The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  Daniel returns to the hotel and Carlitos rushes to his side. “Will she be coming back? Can anything be done?”

  Daniel shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Buttons.”

  Carlitos balls his small fists. “Lorenza says that Ana is in trouble because she stole something. But I know that can’t be true.”

  “Don’t believe Lorenza.”

  “Ay, of course not! Lorenza and the man from the embassy are making trouble together.”

  Daniel stops to face Carlitos.

  “Which man from the embassy?”

  Carlitos hesitates.

  “C’mon, Buttons. I need your help. Which man from the embassy?”

  Carlitos leans toward Daniel and points up to the lobby where Nick is sitting. “The one we spoke of, his father. Don Juan. But, señor, don’t bother yourself with this. It’s just gossip and whispers from the basement.”

  “What else have you heard in the basement?”

  Carlitos looks around quickly. He takes a breath. “They say Lorenza flatters Don Juan so he’ll give her American dollars and information. She wants the attention of all the men. Lorenza dated Rafa, but only because Fuga rejected her. Rafa broke up with Lorenza and now she’s angry. They say Lorenza is jealous of Ana and writes secret notes to scare her. Sweet Ana has no idea it’s Lorenza.”

  Carlitos shakes his head dramatically. “So much silliness. But I know something about Lorenza that no one knows.” He nods, beckoning Daniel closer. “Lorenza’s father,” he whispers. “He wears a cape. He’s a Guardia Civil. Of course Rafa doesn’t know. I’d bet a pail of pesetas that Ana doesn’t know either.”

  Daniel stares at the bellboy, trying to process the information:

  Lorenza has been writing notes to Ana?

  Rafa was dating Lorenza?

  Lorenza’s father is a Crow. Ben’s words return to him:

  Steer clear of those fire engine lips. You don’t know who she’s flapping them to.

  “Thanks, Buttons. Your help is worth more than a pail of pesetas.” He removes a large bill from his wallet and gives it to Carlitos.

  His attempts at maturity thin and Carlitos bounces with excitement. He pistols his fingers at Daniel. “Tex-has. Pow! Pow!”

  Daniel walks through the lobby to Nick, whose face is still mottled with remnants of the alley incident.

  “Hola, cowboy,” says Nick. “Rough days, eh?”

  Daniel sits to face him. “I spoke to your dad. After your fight he said he owed me a favor. So I asked him to get Ana rehired.”

  Truth and regret rise to Nick’s face. “Oh, Dan, I—”

  “Don’t worry. I figured it out on my own. Ben filled in the rest.”

  “It’s just—Ana and I—we made a promise.” Nick looks around before speaking. “It’s so complicated. The embassy, my mom, it’s embarrassing for both of us.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” says Nick. His tone softens. “I see your parents together. Your father’s a steady guy, an honorable guy. My dad? Shep’s a lech. I can’t even bring a girl home. He’s awful and humiliating. It’s a game for him. And sometimes people get hurt. Me. My mother. Ana. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Just did.”

  “And?”

  Daniel shakes his head, struggling to hold his emotions in place. “Nick, talk to her for me. Please. I can’t let things end like this.”

  “Sure. I can try,” says Nick earnestly. “I want to help. What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell her to meet me for dinner. A real dinner. Have her meet me at Lhardy at nine tomorrow. Will you do that? I just need a few hours with her, to talk things through.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Daniel stares at Nick. Can he trust him? “Nick, promise me you’ll get Ana there.”

  “I will. I owe you that and more.”

  Nick Van Dorn does owe him. But he just told Daniel that he doesn’t understand. Nick, Fuga, Ana. They all say he doesn’t understand. But he’s sure he does. What is he missing?

  “Say . . . Dan,” stammers Nick. “There’s something I want to run by you.”

  Laura Beth appears in the lobby. She strides toward them in an emerald-green dress and white gloves. “Well, hello there. Daniel, I’ve asked Nick to show me around Madrid.”

  Nick looks to Daniel and shrugs sheepishly.

  122

  “What do you mean, we’re leaving?”

  “The deal is done, Dan. It was quicker than I thought. Franco wanted to finish things before his fishing trip. We’re anxious to get home now. We’ve booked a flight for the day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I need to stay. Just for a few more weeks. That was the plan.”

