by Ruta Sepetys
She’s going to tell Daniel everything.
92
“Join us in the embassy car. We’ll drop you at the hotel,” says Mr. Van Dorn.
“That would be mighty kind of you,” says Daniel’s father.
Daniel had hoped to be alone with his father. His questions have been fast accumulating. But there is something Van Dorn can weigh in on.
“Mr. Van Dorn, may I ask a question?”
“You bet.”
“What’s America’s position on the dictatorship?”
“Well, that’s a big question,” intercepts his father.
“But a fair one,” says Van Dorn. “Daniel’s probably seen enough of Madrid to observe a disparity. The administration feels that bringing American commerce to Spain will help the Spanish people in the long run, more than it will help the dictatorship.”
“And the U.S. air bases here?”
“Strategic positioning. Keeping us all safe from the Soviets.” Van Dorn winks.
The answers seem fair, even if well rehearsed. But of course they’re well rehearsed. Journalists and photographers capture stories and, as public affairs officer, Van Dorn positions them in the best frame and most flattering light.
“Have you made any friends so far in Madrid?” asks Van Dorn.
“A few,” says Daniel. The minute he responds, he regrets it.
“Really?” says his father. “Your mother will be pleased. Who are they?”
Daniel fiddles with his camera. “Well, Nick and Ben, of course. It was nice of him to bring me today. And Miguel at the camera shop. I’m learning a lot from him.”
Van Dorn turns from the front seat. “And maybe a pretty maid at the hotel?” He gives another wink and laughs.
“Dan is a gentleman,” says his father flatly. His tone is curt. Implication hangs in the car. Is his father stating that Nick isn’t a gentleman? Or is his father implying that his son wouldn’t fall for a maid?
“Of course he’s a gentleman,” says Van Dorn. “A boxing photographer of a gentleman. He must take after his mother . . . or an uncle.” Mr. Van Dorn extends the dig with a smile and offers a smoke to his father. “Cigar to celebrate your big deal?”
“Mighty kind, but no thank you, Shep.”
Van Dorn turns back around and stares out the windshield.
What just happened? In a matter of seconds, his father and Mr. Van Dorn have faced off. The hum of tension in the car is louder than the traffic. Daniel lifts his camera to load a roll of film. Hanging from his camera strap is the press badge. Ben forgot to take it back. Daniel quickly stuffs it in his pocket.
93
“You opened a coffin?” whispers Antonio. He steals a glance at the orange crate where Lali sleeps. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Well, we didn’t open it. It sort of . . . broke,” says Rafa. “When Fuga saw it was empty, he exploded. He often says that the infant caskets feel too light, but I never paid much attention.”
“Caskets? There have been others?”
“Ay, many infant coffins. They brought another one yesterday.”
“Who brings them?”
“Fuga says the clinics. I’m generally at the slaughterhouse when they arrive.”
Antonio limps across the dirt floor of the shack. Rafa’s knee bobs as if powered by its own interior motor. Should he have told Antonio? He needs to keep Fuga focused. He thought perhaps Antonio would have suggestions.
“Fuga insists we must do something about the empty coffins. It’s distracting him and that’s dangerous. A distracted bullfighter ends up gored.”
“What does he think is happening?” asks Antonio.
“The ‘brothers’ who ran the boys’ home in Barcelona always told Fuga he was worthless, that if he was an infant they’d at least be able to sell him to Franco. He thinks babies born to Republican or poor families are being stolen, that the Church wants the children redeemed and raised by Francoists. Ay, I need him to forget about the cemetery and the coffins. We finally have a promoter interested.”
Antonio shakes his head. “Fuga’s not sidetracked. He’s engaging more deeply. You speak often of Fuga’s dedication to children. You say he goes hungry, he gives his own food away. This is what propels him. He’s fighting not for himself, but for others.”
Maybe Antonio is right. Could this be Fuga’s approach to fear? Fuga fears nothing for himself but wants to be the protector of others.
Antonio stops pacing. His expression softens, untangled by an idea. “The Texano and his camera. He’s taking pictures back to America.”
“So?”
“Images are powerful. They convey truth. Why do you think our media is censored? Ask the eager Texano to come and take photographs at the cemetery. He’ll have record of what’s happening. That may calm Fuga.”
“Ay, no. Talk of the Texano does not calm Fuga. It angers him. If I bring the Texano to the cemetery, Fuga may want to fight him. It’s all such a mess.”
“But the way you describe Fuga, he doesn’t look to fight. He looks to defend.”
Rafa thinks on Antonio’s words and Fuga’s recent behavior. Immediately following the capea, Fuga gave his winnings to Ana. Initially, he thought that meant Fuga had feelings for Ana. But does it mean he thinks she needs protection—protection that money can provide? Rafa scratches the back of his neck. Does Fuga see something dangerous around his sister that he missed? Something about the Texano?
Antonio tucks in his shirt. “I have to leave for work,” he says. “But, por favor, Rafa. Do not tell Julia about the empty coffins. Promise me.”
