The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  No.

  No.

  No.

  The bullet enters Fuga through the back. The force of the shot propels his chest forward, pulling his shoulder blades together. He takes a single step and falls to his knees, surrendering at the feet of the bull. Bubbles of blood trail down the back of Fuga’s thin cambric shirt. The animal runs back to the herd.

  Rafa charges to his friend. He slides across the grass, pulling Fuga onto his lap. He is still breathing. His body trembles. Rafa feels the life and blood of his best friend seeping through his own trousers.

  “Amigo,” gasps Rafa. “I am here.”

  Fuga’s eyes are open but vacant. His hand extends, searching for Rafa. Their palms clasp. “Sí,” says Rafa, cradling his closest friend, unable to stop the oncoming tears.

  “Rafa. Hermano.”

  “Sí. Brothers. I am here, brother. I am always here.”

  “Hermano,” stammers Fuga. “El fin.”

  “No.” Tears spill down Rafa’s face. “You’re going to be okay. Please. It’s not the end.”

  Fuga’s body shudders. His fingers slowly surrender their grip of Rafa’s hand. “Sí. El fin.” Fuga’s lips flutter as they release their final whisper. “Rafa, do not . . . be afraid.”

  Fuga’s body liberates the tension of life force.

  “¡Amigo!” wails Rafa. “No. Please. ¡Hermano!”

  Rafa sobs, clutching and rocking the body of his friend so tightly he feels nothing, nothing but Fuga’s warm blood pooling in his lap.

  Overcome with shock and anguish, Rafa doesn’t feel the barrel of the gun—even as it touches the back of his own head.

  116

  A shift in the weather brings temporary relief to the infernal temperatures. Puri sits on the grass with the older children, enjoying the morning sunshine. Three soccer balls will soon be added to the recreational equipment at the Inclusa. Their impending arrival has caused a flutter of excitement.

  “I’m going to be a futbolista!” announces one of the boys.

  The abandoned boy that Daniel found on the street joins in. “My uncle can bounce a soccer ball on his head.”

  “Well, your uncle sounds very talented,” says Puri.

  “He is. I miss him,” says the boy, picking at the grass near his shoes.

  “Ay, I don’t miss home,” says the boy who wants to be a soccer player. “There was never enough to eat. Here I have food and a nice bed to myself. And soon I’ll have a soccer ball! At home I had to share the bed with my four brothers. Their dirty feet were always in my face.”

  “Ew,” grimaces a girl.

  “I don’t miss home either,” says José.

  Puri looks to the orphan. José is the boy who lost his tooth, the one whose mother said he could make his own way in the world.

  “There were eight kids in our house,” says José. “My mother was always tired and angry. She used to yell a lot.” José lowers his voice to imitate his mother. “You miserable brats are going to send me to an asylum!”

  The other children laugh and join in, imitating adults.

  A girl jumps to her feet. “Oh, oh, what about this one!” She points a finger and launches a shrill voice. “You ingrate. Do you know how lucky you are? You don’t have a cardboard father.”

  The children point their fingers back at her. They howl with laughter and roll in the grass.

  “I don’t remember my parents,” says a boy. “What’s a cardboard father?” he asks.

  “It’s a father who got killed in the war,” explains the girl. “His cardboard photo hangs on the wall but they can’t talk about him because he’s a Red.”

  Puri stares into her lap. Is there a chance that she too had a cardboard father? The boy who can’t remember his parents has circular scars on his legs. Sister Hortensia says that when he came through the torno as an infant he had cigarette burns all over his shins. Puri has several odd scars herself. “You were a bit clumsy as a toddler,” her mother tells her.

  Is that true or just another secret?

  “I’m going to be a futbolista!” refrains the boy who loves soccer. “Father López says that an orphan once played for Real Madrid. That’s going to be me,” he says, pointing a thumb to his chest.