  His mother comes to him on the sofa. “The plan has changed a bit. We’ll need you at home, tesoro.”

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  “On the contrary. I’m feeling wonderful.”

  “We’ll need you, well, because we have some news,” says his father. “It’s mighty exciting.”

  His mother gently takes his hands in hers. “Daniel, my love,” her face fills with light, “it is exciting news. Your father tells me that you knew of our communication with the orphanage, but now it’s confirmed. We’ve adopted a baby.”

  123

  Ana cries at the table. Lali cries in her box.

  “Padre,” gasps Julia, staring at the priest. “Rafa. Fuga. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

  “I’m sorry, my child.” The priest leaves their shack, a small man freighted with duty.

  Julia turns pale as paper. She reaches for the table to steady herself. Small movements travel through her limbs until her entire body is quaking.

  “Julia,” sobs Ana. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t cry. I’m here,” whispers her sister, staring into nothingness. “Father Fernández says they will release Rafa in a few weeks.”

  Despite her sister’s pleadings, Ana and Rafa have failed her. It’s not fair of life to ask so much of Julia, to sacrifice so much. The words return to Ana, haunting her heart:

  We have five mouths at the table now. No one can lose their job.

  The world at the hotel is a fairy tale. That is not our world.

  Julia warned her. Repeatedly. But despite the warnings, Ana began to dream from the deepest part of her heart. A trustworthy, honorable young man treated her with kindness and respect. She finally felt safe. She allowed herself to love him. But that was selfish. She put her own hopes and dreams before her family and now they will all suffer because of it.

  Ana wipes her tears and lifts her niece from the orange crate, kissing her head and soothing her cries. She must help her sister. She must distract herself from the searing pain of losing her job, of losing Daniel.

  The gravity of the situation pushes Julia into a chair.

  “I’ll ask Luis if you can help at the shop or clean his home,” murmurs Julia. “Father Fernández says the men are taking up a collection for Rafa. We’ll have to use the money I saved for the apartment.” Julia speaks to the air, making plans aloud.

  “Julia,” says Ana.

  “Yes, we’ll use the apartment money.”

  “Julia,” Ana repeats. But her sister ignores her.

  “Aunt Teresa. Yes, Aunt Teresa will help.”

  “Julia!”

  Her sister’s gaze finally floats to her.

  “Lali,” Ana says, touching the infant’s flushed cheeks. “She has a fever.”

  124

  Rafa leans against the grimy stone wall in the back of the jail cell. Rats gnaw and claw at the soles of his shoes. He wants to go to confession, to be in the sole presence of his dear and trusted priest. Father Fernández understands him. He always listens. He is always interested, always fair.

&nb
sp; Rafa closes his eyes. He parts the drapes of the imagined confessional and sits on the smooth wooden bench. He begins his silent confession.

  “Hail Mary the Purest,” says Rafa.

  “Conceived without sin,” replies the priest.

  “Padre, you have supported and guided me since I arrived in Vallecas. I stand now at a crossroads of conscience.”

  “What troubles you, my child?” asks Father Fernández gently.

  “The concept of sacrifice. You see, I thought sacrifice was doing something reluctantly. But now I question that. My father and mother sacrificed their lives in defense of education. They did it willingly. You have probably heard about my friend Fuga, El Huérfano. He has been promoted to heaven because he made such a grand sacrifice. And, Padre, he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Fuga had . . . a knowing. He sensed lies around the infants and threats around Ana. Even in that final moment, he was aware. I stood there in the field, waiting for El Huérfano to twirl the cape, but he did not. I became confused. I had no idea what was transpiring. But Fuga, he knew. He knew a man stood behind us. He knew the man had a gun. But he did not turn.

  “At first, I could not abide this. You see, this was not Fuga, Padre. He would not turn his back to anyone or anything, not fear, not death. So I’ve wondered, why did he not face his opponent?

  “I’ve sat in this cell among the rats, Padre, asking questions. I realize this sounds crazed, but when I still my mind, I’ve discovered I can hear Fuga. He brings me thoughts in the dark. And here’s what I’ve discovered.

  “Fuga knew that if he turned and ran, multiple shots would be fired. He knew that they might hit the animals or me. So he stood, in majestic stance, his final fight of life, and do you know what?” Rafa’s voice quivers with emotion. “He was not afraid.

