by Ruta Sepetys
“Your difficulties exceed your good intentions. How will you manage all of this?” he had asked them, shaking his head.
“As we always have,” responded Antonio. “Together.”
But with time, their debts increase. Families must pay rent on a burial grave. Although the location of their father’s body is unknown, they are responsible for the rent on their mother’s costly plot. If they can no longer afford the rent, Mamá’s remains will be hacked up and tossed in a common pit. Julia cannot bear the thought. After their mother’s torture in prison, knowing she rests quietly in her own private space is of deep comfort.
Rafa returns, shirtless and wet from the waist up, water dripping from his dark curls. Antonio hands him the family’s sole towel as he departs for work.
Upon seeing his sister, Rafa freezes. “Ay, Julia, why are you home? Is something wrong with Lali?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Luis closed the shop early for a meeting. I’ll finish the jacket for Ordóñez here tonight.”
“Ordóñez?” Rafa’s eyes light up and he moves toward his sister.
“Stop! You must dry off completely. I don’t want you dripping anywhere near this jacket.”
Rafa uses the small, threadbare towel and furiously rubs at his hair and skin. His eyes are glued to the sparkling fabric in his sister’s lap.
“Look at that! ¡Sensacional! There must be a thousand jewels on that coat. That fabric is so strong, like a shield. How many needles did you break?”
“Too many,” says Julia, looking at her ravaged hands. When needles break, the pieces lodge in her fingers.
“And the pants are in the package?” asks Rafa, pointing to the paper bundle.
Julia shakes her head. “Something else.” She motions for Rafa to open the package.
He peels back the paper and lifts the turquoise jacket. He looks to his sister.
“From Luis. For your torero.”
Rafa’s bright smile turns to shock. He carefully lays the old suit on the table, ever so gently, as if it were made of glass. He stands, staring in disbelief.
“Julia,” he whispers. “Gracias, Julia.”
Rafa slowly brings a hand to his face. He begins to cry.
21
Daniel wakes to the bleat of a car horn. The clock says 1:00 a.m. His body has still not adjusted to the time change in Spain. The open balcony door welcomes the cooler night air into the hot room. He steps out onto the terrace and looks down at the bustling patio. In Preston Hollow, the entire neighborhood is dark by 10:00 p.m. Here in Madrid, the city’s alive at 1:00 a.m. as if it were barely dinnertime.
He wonders if his parents have arrived in Valencia.
“We’ll only be a few days, cariño. You can reach us at the Hotel Alhambra,” said his mother, kissing him goodbye.
“I arranged the car rental you asked for,” said his father gruffly.
Daniel’s stomach complains, reminding him that he missed dinner. He pulls on his jeans and boots. He’ll make his way downstairs and find something to eat.
The hotel lobby buzzes with music and guests.
“Still quite a party here,” he says to the lobby clerk.
“Sí, señor. The quiet time is early morning. The city comes alive at night.”
Near the elevators, a narrow opening in the sidewall catches Daniel’s eye. He peers down and sees a stairway. Perhaps it leads to one of the restaurants?
Ben’s words return to him. I’ve gotten lost in here and I’ve never even made it to the labyrinth beneath. . . . There are several levels belowground in this place.
Labyrinth. The description is too intriguing. Daniel heads down the stairs.
He arrives at the first basement and, sensing a lack of activity, continues down farther. The second basement is darker. The air thicker. Unlike the sparkling upper floors of the hotel, this lower level is not glamorous. Stretches of weathered gray stone line the walls and floors. Gaslight flickers in the primitive fixtures, not yet converted to electricity. It’s more interesting than the fancy lobby. He contemplates turning back for his camera.
After passing several stockrooms, a uniform supply closet, and a large laundry facility, he arrives at a classroom. Rows of chairs face a long chalkboard. A world map, wrinkled with age, is taped to the wall. As he continues down the stone corridor, he passes a bathroom and janitorial facilities.