  The children whoop with delight, talking of jersey numbers and stadium seats, completely forgetting the conversation of parents and cardboard fathers. As Sister Hortensia says, they are well fed, clothed, educated, and safe. They are happy. Puri knows that not all orphanages are as wonderful as the Inclusa. Some children speak of other institutions that sound horrific.

  “We want to give children the best chance to thrive, to be raised by those who will devote resources and ensure Catholic values,” said Sister Hortensia. “These children are the best chance of protecting our future and all we’ve worked so hard for.”

  Protecting the future. That’s something Puri hasn’t thought of. Generalísimo Franco, Auxilio Social, the Inclusa, and the doctors, nuns, and priests—are they simply protecting the future? With all they’ve done to make Spain the wonderful country she loves, how could she ever doubt that?

  But a quiet part of her does.

  Spain protects itself from evil enemies, wanton behavior, and sin.

  Lying is a sin. And Puri knows the doctor at the clinic was lying. But questioning is an insult to her leader and her country. It’s ugly and disrespectful. A knot rises in her throat. Sometimes she commits sins. Does she search for truths to avoid her own truth? Her eyes well.

  The little girl pets her hair. “Señorita, why are you crying?” she asks.

  Puri shakes her head and forces a smile.

  Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada.

  It’s true. We really are prettier with our mouths shut.

  117

  Daniel sits in the museum garden near the fountain of whispers.

  Ana wanted to hide it. Nick wanted to hide it. The comments in the car between his father and Mr. Van Dorn were not incidental. In saying that Daniel was a gentleman, his father announced that Mr. Van Dorn wasn’t.

  And he was right.

  Despite their circumstances, Daniel knows he and Ana are more alike than different.

  He called Ben and Ben agreed, grumbling and lecturing over the phone.

  “No, I didn’t take your photos and, oh yeah, news flash: Shep Van Dorn’s a louse. He’s notorious. That’s why his wife is never in Madrid and poor Nicky’s so messed up. Nick came to me when he was trying to help Ana. Yeah, the gold teeth are from a bracelet, but Ana didn’t steal it. The family gave it to her for Christmas. Shep toyed with her, insisted she call him by his first name, told her he’d bring her on at the embassy as a secretary or something. Ana was too sweet to realize he expected something in return.”

  “He can’t get away with this,” says Daniel.

  “Oh, he’ll get away with it and more. C’mon, Dan. Politicians and businessmen, they get what they want. When Van Dorn didn’t, well, he got mean, tried to intimidate her. I could share tales, both hilarious and terrifying, about these guys on overseas posts. I pray the stories make it into the D.C. archives. This one guy, he roared into a village—”

  “I don’t want to hear stories. We have to do something.”

  Daniel hears Ben slap his desk. “I love your energy, Matheson! What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to write to the ambassador.” Daniel pauses. “And I’m going to write to the State Department and let them know who they’ve got representing our country.”

  Daniel hears Ben exhale a double lung of smoke and light another cigarette.

  “Sure, you can do that. Your sense of justice, it’s refreshing. But listen, cowboy, if I were you—and believe me, I wish I was—I wouldn’t waste this time. You’re nineteen in Madrid, and you’re in love, for Christ’s sake. Don’t blow your breath on a horse’s a
ss like Van Dorn. This is your golden hour. Rent the Buick and whisk her off to the Costa Brava. Roll the windows down and feel the sun on your face. Walk along the beach together. Take pictures. Stay up late and sleep in later. Wake up with sand in your hair, sand in your pants. Don’t come back until you run out of money. This is your time, Dan. Grab it and run. Do the stuff you see in the movies. It’s the stuff no one gets to do. But you can do it, Matheson. I don’t want you calling me in ten years whining that you should have done this and should have done that. As the saying goes, it’s later than you think.”

  Daniel stares at the numbers on the telephone in front of him. “Did you do all this stuff?”

  “Hell, no. Why do you think I’m telling you to do it? So you don’t end up like me, alone in the movie theater at four in the afternoon, smoking fistfuls of cigs and watching couples stroll along the beach in Costa Brava.”

