by Ruta Sepetys
The energy in the shed has a brewing, cyclonic feel. ‘‘¿Qué pasa?’’ asks Rafa.
Fuga paces the small space, nostrils flared, fingers splaying and clenching. Anger courses through his body with such force that the vibration is visible.
“Cálmate. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Fuga slowly raises his hand and points.
A miniature plywood coffin sits in the dirt. It’s for an infant.
“Ay, it’s very sad,” agrees Rafa. “Poor niño.” Rafa understands his friend’s frustration. Whether sick, disabled, or orphaned, vulnerable children trigger deep feelings of injustice within Fuga. He wants to protect them. “No one protected us. No one,” he often says.
“I’ll help you bury it. It will be quick with two of us.” Rafa takes a step toward the coffin, but Fuga moves to block him. He looks down at Rafa and shakes his head.
“¿Por qué?” asks Rafa.
Rage explodes from Fuga. He kicks the baby coffin with all of the force inside him. It rockets across the shed, smashing into the wall.
“STOP!” screams Rafa. “What are you doing?”
Fuga resumes pacing.
“¡Ay, no! ¡Ay, no!” gasps Rafa. He runs to the wall and begins searching among the broken pieces for the corpse. He picks up a scrap of dirty muslin and looks frantically around. He finally stops, his breathing labored and panicked. “Fuga, where is the child?”
Fuga shakes his head.
“Where is the baby? What did you do with the baby?”
“No baby,” hisses Fuga.
Rafa’s heart beats wildly. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep the voices behind the barrier. It’s not working. The memories are crawling over the fence.
“The box is empty! There is no baby!” Fuga begins to push and punch him, screaming, “Do you understand? There is no baby!”
Rafa takes his friend by the shoulders. “Tranquilo, amigo. I don’t understand. They asked you to bury an empty coffin?”
Fuga nods. He walks to his bed of straw and kicks it, creating a swirl of dust.
“Who brought it to you?”
Fuga stares at the wall of the shed. “Clinic. Many coffins they bring are too light.”
“The maternity clinic is asking you to bury empty coffins? I don’t understand. Why?”
Fuga whirls to face him. “Because the babies aren’t dead.”
34
“Delivery for room 760.”
760. Daniel’s room.
“Gracias,” says Ana. The hospitality manager drops a box into her basket.
Once in the elevator, Ana steals a glance at the small box. It’s a roll of tape. Grateful for the opportunity to see Daniel, she plans her apology for Puri’s questions.
He opens the door on her first knock.
“Hola, señor. Hospitality asked me to deliver this.” Ana extends the small box.
“Thanks.” Daniel props the door open with his boot. “Come in for a moment?”
Ana stands, frozen in the hallway. “Does your room need servicing, señor?”
“Servicing? No, I’d like to show you my photos.”
“Perhaps your drapes need adjusting?”
“No, they’re fine.”
Ana remains outside the door, smiling, until Daniel realizes. She isn’t allowed into his room without a service request.
“Oh, can you help me open the door to the balcony?”
“Certainly, señor.” Ana shifts the basket from her hip and enters. The suite, already warm, will be sweltering within minutes. She slides the glass door open anyway.
On the floor near the wall is a mosaic of pictures. Daniel waves her over.
“I put them together with Miguel,” he explains. “Each grouping should tell a story. They’ll be easier to see once I tape them to the wall.”
Ana nods, staring at the photos. They do tell a story. In fact, they tell many stories.
“Do you like them?” he asks, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Sí. Very much, señor. Especially the photos of the children.”
Ana mentions the children, but she is staring at the photos of the Van Dorns’ dinner party. She gazes at the long, elegant table, the sparkling crystal goblets, the tangles of fresh grapes roped between sterling candelabras. He’s captured it all.
The air in the room is suddenly thick, creeping and pressing in around Ana. She removes a small accordioned fan from her apron pocket. “Is it too hot with the door open, señor? Shall I turn the air-cooling on?” she asks, fluttering air toward her face.
“No, I’m fine.” Daniel tugs at the center seam of his western shirt. The pearl snaps create a soft pop as he pulls them apart. “So, you got my note.”
“Yes, more ice.” Ana gives a weak laugh, willing herself not to look at him.
Daniel’s gaze is upon her. She can feel it, serious, as if he were trying to capture the moment on film.
“In the note I mentioned an idea,” he says.
“Yes. This is a very good idea,” says Ana. “I like the way the photos are organized.”
“Oh.” Daniel pauses and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. His voice drops in volume. His eyes fasten to hers. “Actually, that’s not the idea I was referring to.”
Alarm bells crash in Ana’s head, while a mixture of hope and fear beats through her chest. Daniel steps in close. His plaid shirt hangs open, revealing a damp white T-shirt beneath.
“I was thinking, well, I guess I was hoping . . . ,” he says quietly.
Ana stares at the photos instead of Daniel. She knows she should step away, but her feet have grown roots through the floor. She should not allow him so close. She should not inhale the smell of his expensive aftershave. But the roots are growing, snaking all the way down to the dark, stone basements.
“I was hoping you might work on a project with me,” says Daniel.