At the corridor’s end, a light glows behind a square of glass set within a door. Daniel walks toward it and peeks inside. Staff members, clearly off duty, smoke and play cards at a table. In the far corner, a girl sits alone. Her wet, dark curls hang down over her face. She is reading a magazine. The square of glass in the door is a perfect frame. Why didn’t he bring his camera? The girl loops her hair behind her ear and that’s when he realizes. The girl is Ana.
“¿Qué hay, amigo?” A pair of hands grabs Daniel.
22
Daniel stumbles through the swinging door into the room.
“Two more for the card game.”
Ana jumps from her chair. “Señor Matheson.” She looks from Daniel to the men playing cards. “This gentleman is a hotel guest.”
The men drop their cards and stand at attention.
“My apologies, señor,” pleads the man who drove him into the room. His eyes, taking in Daniel’s clothes, expand with fear. “We have hundreds of employees at the hotel. The corridor is very dark. I assumed you were staff, longing to join the game, but too shy to ask. I did not mean any offense.”
“None taken,” says Daniel.
Everyone stands in awkward silence. Ana looks to the clock on the wall and then to Daniel. “Can we help you with something, señor?”
Daniel shifts his feet, searching for an answer. “Sorry, I think I’m lost.”
The men’s shoulders, up near their ears, slowly retreat. They look to Ana.
“Sí, I’ll take him back.” She instructs Daniel to follow her into the hallway. “Wait here a moment.”
Ana disappears behind a door. When she reappears, her wet hair is pinned back and she is wearing a green apron with the hotel’s golden C crest.
“I’m sorry. I’m putting you back to work. Did you just return from a swim?”
Ana looks at him and laughs, the small gold of her tooth visible. “A swim? Of course not. You are so funny.”
“I am?”
Still smiling, Ana lowers her voice. “Employees are not allowed in the hotel pool, Señor Matheson. Those facilities are reserved for guests.”
“Oh, I thought . . . then why is your hair wet?”
Ana swallows hard. She looks to him and changes the subject. “You arrived very recently. You’re not quite adjusted to the time difference. Why don’t I take you back up to the lobby?”
Ana leads Daniel through the double basements. It’s an underground village with countless hallways and alcoves, like Ben described. The late-night pace of the downstairs world is a production all its own. They pass two bustling kitchens, a dedicated pastry workshop, and an entire room housing an enormous machine that makes ice.
Daniel eyes the food in the kitchens.
“Are you hungry, señor? Shall we send dinner up to your suite?” asks Ana.
“I can eat here.” He shrugs.
“I’m sorry, guests may not eat in the kitchen. They’ll bring a proper meal service to your room. It’s no trouble.”
Daniel hesitates. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
Ana’s eyes widen. She takes a small step back.
“Oh, I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position,” says Daniel quickly. “It’s just, my parents are gone. I don’t know anyone here yet.”
Ana nods slowly. She speaks to the kitchen staff and upon receiving permission, begins to fill a plate. “Follow me,” she says, carrying a loaded tray. She directs him into the empty staff cafeteria and chooses
a small table near the door.
“Maybe we can sit over there?” He points to a larger table in the corner. “Quieter.”
Ana looks to the secluded corner, hesitating. “Well . . . I guess that’s okay. I am assigned to your family.”
Daniel stares at the tray Ana has prepared. Galician bread rubbed with garlic and topped with grated tomatoes and olive oil. Iberian ham and fire-roasted piquillo peppers.
He grins. “How did you know?”
“Your mother is Spanish. Traditional favorites. What are some traditional favorites in Dallas?”
“Chicken-fried steak, barbecue, pecan pie.” Daniel looks at her. “Why are you smiling?”
“Your Texas accent is really heavy when you say, ‘chicken-fried steak.’”
“Is it?” says Daniel. “What does it sound like?”
Ana’s attempt at a Texas accent results in a fit of laughter between them.