“Ay, do you think I’m crazy? I would never tell Julia.”
94
Bringing American commerce to Spain will help the Spanish people. That’s what Van Dorn said.
Franco’s an architect. There is a dark side here. That’s what Ben said.
Which is true? And whose side is his father on? Daniel wonders as he and his dad arrive back at the hotel.
His mother waits in the lobby wearing a blend of haute couture and apprehension. Her face brightens when she sees her husband and son.
“I didn’t expect to see you together,” she says.
“Nor did I,” says his father.
“Ben Stahl needed a photographer,” explains Daniel.
“And he chose you? Daniel, how wonderful!” She means it. Despite his father’s disinterest, his mother has always supported his photography. She then lowers her voice and his parents speak below their breath. “So, how did it go?”
“Swifter than I imagined. We signed.”
“It’s done?” his mother gasps. “How marvelous!”
“Yes. Installation dates for the equipment must be arranged, but at this point, that’s just a technicality.”
His parents are clearly thrilled. But . . . marvelous. Is it really? Daniel questions.
His father smiles at his mother. “You look lovely. Ready to go?”
Carlitos appears at their side. “Hola, Señor Matheson. I have some messages for you.”
Daniel’s father extends his hand.
“No, not for you, señor, for your son.” Carlitos hands a few message slips to Daniel.
“My, my, you’re popular,” says his mother. “Who are they from?”
Daniel folds the messages and puts them in his pocket without looking at them.
“Aren’t you going to read them?” presses his mother.
“Ay, he knows they’re from the owner of the camera shop,” says Carlitos. “Señor is consumed with photography. Pictures, pictures, and more pictures.”
Daniel nods to the boy in silent gratitude. “Shall we have lunch?” he asks his parents.
“Oh, I’m sorry, cariño. Your father and I have an engagement. We’ll be back soon.” His mother gives his hand a squeeze. “I can’t wait to
see your photos from this morning.”
His parents depart and Daniel tips Carlitos. “Thanks, Buttons.”
“It’s nothing, señor,” says Carlitos, his high voice full of humor. “Remember, here at the hotel we understand the importance of privacy.”
* * *
Once in the elevator, Daniel pulls the message slips from his pocket.
9:45 a.m. From Tom Collins
Request meeting. Important.
A meeting with Tom Collins. Instant smile.
10:30 a.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn
Come over for my birthday lunch around 2:00 p.m.
The corridor of the seventh floor is quiet. He removes the photo badge from his pocket and reattaches it to his camera strap. Hopefully he can take to the street and snap some photos before Ben wakes up. With an official badge, the guards—those Crows—won’t be able to stop him. He lets himself into his room. It’s warm and sunny. The balcony door is open just as he likes it.
His jeans and plaid shirt are waiting on the bench at the end of the bed, as if Ana knows the first thing he’ll do is abandon the suit. He looks to the wall, wondering if she has seen his new caption. Is that why she wants to meet? Then he realizes.
His picture and caption are still on the wall, but several of the photos aren’t.
They’re gone.
95
Daniel rushes to the hotel lobby. Of course Ana took the pictures, but why? He spots Carlitos near the entrance of the hotel.
“Buttons, I need a favor. It’s important.”
“Sí, señor. Tell me.”
“Find Ana and give her this message. Tell her, ‘Room 760 needs towels.’”
“Ay, señor, but I see Lorenza just over there. She can get one for you now.”
“No, tell Ana only. Just Ana.”
Carlitos’s small mouth puckers in an attempt to understand.
Daniel hands a one-dollar bill to Carlitos. The boy’s eyes expand.
“Sí,” nods Daniel. “This is an important one, Buttons. Just tell Ana that I need towels.”
Carlitos quickly crunches the bill in his palm, so it can’t escape. “Room 760 needs towels. Tell Ana only.” He takes off running, as if the building is on fire.
Daniel returns to his room. The phone rings. It’s Nick.
“I’m having people over for lunch at the villa. Join us.”
“Yeah, I got your message.” Daniel hesitates. Everything with Nick feels like a trap.
“It’s casual. No ties.” He then adds, “And no parents. C’mon, it’s my birthday!”
There’s a knock at Daniel’s door.
“Maybe I’ll stop by.” He hangs up and heads for the door.
Ana stands in the hallway, glowing and radiant. “I was told you needed towels, señor?”
“Sí.”
She steps into the room and Daniel quickly closes the door.
“You received my message?” she asks.
“Yes, and I saw that the pictures are gone.”
The smile slips from Ana’s face. “What do you mean?”
“You took a few of the pictures.”
“No, I didn’t.” She sets down the towels and runs to the wall. She lifts her hand, fingers scanning across the images. She turns to Daniel. “One photo of Rafa, one photo of Fuga, and . . . the nun with the baby.”
“You didn’t take them?”
“No.” Ana’s face blanches with concern. “I was here in your room until after ten. All of the photos and captions were still here.” She goes to Daniel’s jeans, folded on the bench. She reaches into the pocket and removes a note.
“Is that for me?”