“A project?” Her voice is a whisper. Her fan bats like a butterfly.
“I’d like to create a story about life in Spain, but through the eyes of people our age.”
A story. About Spain. The roots snap. Ana’s heart freefalls into her stomach. Disappointment and relief flood through her in equal parts. “Why?” she asks, tucking the fan and her hope back into the apron.
“To illustrate differences and similarities between us, between the U.S. and Spain.”
Ana steps away from Daniel.
What similarities could he possibly see between them? Daniel can travel anywhere in the world. He is heir to an oil dynasty, lives a life of privilege, and enjoys every freedom imaginable. He can vote in an election, pray to any God of his choosing, and speak his personal feelings aloud in public.
“We could remain anonymous,” says Daniel quickly. “Like Robert Capa and Gerda Taro. You could be Jane Doe.”
“Jane Doe?”
“Sí, Jane Doe means ‘an anonymous woman.’ As Jane, you could provide a lens into Spain that I can’t access on my own. We could work together. You’re a good subject and a good photographer. Look.” Daniel points to two photos on the desk. One is the photo of Ana in the elevator. He hands it to her.
She grimaces. “Is my mouth really that big?” She despises the gold tooth on the bottom side of her mouth. She puts the photo back on the desk.
“It’s not a big mouth. It’s called a bright smile. You don’t want the picture?”
She shakes her head. Next to her picture is the photo she took of Daniel in the candy shop. The left side of his mouth lifts in a grin, on the brink of laughter. He looks into the camera with eyes so honest, yet so evidently out of place amidst the pretty sweets. The photo she took is good. It’s beautiful. But it has nothing to do with her photography.
His project—if Daniel made a formal request to her manager—could they work together on it?
Her sister’s warnings whisper loudly.
Ana lifts the basket and makes her way toward the door. “I’m very sorry, señor, but I don’t think I can help you with your project. The hotel keeps me so busy.”
Daniel stands, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He nods in understanding.
As Ana passes the coffee table, she stops. The image in the Hilton hotel magazine sends a wave of chills across her neck.
The massive granite cross.
It’s perched on a hilltop northwest of Madrid within jagged fangs of stone. It towers one hundred fifty meters high and can be seen from over thirty kilometers away.
El Valle de los Caídos. The Valley of the Fallen.
The magazine text barks and beckons:
Nearly twenty years in the making, the Valley of the Fallen approaches completion. Visitors will soon experience this beautiful place of rest and meditation in memory of all those who fell in the glorious crusade.
The reeds of the basket crack beneath her grip. She points to the magazine. “Do you know what this is?”
“Yes, the site where tourists will learn about the Spanish Civil War.”
“Is that what you think?” gasps Ana.
“Is that wrong?” he asks. “I was thinking of visiting to take photos. See, this is why I need your help. I don’t understand, but Jane Doe can explain it to me.”
Ana stares at him, a lump rising in her throat. So, this is how the world sees Spain? Do they think the Valley of the Fallen is a place to buy souvenirs? It’s being built by Republican prisoners.
Ana returns to the photos on the floor, to one that instantly caught her eye. She picks up the photo of the nun and the baby and tosses it on the coffee table. “Sometimes there is no explanation, señor. Good evening.”
Ana exits the room, fighting for breath. She turns the corner in the hallway, slumps down the wall, and wills herself not to cry.
There is a thriving temporary village at the Valley of the Fallen which houses two thousand workers and their families. . . . A marvelous combination of grandeur, magnificence, and simplicity. We strongly recommend a visit.
Castellana Magazine, Hilton Hotels, July 1957
35
They walk in darkness. Madrid’s night sky stretches deep and wide. Their footfalls issue soft calls on the dry sand of the dirt road. Rafa tries to make conversation, but Fuga marches ahead in a trance. He utters only one word: mentirosos.
Liars.
That afternoon they had exhumed the corpse of a four-year-old boy for lack of payment. The family, too poor to pay rent on the cemetery plot, stood crying as the child’s remains were churned and reburied in a common trench. The grandmother wailed curses.
“Please, señora,” explained Rafa. “It is not our fault, only our job. If we do not work, we do not eat.”
“May you choke on the bread you earn from this,” spat the bereaved woman.
“Fuga, she wasn’t blaming or cursing us,” says Rafa. “She was grieving for the child.” Rafa knows that Fuga not only grieves for the boy, he sees himself in every poor child, in each pit heaped with bones. With each trench of the shovel, he is burying himself.
“Mentirosos,” hisses Fuga.
“Think of your own words to me,” says Rafa. “You say we mustn’t allow ourselves to be poisoned by circumstance. Your plan is honorable.”
Fuga nods and spits on the side of the road.
Rafa thinks of his friend’s pledge. Fuga says he will fight for the child—the innocent, the unwanted, the lost children of Spain. He will use money earned from bullfighting to pay rent for the cemetery plots of children. He will save destitute boys from the evil “homes.” This is his plan.
Fuga stops and motions for silence. Was it a voice or a bird? They run to a nearby row of cypress trees. Lying on their stomachs, they listen.
