&M.

  “We’re invited to a dinner reception at the Van Dorns’,” says his father. “They have a son your age and he’s back from boarding school in Switzerland.”

  “The Van Dorns. Diplomats from Oyster Bay, the Long Island set,” says his mother. “Several of these prestigious families have posts in the U.S. Embassy. Daniel, mi amor, please wear slacks and a tie. I wish you wouldn’t wear those denims all the time. You look like a ranch hand.” She grimaces. “Is your sleeve torn?”

  Daniel quickly examines his shirt. “Oh, must have caught it on something.”

  The guards took his film and tore his sleeve? If that’s how they treat tourists, how do they treat locals? He heads toward the door.

  His mother gently takes his arm. “I saw they have postcards in the lobby. Make sure to mail a card to Laura Beth each day. Her family will expect that.”

  He exits the room with his camera, unwilling to cause a scene.

  No need to worry his mother with the truth about Laura Beth.

  8

  Puerta del Sol. The heartbeat of Madrid.

  Evening gathers tourists and locals who linger near the fountains and stairs to the Metro. The words GONZÁLEZ BYASS glow green from the TÍO PEPE sign atop a building, throwing an eerie radiance into the paling sky.

  Ana walks down the narrow cobblestone street. The swallowed note is gone, but a taste remains.

  I know what you’ve done.

  She looks over her shoulder before slipping through the unmarked door. At the bottom of the darkened stairway, a soft light pulses beneath the entry. She pauses to listen, then pushes through the door.

  A rainbow of color bursts with greeting. Glistening bolts of silk and satin climb from the floor to the ceiling. Shimmering fabrics in sea blue, deep amethyst, and gleaming gold cascade across worn countertops. Sketches and patterns are pinned across the walls. Three women sit at tables while two others work heavy material through machines.

  Ana bends to retrieve a small pearl from the floor. In this snug space, ceremony is created. The beautiful fabrics and jewels are not for party dresses or wedding gowns. They are created and used for one person only.

  El torero. The matador.

  Traje de luces. Suit of lights. Named because the gemstones and beads sewn onto the fabric reflect and sparkle as if operated by a hidden switch. One suit is composed of countless pieces, taking months to construct, each detail completed by a different person. One woman specializes in pants, another in capes, and yet others in complicated threadwork. Her sister’s specialty—beading and gemstones.

  Like her brother, Rafa, Ana’s cousin Puri loves the bullfighters. But Ana loves the bulls. She detests bullfights. Divided family loyalties are common, yet unspoken.

  The workshop, generally full of chatter, is now devoid of voices. This means that Luis, the master tailor and owner of the shop, fits a matador in the next room.

  Ana’s sister, Julia, sits on a wooden chair in the corner. A lamp rings a halo of quiet light into her lap. She pushes a needle through the rigid seven-layer fabric, sewing one of hundreds of sapphire gemstones onto a cropped jacket.

  Julia’s fingers are silent narrators, embroidered with scars. Ana pulls an empty chair to her sister’s side. She retrieves a small pair of pliers from a nearby table and sets a hand on her shoulder.

  “Finish with these,” whispers Ana. “Your hands, they’ll bleed soon.”

  Julia nods gratefully, accepting the pliers to grip the needle.

  Ana motions with her head toward the fitting room. Which bullfighter stands behind the door?

  “Ordóñez,” Julia whispers.

  Ana looks to her sister. Julia’s face, thirsty of color, needs rest and sun. Julia has a new baby girl, just four months old. The baby is not yet strong. Neither is Julia. She clings desperately to the child, and together they cry through the nights.

  Fascist doctrine states that a woman’s ultimate destiny is marriage, motherhood, and domesticity. For poor families, like theirs, hunger turns a blind eye to mandates. Many women from impoverished families take positions of manual labor.

  But Julia is special. Her talent as a seamstress affords her the opportunity to work in a shop. Luis needs Julia’s skills to please his matadors. Julia needs the wages to feed her family and pay their debts.

  “We must pool our earnings,” reminds Julia’s husband, Antonio
. “All wages and coins shall be deposited into this old cigar box.”

  To move from impoverished Vallecas to a small flat in Lavapiés—this is the plan. Julia rations and counts everything, pinching every last peseta. For now, four adults and a newborn baby share a dark, single room. But they are together. Which is what their mother wanted.

  Ana has no memory of the war, but she remembers the tears of separation after her parents disappeared. She remembers crying desperately the day she left Zaragoza to be raised by her aunt and uncle in Madrid. Though her aunt and uncle have a daughter of their own, her cousin Puri is different. Obedient. Puri is free of heartache and shame. Free of secrets. Ana envies her.

  “How was your palace today?” Julia asks.

  Lies and threats. But don’t worry, I swallowed them.

  “The same. Ice and more ice,” says Ana with a laugh. She tries to redirect the conversation. “I’ll be on the seventh floor for the summer. I’m assigned to a very wealthy family, staying through August. They have a son about my age.”

  Julia nods.

  “He’s from Texas,” says Ana. “He has American magazines.”

  Julia’s expression shifts from fatigue to fear. “That hotel is not real life, Ana. Not for people like us.”

  “Julia, it seems unbelievable to us, but for them it’s real life!” says Ana. “American women drive their own cars and fly around the world on airplanes. It’s not considered sinful. They don’t need permiso marital. They can seek employment, open a bank account, and travel without their husband’s permission.”

  Julia glances over her shoulder before whispering, “Ana, please stop picking through trash in the hotel rooms. Stop reading those books and magazines! You know very well that the content is banned in Spain. This is not America.”