The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “The father has just arrived,” announces Puri.

  “And what did you tell him?” asks the doctor.

  “That I would inform you of his arrival.”

  “Very good,” he nods. “Purificación, as I explained, the mothers are given a sedative during the birthing process. This helps them rest. Please sit with Señora Sánchez. You are to come to me if you note any changes in her color or breathing, or if she wakes up.”

  Puri enters the room quietly. The woman lies tucked in bed, a starched white sheet pulled up to her shoulders. She’s very pretty. Her color is quite good and her breathing is steady and deep. She is fast asleep, probably dreaming of her new baby.

  Puri sits in the chair next to the bed. Over an hour passes. The woman’s eyelids begin to flutter.

  “El bebé.”

  “Sí, señora,” says Puri. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  Puri rushes down the hallway to the doctor’s office. She finds him sitting behind his desk, making notes in a file.

  “The mother is awake, Doctor.”

  “Gracias. You may return to the front desk.”

  Puri makes her way to the front desk. The baby’s father sits in the lobby, face cupped in his hands. His shoulders wrench up and down. He is crying.

  “Señor, whatever is the matter?”

  The man looks up at Puri, his face red and swollen with grief. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell my wife.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That our baby . . .” He can barely speak. “That our baby has died.”

  Puri backs away from the man, as if the words he speaks are from the devil himself.

  No, it is not possible.

  She heard the healthy lungs for herself.

  No.

  She sat with the mother, whose cheeks blushed with fresh roses. Puri bangs through the door and spots the doctor in the hall.

  “Doctor!”

  The doctor puts a calm, pale finger to his thin lips, calling for silence.

  “But . . . the baby’s father,” whispers Puri. “He thinks the child has died.”

  The doctor puts a hand on Puri’s shoulder.

  “I can see you are shaken. That is entirely understandable. If eel so easily disrupts your constitution, an incident of infant death will of course take its toll. Go home and rest, my dear.”

  Puri shakes her head slowly. Her feet are anchored to the floor.

  The doctor’s voice pulls taut. “You must steel yourself against these tragedies. Sadly, they’re not uncommon,” he says. “Many of these mothers, they don’t take care of themselves during pregnancy. They don’t eat properly. Some drink in excess. That weakens the fetus. But some are lucky. God will smile upon them and grant them another chance, another child. Perhaps they already have other children. But for now, the punishing consequences of their own neglectful behavior are difficult to accept.”

  Puri stares at the doctor.

  He nods. “Yes. You must pray for this young mother. And speak of it to no one. If you are strong of faith, you will not even mention it to your parents. Remember, Purificación, it is a sin to reveal someone else’s secret.”

  102

  “Lo siento, Puri. Ana is working. She can’t take a break right now,” explains Carlitos on the sidewalk.

  “But did you tell her that I was here?” asks Puri.

  “Sí. I told her. Why don’t you speak with her brother?”

  Puri turns to see her cousin Rafa heading toward them on the sidewalk.

  “Rafa!”

  “¡Hola, Puri!” Rafa kisses his cousin on both cheeks. “Hola, Carlitos. I need to speak with Ana.”

  “Ay, she’s busy, Rafa. I just told your cousin the same thing.”

  Rafa looks out at the street, as if the traffic sends him advice. “Well, actually, I hoped to get a message to her friend, the Texano. I don’t imagine he’s around?”

  Carlitos raises a finger. “¡Sí! He is having a milkshake in the restaurant. I will go get him.” The small boy races off.

  “How do you know the Texano?” asks Puri.

  “Purificación, how do you know the Texano?” teases Rafa. “Have you been meeting with American boys?”

  Anger rises. She has questions and is only looking for answers. “No! I am not doing anything wrong!”

  “Ay, Puri. ¿Qué pasa?” asks Rafa. “I was only teasing.”

  Puri sighs. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.”

  “Still working at the Inclusa?” asks Rafa.

  Puri nods.

  “Still a steady flow of orphans?”

  “Of course there are. There are always people who don’t want their children.”

  “No,” says Rafa. “People always want their children. But sometimes life commands other things.”

  Is Rafa talking about his own mother? She thinks of the letter she saw in the file at the Inclusa. José will be better off with an adoptive family.

  Rafa is wrong. Not everyone wants their children.

  103

  Daniel appears on the sidewalk, carrying his camera. He smiles while chatting with the bellboy, and Puri notices his white teeth against his deeply tanned skin. His plaid shirt hangs open, revealing a white T-shirt stirring atop his large belt buckle as he walks. Daniel lifts a hand in a wave. He is so handsome. Almost as handsome as Ordóñez, thinks Puri.

  Almost.

  “Hola, Rafa. Hola, Puri,” smiles Daniel.

  Rafa puts a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Texano, I have an opportunity for you to take pictures.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

  “At the graveyard.”

  “What’s to see at the graveyard?” asks Daniel.

  “Ghosts,” whispers Carlitos.

