by Ruta Sepetys
Orphanage.
“You’re the only child, Dan. The family business needs you,” his uncle had told him. But if their only child has no interest in the family business, they wouldn’t adopt another, would they? Daniel laughs. No, that’s ridiculous. Nick misunderstood. How would he know anything, anyway? But it pecks at him. It’s an oil deal, not an orphanage deal. Isn’t it?
A light tapping sounds at the entry to his suite. Daniel leaves his chair and pulls open the door. It’s the girl from the housekeeping staff who was in his room yesterday.
“Buenos días, señor.” She smiles sweetly. “Your mother has sent for you.”
The blink of gold on her tooth matches the buttons on her sleeves. She is energetic yet graceful, with spirals of pretty, dark hair. He tucks the book under his arm and follows her down the hall.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Ana,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
Her eyes are pretty too. He thinks of his camera.
“Something good?” Ana points to the book.
Daniel holds it up and nods. Robert Capa. Slightly Out of Focus.
Daniel’s mother sits at the desk, compiling a list on a hotel notepad. “Your father’s meeting has been changed, cariño. We’re leaving tonight for Valencia. Would you rather stay here?” Without pausing for an answer, she points to a blouse on the bed and addresses Ana.
“A button fell off. Is there a chance you could mend it?”
“Of course, Señora Matheson.” Ana moves to inspect the blouse.
“Remind me of your name, dear?”
“It’s Ana,” says Daniel.
“I’m expecting a telegram. Can you see that I’m contacted as soon as it arrives, Ana?”
“Of course, señora.”
“Also, I’d like to take a gift to our dinner hosts in Valencia. Is there something lovely I could bring?”
Ana hesitates, thinking. “Perhaps candies from La Violeta? They are quite adored.”
“Could I trouble you to pick up two boxes?”
“Mom, I’m sure she’s very busy,” says Daniel.
“You don’t mind, do you, dear?” Mrs. Matheson scans her list.
“Not at all,” says Ana. “I am assigned to help your family.”
“Wonderful, because my son is looking for a camera shop.”
Daniel gives Ana an apologetic smile. At home in Dallas, his mother’s interaction with their household staff is more relaxed. The people on their estate aren’t employees, they’re family. In Texas, his mother is often described as “elegant Spanish.” But here in Spain, her demeanor suddenly feels brash next to Ana’s gentle sincerity.
As if sensing his unease, Ana quickly offers reassurance. “I often handle errands for guests. I know the owner of the camera shop. I’d be happy to take you, señor.”
Mrs. Matheson gives a syrupy sigh and turns in her chair. “Señor. Is my sweet little boy already a señor?”
Daniel rolls his eyes.
“Oh, forgive me, dear. Of course you’re no longer a boy. You and Laura Beth are off to college in the fall.”
No, we’re not. We broke up. Should he just say it and get it over with? His mom’s reaction can’t be worse than the guilt he’s starting to feel by keeping it a secret.
“Perdón, but we should hurry, Señor Matheson. Shops will close soon for lunch,” says Ana.
“Sure, just let me grab my bag,” says Daniel. He’s in a hurry too. The sooner his pictures are developed, the sooner he’ll see if he has a contest entry, a worthwhile story of his own, and—most important—a potential exit from oil.
13
Ana and Daniel stand in silence, waiting for the elevator to arrive at the seventh floor. Just as he thinks of something to say, the doors open.
“Buenos días, señor,” greets the elevator operator. He waves a white glove to welcome them into the small compartment. His forest-green uniform features the gold Castellana Hilton crest between two rows of shiny brass buttons.
The elevator descends, stopping at the fifth floor. A corpulent, gray-haired gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses enters.
“¡Buenos días, Señor Lobo!” exclaims Ana. She quickly makes way for the guest, stepping back so far that she’s brushing against Daniel. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, Daniel sees multiple angles of Ana. He lifts his camera and takes a picture.