“If that’s what I sound like, no wonder people are looking at me,” laughs Daniel. “That’s terrible!”
While Daniel eats, Ana’s questions drive the conversation. “And why photography?”
“I’m not great with words, but I discovered I can say a lot with a photo,” shrugs Daniel. “Each roll is an adventure, waiting for the images to be developed. My mom supports it but my dad doesn’t.”
“No?”
“Nah, he wants me in oil. He needs to steer everything. When I was fifteen, I was too small to play American football. Dad feared I wouldn’t be able to hold my own so he enrolled me in boxing—anything to get me away from cameras and art. I was good at sparring and loved the technique behind it. But now that I’m a lot taller he’s suddenly decided he doesn’t want me boxing either. He says it’s not a good college sport.”
“Which college will you attend?” asks Ana.
“Well, I’m supposed to go to Texas A&M, but just between you and me, I’ve been accepted to journalism school,” says Daniel. “I’m competing in a photo contest, and if I win, the prize money would fund the journalism program. But my parents aren’t exactly in the know about that yet.”
Ana nods.
“Now that you know my secrets,” says Daniel, grinning, “it’s only fair that you tell me one of your own.”
Ana lowers her voice and gives a quick glance over her shoulder. “My secret,” she whispers, pausing to pull out the suspense, “is that I’m very good at keeping secrets.” She laughs and leans back in her chair. Daniel throws a piece of bread at her.
Keeping secrets. He’s noticed. When he asks Ana questions, she quickly diverts. Their discussion sways like a dance. He steps forward with a question. She pivots back, holds for a moment, then moves in closer with a question of her own. Despite her caution, Ana has enthusiasm that’s natural, a shine underneath.
She leans in, changing topics. “Tell me, why do Americans love ice?”
Daniel leans in, challenging her earnestness. “Tell me, why do you ask such difficult questions?”
“Stop,” laughs Ana. “I’m being serious, señor.”
He shrugs. “I guess ice is just one of those things you get used to.”
Ana nods. “I imagine there are many lovely things to get used to in Texas.”
Daniel rocks back on the chair, looking at her expression of solemn curiosity. He wishes he could photograph it.
Ana opens her mouth to ask something else but changes her mind.
“What?” Daniel grins.
“I love reading American magazines and newspapers. It helps my English. I recently read something in a magazine. What does this mean?” Ana’s brow creases as she recites. “‘Rustproof aluminum shelving . . . controlled butter-ready.’” She lets out a tiny exhale when she reaches the end.
“Those sound like features of an American refrigerator,” laughs Daniel. Ana smiles and laughs too. He looks at her. They’re close in age. She’s easy to talk to, but she’s holding back. He thinks of Ben’s comments. What about the people of Spain? What is life like under a dictatorship?
“Ana, do you always work so late?” he asks.
“No. I stay overnight two days per week. Sometimes I babysit for the guests who—” She stops speaking and quickly begins to clear the dishes. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”
Daniel looks toward the door. Why did she halt the conversation?
They head up the staircase side by side. Daniel tries to catch her eye, but Ana stares straight ahead. “I feel like I’ve told you a lot about Texas. I’d like to know more about Spain,” he says.
“I’m not really the person to ask. The concierge can be of great help, though,” says Ana.
They arrive at the lobby and Daniel is certain—Ana is exactly the person to ask. She’s full of questions. Is it curiosity or is she gathering information? Regardless, he feels more comfortable with Ana in one day than he did after months of dating Laura Beth. There’s something inside Ana that’s natural and fun, but she’s roping it in. Is she following hotel rules, or someone else’s? Or maybe she’s following the master in Spain that Ben spoke of.
Fear.
23
There’s so much Ana wants to say. So much she wants to ask. Is she being rude? He’s a hotel guest. Should she apologize for not answering his questions? She thinks of the swallowed note, of Julia’s warnings, and decides to say nothing. She must remain silent.
Silence is so tiring.