  Rafa hesitates. He looks at Puri and Carlitos before replying. “Well, you see . . . I thought it might be interesting. You could photograph me and El Huérfano.” As if the ignition switch to his idea finally catches, Rafa speaks quickly. “To capture raw portraits of an aspiring matador working in a cemetery. Life before stardom in Spain. You would have pictures of Fuga digging graves contrasted by your pictures of him in his suit of lights. It would be a great story.”

  “Your matador is El Huérfano? The orphan?” asks Puri.

  “Sí. Texano took great pictures of him,” says Rafa.

  Daniel nods. “That’s a great idea, Rafa. I’d like that.”

  “Good. Come tonight.”

  “Tonight? Oh, I’ve made some plans for tonight. How about tomorrow? I’ll need light for the pictures.”

  “Okay. I’ll come to the hotel after my shift at the slaughterhouse. We can go together.”

  “Any chance I could photograph you at the slaughterhouse?”

  Rafa lights with joy. “Sí, come to el matadero! There is much to photograph there.”

  Puri listens to the two boys as they exchange details and location information. Rafa and his bullfighter work at the cemetery. Do they ever bury infants? Are dead children held in the freezer until they’re sent for burial?

  Puri thinks back to her orientation at the Inclusa. One of the doctors mentioned that infant mortality rates in Spain are high, too high, in his opinion. He seemed annoyed about it. Are the mothers truly that careless about their health? Would Rafa be able to tell her anything? No, she’d best not ask Rafa. Like her mother says, Rafa talks too much. He shares information with the charcoal delivery men in Vallecas and his friends at the slaughterhouse. Rafa thinks life is prettier with mouths open rather than shut.

  “Give Aunt Teresa a kiss for me,” says Rafa. He leaves.

  “Give her one from me too,” laughs Carlitos as he scurries back to the hotel.

  “Are you here to see Ana?” asks Daniel.

  Puri nods. A thought suddenly occurs to her. Could she as
k Daniel? He doesn’t know anyone at the Inclusa or the clinic. Could he give her advice?

  “May I ask you a question? Do you . . . go to confession?” asks Puri cautiously.

  The question takes Daniel by surprise. “Yeah, but not as often as I should.”

  “Me neither. I hate confession. They say I ask too many questions.”

  Daniel shrugs. “It’s good to ask questions.”

  “I think so too!” says Puri.

  “I ask questions through photography,” says Daniel. “I take pictures of things and study the photos for answers.”

  “And what if you don’t believe an answer that someone has given you?” says Puri. “Is it okay to ask more questions?”

  Daniel pauses. “I’ve wrestled with that a bit myself lately. Sometimes I’m wary of the answers.”

  “Do you keep secrets?” asks Puri.

  “I have. But I don’t like to.”

  “Me neither. That’s why I came to see Ana. She knows all about secrets.”

  “Does she?”

  “Oh yes.” Puri nods. “That’s why I need her help.”

  “I’ll tell her you want to speak with her,” says Daniel.

  “You’re going to see her?”

  “Oh, I just meant that if I happen to see her I’ll mention it,” he says.

  Puri looks at him. She nods with certainty. “You’re no good at keeping secrets.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “No, you’re not. You like my cousin,” announces Puri.

  “You think so, huh?” says Daniel through his side grin.

  “Well, I’ll ask you the question—do you like Ana?”

  Daniel leans in close to Puri. “A lot,” he whispers. “Maybe that can be our secret?”

  “Trading whispers, Purificación? That’s your name, isn’t it? You’re Ana’s cousin. Shouldn’t you have a chaperone?” Lorenza stands on the sidewalk, brows arching.

  Puri’s hands clench. “Mind your own business,” she says.

  “Ay, fine. Just think it would be a shame if you were issued a yellow card.”

  Puri’s eyes expand with panic. She gives Daniel a bob of farewell and runs away down the sidewalk.

  “You scared her,” says Daniel.

  Lorenza shrugs. “Did I? Oh well. Ay, I see you have your camera. Maybe you’d like to take a picture of me, caballero?”

  He looks at Lorenza. Her uniform is a size too small. Purposely. Her bright red lips and black hair match the flag of the Falange.

  “I’m sorry, Lorenza. I’m out of film.” Daniel leaves her on the sidewalk and walks back into the hotel.

  104

  “I’m feeling fine, cariño. You needn’t worry. I’d love to see your photos.”

  Daniel shifts to block his parents’ view. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait until I have them all organized.”

  “They look quite organized.” His mother smiles. “But I understand. I’ll wait for the full exhibit. Are you sure you can’t come to dinner? We haven’t had much time together. We’re celebrating your father’s contract tonight.”

  “He’d rather be with the young people, María. He’s made some friends.”

  His mother seems surprised. “Really? Who are your friends? Where are you going?”

  Daniel struggles to skirt a lie. “They’re friends of Nick Van Dorn’s. We’re having dinner. They mentioned something about a late event.”

  “Probably a flamenco show,” nods his mother.

  The note slipped under his door said nothing about a flamenco show. It said:

  11:00 p.m.–Tom Collins

  “What about breakfast tomorrow?” asks his mother.

  “Sounds good.” He tries to edge them to the door of his suite.

  “Don’t wear those denims tonight. You look so nice in your suit.”