She nods and takes a step back. Her fist closes tightly around the paper, her voice drops to a whisper. “Señor, this is very bad. Someone has been in your room. The captions that I—that Tom wrote. They were too honest.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the only one assigned to your room unless you call downstairs. Did you request anything?”
“I wasn’t here. I just got back.”
Daniel runs to the closet. He grabs his cowboy boot and reaches inside. His hand reappears, holding the negatives. His shoulders exhale in relief.
“No one knows you wrote the captions, Ana. They’ll think I wrote them.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Whoever’s been in my room.”
Tears pop and stream down Ana’s face.
“No, hey, don’t cry.” He moves to Ana and reaches for her hand. “They’re just photos. I have the negatives and I’ll reprint them. Ben probably took them. He mentioned he could use them. Really. Please, don’t cry.”
“But this is dangerous.”
“Dangerous? You mean it’s dangerous for you to help me?”
“Yes . . . and no. It’s not just the photos.” She extends the crumpled note to Daniel.
Can I talk to you?
He reads the message; his eyes shift to her. “Ana,” he says quietly.
“Not here,” she whispers, as if someone were listening. “I have a break at five. Meet me in the garden of the Sorolla Museum.” Ana looks up at him. “I’ll be on the bench near the secret fountain.”
“The secret fountain?”
“Sí, look for the fountain of whispers.”
She squeezes his hand and runs from the room.
96
Puri looks at the clock in Sister Hortensia’s office. After lunch she is to report to the clinic. But first, she hopes to get to the file room.
Sister sifts through notes in front of her. “20 123, 20 121, and 20 116. Make sure they are all clean and fed before you go to the clinic.”
20 116. Clover.
“What for, Sister?”
Sister Hortensia stares at her, stone-faced.
“I’m sorry. I meant, right away, Sister.” Puri flees from the office.
Puri sees to Clover first. She recalls the note in the file. One hundred fifty thousand pesetas. Pending. “Maybe,” she whispers to the baby, kissing her head. She wants Clover to have the right parents, but are the right parents only paying parents?
The other two orphans are boys. Also sin datos. Neither came in from the torno, the box on the street.
Puri bathes the infants. She takes them to the mothers who live at the Inclusa and serve as wet nurses.
“Someone coming to see these three?” asks one of the mothers.
“I guess so,” says Puri. She watches the young woman feed Clover.
“They’ll take the boy I just fed,” says the mother. “He’s the youngest and cutest.”
Puri exhales in defense. “He is not the cutest. She is. Maybe they’ll want a girl.”
“No. People prefer boys. Boys are easier to raise. They can work and help as they get older.”
“Girls can be helpful too!”
“But they’re not considered providers.” She sighs. “If you love this one so much, why don’t you take her?”
Puri stares at the young woman in shock. “I’m a single girl,” whispers Puri.
“So am I,” says the young mother. “And I love my daughter just as much as any couple would.”
How could the young mother who lives at the Inclusa compare herself to Puri? Should she be offended? Once Clover has finished feeding, Puri returns her to the nursery, wrapped in a fresh pink blanket.
“Ah, there she is.” Sister Hortensia stands with an elegant couple near the ruffled bassinet of 20 123. “Purificación, bring the darling girl to us.”
Sister’s voice leaks exaggerated sweetness. The couple is well dressed and the father has a warm smile.
Puri looks down at Clover. “Look, we have visitors.” She carries Clover across the room and makes popping noises with her mouth. By the time she reaches th
e couple, Clover’s face is alive with joy.
“¡Oh, qué chiquitita!” exclaims the woman.
“Yes, she’s still tiny,” replies Sister Hortensia. Sister puts 20 123 back in his bassinet.
Without asking, Puri hands Clover to the woman. She eagerly accepts the child.
“She’s such a sweet girl with a very calm disposition,” whispers Puri. “She loves to smile and giggle. Make this sound and you’ll see her react.”
The woman imitates Puri and Clover immediately responds. Her tiny hand appears from beneath the blanket. The man leans in and Clover grasps on to his finger.
“¡Cúcú!” says the husband.
“She loves peek-a-boo,” says Puri.
The couple is clearly comfortable with an infant. Do they have children of their own? The pair not only looks lovingly at Clover, they look lovingly at each other. The woman wears the largest emerald ring Puri has ever seen. They are elegant, wealthy, kind, and in love. And they are Catholic. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Puri sees Sister across the nursery, picking up 20 121, the other little boy. She feels time slipping.
Puri speaks quickly, almost blurting. “She is a sweet one. She’s the sweetest one. She’s engaged, alert, and so affectionate. She’s the very best child here and I know all of them, I promise. You should choose her. Good day.”
Puri bobs and turns from the couple. Sister Hortensia stands, holding the other baby boy, giving a questioning glare to Puri.
“Have a nice afternoon, Sister. I’m on my way to the clinic.” Puri smiles, suddenly feeling like a very good Spaniard.
97
“Look who’s here. Hola, cowboy!” says Nick, rising from the table. He greets Daniel in the entry to the breezy villa dining room.