  Daniel smiles.

  “Listen, Matheson, I like you. You’re a heck of a photographer and you throw a punch like Joe Louis. I have no idea what else you do. But whatever it is, now’s the time to do it.”

  118

  “Hola.”

  Ana appears at the bench. She wears the faded dress she wore to the dance.

  Daniel’s rehearsed the speech so many times. He’s going to write letters. They’ll go on a trip, like Ben suggests. They’ll walk along the beach. But now that she’s standing in front of him, beautiful and defeated, all he can say is, “Ana, I’m so sorry.”

  She sits down close, but the ease of their night together is lost. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Of course it is. I’m the one who convinced you to come to my room.”

  “That’s not why they fired me.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. They found the Sorolla book with your inscription to Tom Collins. They accused me of being a thief.”

  “Ana, you’re not a thief. This is all just a misunderstanding. I’ll speak to your manager.”

  “No. People can’t know about us.”

  “We had dinner. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all.” Ana looks at him. “The photos, the dancing,” she lowers her voice, “the kissing. I broke so many rules being with you. It was foolish.”

  “I thought you wanted to be there.”

  Ana’s voice drops to a whisper. “Of course I wanted to be there. I want a lot of things I can’t have. For you this is a vacation, but for me it’s real life. I’m the daughter of Republicans. Do you understand what that means in this country? This is not America. I know it’s hard for you to understand because you live more like them.”

  Daniel recoils in shock. “Wait, are you saying I’m a fascist?”

  “I’m saying that you’re not shackled by poverty and silence. You could never understand what it’s like for me.”

  “I want to learn. You can help me. I have a plan. I’ll attend university in Madrid. We’ll go to Valencia.”

  “You could have many plans. But don’t you see? I’ve lost the only chance I have.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Ana looks at him. Her eyes fill with tears that spring and trail down her cheeks.

  Her tears grip, pulling his heart. “Don’t cry,” whispers Daniel. “We can be together.”

  “No, we can’t.” A flush of tears spills down Ana’s face. “I have to go.”

  Daniel stands with her. “Don’t leave. Let’s go somewhere private to talk.”

  “No!” she cries. “Julia needs my help. Lali is fussy and Rafa didn’t return home last night.”

  “Ana, please,” he whispers. He reaches gently for her hand. “At least let me take you back to Vallecas.”

  Ana looks at their clasped hands, her eyes swollen with tears. “I’m begging you,” she says. “Please, stop. You’re making this harder and it’s hurting me.”

  Daniel releases her hand.

  “Thank you.” She reaches out and touches his cheek. Her words are spoken between sobs. “You are wonderful. Truly.” She looks up at him, lips quivering. “But you can’t love me. You don’t understand me. Goodbye.”

  Ana kisses him and runs from the garden.

  119

  They stand in line for blood.

  One following the other, the Crows march to the crowded jail cell. They ask Rafa questions. They ask the same questions again. And again.

  “What was your friend’s full name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They don’t believe him. They hold up a picture of Fuga. Where did they get it?

  “How could a man who is weeping, leaking loss from the depths of his soul not know his amigo’s name? You’re a liar.”

  Rafa reaches through the bars of the cell for the photo. They snap it away. “Él quería ser torero,” Rafa tells them. He wanted to be a bullfighter. That’s all. He tells them over and over.

  “And you?” they demand.

  Rafa hangs his head. I pledged to protect him, he should say. But he won’t. The Crows don’t deserve the satisfaction.

  When the Crows step away, a prisoner next to him whispers, “Don’t tell them anything. Say you’re from Andalucía, that you’ll leave Madrid and never come back.”