“Now, that will be a lovely photo, indeed,” says the man, giving Daniel a wink. The doors open and the lobby staff erupts in greeting when the bespectacled guest emerges from the elevator.
“Who is that?” whispers Daniel.
“Señor Paco Lobo,” replies Ana. “The hotel’s most cherished guest. He’s been here three years. Señor Lobo supports two orphan girls and recently adopted an entire village.”
“He adopted a village?” asks Daniel.
“Yes, he adopted the people of Navalperal de Tormes, in the Gredos mountains. He’s very generous and supports them financially.”
Of course. That’s what his parents are doing with the orphanage that Nick mentioned. They support all sorts of charities.
Daniel watches the beloved guest make his way through the lobby. Why would the man live in a hotel rather than a home or an apartment?
Ana signals to a young bellboy, dressed in a uniform similar to the elevator operator’s. A round green hat, like a small drum, sits askew on the left side of his head.
The small boy sprints across the lobby to her side.
“Hola, Ana.”
“Hola, Carlitos. Señora Matheson on the seventh floor is expecting an important telegram. When it arrives, deliver it to her directly.”
The boy nods enthusiastically and turns to Daniel. “¡Hola, señor!” He points to the image on Daniel’s belt buckle and bursts with excitement. “Tex-has!” He raises his fingers like guns. “Pow! Pow!”
“Yes, Texas,” says Daniel, laughing. “How old are you, Carlitos?”
“Twelve.” He beams, standing at attention. “Bellboys in Spain, we are called botones—buttons. Most guests, they call me Buttons, señor.”
“All right, then. May I take your picture, Buttons?” The boy obliges, striking a well-practiced pose.
“Carlitos, please tell the front desk that I am on task for the Matheson family,” instructs Ana. Carlitos nods and marches away.
“He is a sweet boy, and very eager,” says Ana.
A female employee appears, carrying a bucket of ice. Her lips are a shock of red against her pale skin and dark hair. Seeing Ana and Daniel, she raises her eyebrows and changes course toward them.
“Hola, Lorenza,” says Ana. “Lorenza, this is Señor Matheson. His family is visiting from Texas.”
Lorenza nods slowly, staring at Daniel. Her eyes travel south, taking in his jeans and cowboy boots. Her brows flash with interest. “Bienvenido a Madrid, caballero.” She grins and saunters away.
Lorenza’s self-confident swing reminds him of Laura Beth. Not worth the whiskey.
Summer heat swells and clings as they exit the building. Bellmen direct taxis collecting and delivering guests. Porters bustle, balancing stacks of colorful boxes and shiny bags from specialty shops in Madrid. Daniel scans quickly for the guards. They are nowhere in sight.
“Have you worked at the hotel long?” he asks.
“For nearly a year,” Ana says.
“And before?”
“I worked for a family.”
“Oh yeah? Which do you prefer?” asks Daniel.
“Actually, I’d prefer to hear about your camera. It looks very special.” Ana smiles.
Daniel follows Ana through the crowded sidewalks lined with acacia trees, sharing details of his camera. He stops to photograph an old brick archway.
“That is the entrance to the Sorolla Museum, señor. You must visit.
It’s wonderful.”
They approach a café adorned with brightly painted tiles. A sunburned tourist sits alone at a sidewalk table. He dozes, clutching a glass containing a final sip of wine. As he surrenders to sleep, the glass and remaining liquid tip dangerously close to his pants.
Daniel pauses.
Ana grins and nods quickly. “Sí, sí.”
Just as Daniel snaps the picture, the man opens his eyes, catching them in the act. They hurry away, laughing.
“Think he was drunk or just sleepy?” smiles Daniel.
“Both!” laughs Ana. “But which was the better photo? The sleeping tourist or our faces when he opened his eyes?”
“Great question! Wish we could see the two together. It’s so easy to miss the good shots.” Daniel’s smile retreats as they pass two men in gray uniforms on the corner. They’re holding billy clubs and sour expressions.