“Now that you’ve found your way out of the basement”—she points down the hallway—“perhaps you’d like to visit the Rendezvous Room, Señor Matheson? It’s the hotel’s nightclub. It’s open until four a.m.”
“I’m not really interested in a nightclub.”
“Are you sure?” Ana smiles. “Nick is probably there.”
“Don’t you mean Señor Van Dorn?” jokes Daniel.
Color drains from Ana’s face. She stares at her feet. “Yes, of course. Señor Van Dorn. My apologies.”
“Ana, I’m joking. You call Nick by his first name. I want you to call me by mine.”
She stares at his boots, unable to meet his eyes.
“Ana, I wasn’t reprimanding you. You know that, right? I was only kidding.” He reaches out and touches her arm.
A desk clerk approaches. “A telegram has arrived for Señora Matheson.”
They both reach for it.
“Your mother asked me to deliver it to her room,” explains Ana, pulling the telegram in her direction.
“I have a key. I’ll put it in their room,” says Daniel, tugging it back toward him.
Ana’s breath quickens. “But your mother, she was very insistent. She might call from Valencia for the message.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give it to her.”
Ana struggles to find words. “It felt like it might be important.”
“Then you can definitely trust me with it.” Daniel pulls the folded paper into his possession. “Thanks for everything, Ana. And please know, I was only joking.”
Ana nods slowly, watching Daniel make his way across the lobby with the telegram. He reaches the elevator and gives a wave. The fleeting sensation of fun from the basement disappears. The gold elevator doors close, leaving Ana with her one and only companion.
Loneliness.
24
They’re looking at 20 116, Puri’s favorite, the girl she calls Clover. Sister Hortensia grimaces. She stands next to Clover’s bassinet, arguing with a doctor. Across the room, Puri changes a baby’s diaper and strains to hear the conversation.
“It’s been nearly a month. I deserve an explanation,” says Sister Hortensia.
The infant wiggles under Puri’s grasp. She returns her attention to the little boy. He’s a diaper fighter. His short legs are rolls of pink fat. He’s jousting with them and enjoying every minute of it. It makes Puri laugh.
“Purificación!”
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Puri stiffens at the sound of her name. She quickly pins the diaper and lifts the baby from the changing table. Worn from combat, he rests his tiny head on Puri’s shoulder.
She smiles and turns to Sister Hortensia. “He’s tired himself out.”
“Put the child down and come at once.”
Puri doesn’t want to put the child down. She wants him to rest upon her shoulder, to feel comfort, safety, and love after the diaper fight. She fears if she puts him down he might develop the trauma of loneliness the doctors describe. But she does as Sister Hortensia instructs. Her first duty is to follow orders.
Puri leans over Clover’s bassinet. The girl immediately responds to her, eyes wide and mouth curving into a smile.
“See, that’s lovely,” notes Sister Hortensia.
“She’s beautiful. Well, they’re all beautiful,” says Puri quickly. They’re not supposed to have favorites. The doctor nods and exits.
“Apparently not beautiful enough. The priest in San Sebastián informs me that there has been a change,” says Sister Hortensia.
“Oh no,” says Puri. “They’re not going to adopt her?”
Puri attempts to conceal her distress. Clover is a special girl who must have a special life. To live amidst the velvet-green mountains of San Sebastián, looking out upon the churning cobalt sea, this is the plan.
And then Puri remembers.
She recalls the article and her parents’ hushed conversation in the kitchen. The floppy Basque beret versus the jaunty military beret. The reported sign, illegally posted on a wall in San Sebastián, that says, PLEASE REMEMBER, THIS IS NOT SPAIN.
The Basque people are an indigenous population with their own language and heritage. El Caudillo wants to unite everyone as Spaniards so the Basque language has been banned and some of their schools have been turned into jails.
Is this the reason Clover is no longer going to San Sebastián? Confused while eavesdropping and even more confused now, Puri wonders. Why is it all so complicated?