  “Yes, ma’am. See you tomorrow.” The heavy door shuts with an answering clasp.

  * * *

  At five minutes past eleven, Ana enters Daniel’s room using her passkey.

  “Pretty handy key you have there.”

  “I’m sorry for not knocking. I didn’t want to risk being seen in the hall,” she explains. “Turndown service has already been here?”

  “Yes. But room service hasn’t. I’m starving.”

  Ana stands with her back against the closed door, clutching her purse to the front of her uniform.

  “Come in. You’re off duty. You’re here for dinner.”

  She looks about the room as if it’s entirely foreign. “I’ve never been in a guest’s room when I’m off duty. I’m breaking the rules.”

  “No one will find out. I told my parents I was going out with Nick.”

  “I told the staff downstairs that I was going to Puri’s.”

  “See? No one will ever know.” Daniel shrugs and smiles.

  105

  Ana’s stomach tumbles and turns.

  “Well, what shall we order?” Daniel holds up a menu.

  “Room service mustn’t know there are two people in the room. Nothing escapes the employees. They all gossip, you know.”

  “I know.”

  He doesn’t know. Attendants and domestics have been part of Daniel’s life since birth. They fade into his background, like Franco’s security guards. They are silent witnesses, seemingly blind and deaf to all conversations and indiscretions. But they are not blind and deaf. Everything is noted. Things in the rooms, in the laundry, within the phone messages, and in the room-service orders.

  Daniel’s voice is quiet. “Ana, come and sit down. You can’t stand at the door for dinner.” He holds out the menu.

  Ana accepts the menu and moves to the small sofa. Daniel turns on the radio and the rolling voice of Lola Flores soothes the awkwardness, warming the room.

  “I don’t know what to order,” she says. “You order for us. Something American.”

  Daniel sits down next to her and takes the menu. “Let’s see. What about lobster thermidor and a crab Louie? We’ll share a baked Alaska for dessert.”

  “When you call room service, tell them you want to eat a horse.”

  Daniel stares at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Texans say they’re so hungry they want to eat a horse. And then they order everything on the menu. That will sound entirely normal to the room-service operator.”

  “No, it won’t sound normal. Americans say ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.’ It’s just an expression, they don’t mean it literally.”

  “Thank goodness,” she laughs. “Well, we must hide the fact that I’m here.”

  Daniel calls in the room-service order. As he hangs up, Ana removes cutlery wrapped in a cloth napkin from her purse.

  “You brought your own fork?”

  “I borrowed it from downstairs. We can’t ask for two sets of flatware. They’ll know. I’ll use a glass from the bathroom.”

  Daniel shakes his head, grinning. “Please let me take a picture of you right now.”

  Ana smiles and laughs, holding up her borrowed knife and fork for the photo. The tension softens amidst the laughter and the radio’s clack of Lola’s castanets.

  “So, I’ve given it a lot of thought,” says Daniel. “Ben has to be the one who took the photos. He mentioned he might use them and I wasn’t here to ask.”

  “But how would he get into your suite?”

  “He once commented that he has connections.”

  While they wait for room service to arrive, Ana asks to see Daniel’s portfolio again. They sit side by side on the couch, paging through the album. “This is one of my favorites.” Ana points to an enormous tree with thousands of shimmering lights. “What is it?”

  “It’s the big pecan tree in Highland Park. Each year around Christmas there’s a ceremony to decorate it.”

>   They arrive at the photo of the Texas garden party.

  “The mansion, this is where you live?”

  Daniel nods.

  “And that’s Laura Beth,” says Ana, pointing to the glamorous girl blowing a kiss to the photographer.

  Daniel’s surprise is audible. “How do you know about Laura Beth?”

  “Your mother mentions her a lot. And Laura Beth has sent telegrams to the hotel. Remember, the staff sees everything.” Ana looks to Daniel for response.

  “It’s over, but it didn’t end well. My mom still doesn’t know. Laura Beth couldn’t accept me as I am. As soon as she discovered that I wasn’t going to change, she started kissing other guys. She broke things off and claimed my family was ‘too ethnic.’”

  “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  “My mom is Spanish. It makes our family different.”

  “But Señora Matheson is beautiful.”

  “Yeah, but she’s different from Dallas society women. She raised me differently. We speak only Spanish together. We listen to Spanish records on the hi-fi. Some of her jewelry and clothing are different. She eats dinner late and starts the day late. We celebrate Spanish holidays. Just like Americans seem strange here, I seem strange to Laura Beth and her family. But it’s okay. We had nothing to talk about. Everything was difficult. I just didn’t realize how difficult until I came to Madrid. The first day you took me to Miguel’s shop I wanted—”

  The knock at the door launches Ana to her feet. She grabs her purse and runs to the bathroom to hide.

  Ana stands against the bathroom counter, heart trampolining within her chest. Why did she ever agree to this? She’s breaking every rule. She could get fired, or be issued a yellow card. She recognizes the waiter’s voice. It’s Guillermo, a server from Catalonia. She breathes a sigh of relief. Guillermo is quiet, unconcerned with the business of others. She hears the clink and plink of dishes on the rolling cart being wheeled into the room.