Rafa hears only Fuga. Nostrils flared for fight, Fuga is aflame with determination. The mantra of bullfighting is “To become a bullfighter, you must first become a bull.” Fuga has long been a bull. He has courage and strength to battle any man or beast and remarkable finesse while doing it, but sometimes Rafa worries his friend lacks the inherent grace required of a torero.
The pasture of Don José Isasa Cuadros is not far. Rafa hopes it’s an owl Fuga heard. He hopes at this late hour the Crows are asleep on their barrack cots. So despised are the Crows that they do not serve in the region where they live. The risk to their families is too great.
“Perhaps we train another night,” whispers Rafa.
Fuga says nothing. After several breaths, he stands and resumes walking. Rafa follows his friend toward the pasture, the moon’s glimmer their sole guide.
Most matadors are gentlemen, classically trained toreros. Joselito, Belmonte, and Spain’s beloved Manolete—Rafa reveres them all. When Manolete died, a piece of Spain died with him. He was gored through the thigh, and the teams of special surgeons couldn’t save him. He and Fuga have no special surgeons. There is no one supporting them.
They trudge on, into the closing dark. Rafa issues the reminder.
“The world we seek entrance to, it is a world of men with fat cigars, expensive automobiles, and relationships over many generations. You know that. But it is also a world where courage and skill transcend ancestry, Fuga. If a matador is truly talented, the blood running through his veins is not judged. It is protected.”
Fuga nods.
To practice with bulls in a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. If caught, punishment will be immediate—and final. Rafa will go to confession before Mass on Sunday. He will again ask their priest in Vallecas for forgiveness and courage. Rafa pledges that once he earns money as part of Fuga’s cuadrilla, his entourage, he will secretly compensate the breeders for tainting their bulls. This is his own plan.
They arrive at the pasture. The rumbling exhales and stomps of the bulls pass loudly on the still night air. Fuga unrolls his rusty blanket. He looks to Rafa and nods.
“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.
36
A six-year-old boy sees Puri and gestures frantically.
“What is it, chico?”
He lifts his small right hand, pinched tightly into a fist. He waves Puri to the corner and opens his fingers.
In the center of the boy’s palm sits a tooth. Puri claps in delight.
“Wonderful! Let me see,” she says.
The boy smiles proudly, revealing a large gap in the front of his mouth.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” asks Puri.
The boy nods.
“Sí,” says Puri. “Tonight you will put the tooth under your pillow. Ratoncito Pérez, the mouse that lives in a box of cookies, will visit while you sleep. He will take the tooth and leave a surprise for you.”
Puri wraps the child in a hug as he bounces with delight. The older children at the Inclusa have less chance of being adopted, so Puri dotes on them whenever possible. She loves playing Ratoncito Pérez.
A nun whisks by Puri. “Don’t dawdle. Diapers need changing, babies need bathing and feeding.”
Puri makes her way to the nursery, anxious to share the news of the tooth with Sister Hortensia.
Sister Hortensia stands at Clover’s bassinet, engaged in conversation with a pregnant woman and her husband. Puri enters unnoticed. She tends the babies nearby and eavesdrops in the process.
“My wife is tired of wearing a pillow around her stomach. We’re not sure this feels right,” whispers the man.
Puri is desperate to look at the woman, but knows better.
“This child could be the answer,” replies Sister Hortensia. “She’s still very small.”
“She’s small, but too large to be a newborn, especially if we’re
claiming a premature birth. For the large sum we’re paying, we want a newborn.”
“And you shall have one,” whispers Sister Hortensia. “I only present this as an option because your wife feels uncomfortable with the current situation. Let’s discuss this in my office.”
Puri counts their retreating footsteps on the tile floor. She turns to look. It is not the first time this has happened. Sister Hortensia tells her that some couples feel ashamed they cannot conceive. She says societal pressures are such that on occasion, a woman prefers to fake a pregnancy rather than admit adoption. When that happens they must protect the woman’s secret at all costs. It is a sin to reveal someone else’s secret.
Puri thinks of Ana’s family. As children of Republicans they must carry many secrets. How, then, did Ana manage to get a job at the big American hotel?
Clover cries and Puri moves to inspect her diaper. She is relieved the couple did not choose Clover. The man was dough-faced and grim. She did not like the way he mentioned the large sum of money, nor how that prompted Sister Hortensia to ensure his satisfaction. Clover must have a handsome and kind family. She wishes that one of the brave matadors would adopt the child. A notable Spanish family adopting an orphan would be incredibly touching.
The thought triggers last night’s dream. Puri reaches into her memory, trying to retrieve the quickly fading narrative. A tall matador walks toward her, handsome and graceful. He wears a suit of lights in royal sapphire, covered with glimmering gold accents. She looks up at him and smiles. He smiles back. And that’s when Puri realizes. The matador in the dream is not Ordóñez. It’s Daniel, the Texas cowboy she met on the street.
37
Why does the Valley of the Fallen upset Ana?
Daniel stares at the photos, now taped to the wall of his hotel suite. He shouldn’t have asked her to work on the project. It made her uncomfortable. But when they’re speaking and she’s smiling, he forgets that she’s a hotel employee.