“There are also some shots to avoid, señor,” says Ana, her voice dropping in volume. “The police corps in the gray uniforms—los grises—and of course the Guardia Civil.”
“Right. Gracias.” He nods. “Are there many Guardia Civil?”
Ana pauses, thinking. “Perhaps forty thousand?”
There’s a clutch to his throat. “Forty thousand?”
“Yes, but you probably won’t see them. They mainly patrol outside the city centers.”
But he has seen them, in the city center. Why were they following the nun with the baby? Somehow, losing his film to them makes him want the picture even more.
Horns hoot and engine radiators bubble through the hot, congested streets.
“How did you discover photography?” asks Ana.
“My art teacher, Mr. Douglas. He convinced me to join the school paper.”
Their conversation continues, alternating naturally between English and Spanish as they walk. Ana listens carefully, the first in a while to show interest in his photography.
“Sorry. I’m rambling about camera stuff,” he says.
“You’re not rambling. I asked, señor.”
Leading him down the wide cement stairs to the Metro, Ana explains how to purchase a ticket and which transit line they will take to cross the city. Although the glances aren’t overt, Daniel feels the eyes of the locals. He also feels the eyes of Ana. Is it the jeans, the large belt buckle, or the boots that draw attention?
The Metro is a thrumming underground tube of white tile. Suspended lights illuminate colorful advertisements painted on the arched walls. The platform is clogged with passengers, but orderly. With such well-ordered society, are so many police and guards on the street really necessary?
“That’s our train. Quick, let’s catch this one before it departs.” Ana pulls Daniel by the sleeve into a throng of people boarding a car. The door closes, sandwiching the passengers together.
Ana grasps the metal handrail overhead. The air inside the car is heavy with heat. As the car jerks forward, Daniel feels a trickle of sweat make its way from his hairline down to his ear. They stand so close a sheet of paper would barely slide between them.
“Is it too hot for you, señor?” whispers Ana.
He feels a wisp of her breath on his neck. He tries to wipe his brow. “No. It’s pretty hot in Texas too.”
“Do you have a Metro in Dallas?”
He shakes his head. “We have bus service.”
Daniel thinks of his journalism project. Last year, the Dallas Transit Company announced its buses would be desegregated and the WHITE and COLORED signs would be removed. But they weren’t. Daniel documented the delay, taking photos and reporting each week to the national headquarters of the Associated Press. He received an A on his project, but his efforts displeased many.
“You have subways in New York City, though,” says Ana, interrupting his thoughts.
The train suddenly sways, jostling the passengers and pressing Ana against him. The feel of her so close, he nearly forgets to reply. “Yes . . . subways in New York.”
“Grand Central is a big station.”
“Oh, you’ve been to New York City?” asks Daniel.
Ana looks up, her nose nearly touching his chin. She shakes her head. “No, I’ve never been to New York. I’ve never left Spain, señor.” She pauses, then looks away quickly.
The sudden change in her expression, he can’t place it.
Is it sadness—or is it fear?
14
“Ay, Julia. It’s just for a few hours.”
“Rafa, I told you, no!” Julia shakes her head at her brother. Why is he so impossible?
“Just ask Luis. He’ll understand. A torero can’t go into the ring without a suit of lights.”
“Torero?” Julia looks to the corner where a savage young man in rags is fast asleep across two broken chairs. He is barefoot, his face and arms covered with grime. Loud snores reverberate from his unhinged mouth.
“That miserable orphan is not a bullfighter. He’s a gravedigger.”
“Well, for now we’re gravediggers. And for now I work at the slaughterhouse. But believe me, that man is a matador, Julia. He was the bravest of all at the boys’ home. Do you know what they called him in Barcelona? They called him Fuga. ‘Escape.’ Each time he ran, the directors would drag him back and punish him. But he would escape again. He helped me find courage. He’s the reason I made it out and found my way back. He protected me. If I’d been alone in those fields, I’d never have survived.”