  A man from Vallecas is also in the jail cell. He moves toward Rafa. “He’s right, Rafa. Tell them nothing. You’ve never been arrested. They don’t know you like they know us. Come to the back of the cell where you can’t be seen. They’ll keep you for a few weeks. When you leave, walk the road south out of Madrid. They’ll follow you for a while. Just keep walking. Eventually, Father Fernández will come for you. He always does. He’ll take you back to Vallecas. That’s how this works.”

  Rafa won’t listen. He grabs the bars of the cell, trying to shake them loose as he screams. “Where is he? Please, let me bury his body!”

  The man from Vallecas puts a comforting hand on his back.

  Rafa can’t bear the thought of Fuga being dumped in a common trench, his limp body salted with the dirt of his own shovel.

  “Who is your family?” demand the Crows.

  The question drills into Rafa. His family. If they discover who he is, could Julia, Antonio, and Ana all be punished? Will their years of hard-won anonymity in Madrid be ruined?

  You know my family, he wants to say. When I was a tiny boy, I watched you murder my father. My parents were respected teachers. You arrested our mother for sewing flags.

  And don’t forget the children.

  Rafa’s head snaps like a whip. The voice is Fuga’s. It’s clear and close.

  This reminds me of our time in the detention hole in the boys’ home. Remember?

  Rafa looks behind him. He looks out from the bars.

  Not out there, amigo. In here.

  120

  Puri dashes from cabinet to cabinet, opening and closing the drawers.

  Where is 1940, the year of her birth? Her parents met and married in Madrid. If they adopted her, it would have been from the Inclusa. Her pulse beats. Her neck is chilled with sweat. How long has she been in the basement? Has Sister noticed the keys are no longer on her desk?

  She pulls a file. Year: 1940.

  Assigned orphan numbers mean nothing to her. She must look for her parents’ names.

  It’s taking too long. She slams the file drawer.

  She heads to the next row of cabinets. Faster, Puri. Faster! She rounds the corner and hits a wall. As she falls to the cement floor, the iron keys tumble from her hand and clatter to the ground.

  Puri looks up. It’s not a wall. It’s the stark white robes.

  Of Sister Hortensia.

  She stares at Puri. Silent.

  “Sister . . .” Puri scrambles to rise.

  “No, stay there. I’ve been standing here, l
istening to you rifle through each cabinet. I knew you were up to something. Don’t compound your filthy sins with lies. What are you looking for, Purificación? Tell me.”

  The slap of condescension and the words filthy sins spark a familiar anger in Puri. “I’m looking . . . for answers,” she says flatly.

  Sister Hortensia opens her arms. “Ah . . . and what would you like to know?”

  Sister looms over her, eyebrows raised, waiting. Her expression suddenly softens. She releases a deep sigh and drops her arms.

  “Just tell me, child.”

  Puri notes the retreat of her grimace, her look of concern. She makes the decision.

  “Am I adopted, Sister? And if so, did my parents have to pay a ridiculous sum of money for me?”

  Sister Hortensia’s mouth pulls into a tight smile as she nods slowly. “Ridiculous. I see. You are looking for your story, Purificación? Why didn’t you just say so? Well, let us begin. Once upon a time there was a pair of filthy Reds who created a degenerate child. The Reds cared more for themselves than for the baby so they abandoned her. The girl was blessed to be adopted by a wonderful, loving couple. But despite many years of efforts, and even the girl’s own best intentions, she remained rotten on the inside. You see, like her Red parents, she cared more for herself than others—so much that she stole keys to a private file library, trespassed, violated privacy laws, and committed crimes against the country of Spain. Oh dear, how shall the story end? Perhaps I should find the police and let them decide.”

  “No. Please,” cries Puri.

  “Sí.” Sister Hortensia nods. “The police or the Guardia Civil will best know how to handle this.” Her voice deepens and she speaks through gritted teeth. “Hand me the keys.”

  Puri reaches for the keys and throws herself at the feet of Sister Hortensia.

  121

  You don’t understand me. You’re making this harder and it’s hurting me. How could she say those things? He’s equal parts upset and angry.