“Stop being dramatic,” says Julia, wringing a wet diaper over a wooden pail.
“It’s not dramatic. It’s true.” Rafa’s voice drops in volume. “We were all so hungry, but Fuga vomited his food in resistance. He would rather starve than be fed by the hand that beat him. All the boys, we idolized him. We chanted his name under our breath, encouraging him. His fearlessness kept our spirits alive. And then one day I found myself locked in detention with him. I will never forget his first words to me. He looked across that dirt hole, and do you know what he said?” Rafa pauses. “Voy a ser torero. ‘I’m going to be a bullfighter.’ He has been fighting his whole life. He is not infected like so many. He doesn’t carry the disease of fear.”
“It’s easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose,” says Julia.
Rafa throws his hands in the air. “He has everything to lose. He has been given an opportunity. That is so rare. Do you know what he’s been fighting with? He has no red cape. He uses a blanket that he soaked with rusty bricks, and even so, I have seen him bewitch fifteen-hundred-pound bulls in a willow field. And now, after much pleading, Father Fernández has sent me to a man with connections. He is giving Fuga a chance.”
Julia pauses. “If he wins, will there be money?” She thinks of her handwritten ledger and the sum needed to move the family.
“He may get a handful of grapes.”
“A handful of grapes?”
“But, Julia, he will earn honor and the chance to fight again. This is a beginning. He must look like a torero, not a peasant. To rent a suit of lights would cost over five hundred pesetas. Every day you are surrounded by dozens of suits in the shop. Please, just ask Luis. Let us borrow an old suit. Just for a few hours.”
“Where is this bullfight?”
“Near Talavera de la Reina.”
“Rafa, that’s over a hundred kilometers from Madrid. How will you get there?”
“I’m not worried about that. We’ll walk from Vallecas if we have to.”
And he will. Julia knows that. Although energetic and sunny in public, Rafa is brooding. He is the bull. He watches, quietly gathers pieces, and puts things together. But many pieces are still missing. The Crows carry pieces of her brother in their pocket. And he is desperate to win them back.
“I’ll think about it,” she says. “But if I speak to Luis, you have to do something for me.”
“Anything.”<
br />
“You have to speak to Ana.”
“Ay, there’s nothing to say to Ana. She’s the smartest of us all.”
“Rafa, she’ll listen to you. That hotel is an American business. Male and female employees work together without chaperones. She’s constantly looking at American magazines. She’s a gorgeous young woman surrounded by a fairy tale. That makes her vulnerable again.”
“What happened last year was not her fault,” says Rafa.
He’s right, but could they have protected her somehow?
“Trouble follows our sister wherever she goes,” says Julia. “She’s been so quiet lately. I’m worried she’s hiding something.”
Ripples of snoring cut through their conversation. The baby begins to cry. Julia turns away from her brother before he can state the obvious.
Of course Ana’s hiding something. This is Franco’s Spain. They’re all hiding something.
15
Ana points to a tiny, elegant shop. LA VIOLETA. Curved windows set in polished oak arch from the sides of a tall glass door. Tucked within clouds of purple tissue behind the display glass are bonbons, boiled sweets, and jellied candies. A little girl in faded clothes stands outside, admiring the candy. Daniel snaps a picture behind her.
“You must come in,” says Ana. “It’s something very special.”
Inside, the miniature shop smells of sugar. The shelves are lined with glass jars of purple sweets. Ana points to a crystal bowl on the counter with lavender-petal candies.
“Try one,” she insists, popping one into her own mouth. She then selects two small boxes. She asks the clerk to wrap them and put them on the hotel account.
Daniel takes one of the small violet candies. “It looks like a purple clover.” After a moment he grimaces.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“My mom will love it,” he replies.
“But you don’t.”
He shakes his head. “It’s like eating a flower.”
Ana smiles as the portrait materializes. Daniel’s jeans and boots, everything about him, clashes with the lavender interior of the shop. “May I take a picture, señor?”