  “And so I confess, dear Padre, that I feel confused. Fuga is gone. Taken by a bullet. I should feel guilty and full of fear. But somehow, I feel more connected to my friend and more proud of him than ever. Fuga never compromised. He never apologized for who or what he was. His difficult past was not a burden to him but an inspiration.

  “My feelings and this communication with Fuga, it leaves me peaceful but also doubting the balance of my own mind. Yet I feel certain that Fuga has been promoted. I can feel him. He is an angel in a heavenly suit of lights. And do you know what he is doing? He is taking care of the children. All the poor children, the forgotten children, the stolen children.

  “El Huérfano is taking care of his own.”

  125

  Daniel lies on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. A light knock sounds at the door. He jumps from the mattress, hoping that somehow it might be Ana.

  Carlitos walks into the room and closes the door.

  All bravado and mischief have fled from his face. He is no longer an errand broker or bellboy. His bottom lip quivers and his hands shake.

  “What is it, Buttons? What’s wrong?”

  Carlitos hides his face in the crook of his arm. He begins to cry.

  Daniel kneels. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” cries Carlitos. “Fuga—El Huérfano—they shot him in the pasture. They’ve put Rafa in jail.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “From Lorenza,” sniffs Carlitos. “El Huérfano is dead.”

  “What? Does Ana know?” he asks.

  “Lorenza said she does,” nods Carlitos. “Ay, I hate Lorenza. This is probably all her fault.” Carlitos stamps his foot and trembles with tears.

  Daniel soothes Carlitos as best he can, trying to navigate his own emotions and the impulse to run to Vallecas.

  The telephone rings. It’s Nick.

  “Is it true?” asks Daniel.

  “Unfortunately. A man from Vallecas was in jail with Rafa and heard the story. They shot Fuga through the back.”

  Daniel sits with his ear to the receiver, stunned. “Where is Rafa? We need to go to Vallecas.”

  “Dan, you’re not thinking straight. Fuga and Rafa are considered criminals. Rafa doesn’t want the authorities to know who he is or that he lives in Madrid. That could endanger his entire family. Once he’s released, he’ll probably disappear for a while. And Fuga, he was considered a vagabond. They’ve probably dumped his body in a ditch somewhere with the Protestants.”

  Daniel recalls his last exchange with Fuga. The promise he made. Their handshake.

  “Nick, are you sure they shot Fuga because he was trespassing in the pasture?”

  “Of course, why else would they shoot the guy?”

  Daniel thinks of the empty coffins in the graveyard. He thinks of the Guardia Civil.

  Lorenza. This is probably all her fault.

  Is Carlitos right? Could Lorenza have given information to her father?

  Fear creeps toward him from the vacant spots on the wall that once held his missing photos.

  126

  The confrontation with Sister Hortensia remains trembling inside of Puri. Her stomach rolls, dread pounds at her temples. The threats. What should she do?

  “What’s wrong with you, Puri?”

  “It’s late and I’m very tired. I want to go to bed.”

  “It’s an emergency,” scolds Puri’s mother, clutching the large bag to her chest. “Julia wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”

  Puri exits the taxi in the dark and follows her mother through the pitted road into the village of Vallecas. They pass a shawled woman sitting outside a shack who gives them a prickled stare.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” whispers Puri.

  Her mother nods.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  Her mother doesn’t reply. More secrets.

  Puri has never visited Ana’s house. Generally, the family meets in a café.

  Doors to the shacks stand open, allowing the heat of summer to escape. Puri eyes the crumbling, huddled structures and the people inside. A sewage trench carves its way through the side of the road. This is where they live? How could her parents allow it? Why haven’t her parents brought them to live at the apartment? It would be crowded but certainly better than this.

  Puri follows her mother and darts through an open door.

  “Aunt Teresa,” gasps Julia. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Is she any better?”

  “No. She seems to be getting worse,” says Julia.

  Puri stands in the doorway of the shack, hesitant to enter. Ana approaches and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “Hola, Puri.”

  Ana’s beautiful face is forlorn. “Are you not feeling well either?” asks Puri.

  Ana gives a sweet smile and shakes her head. “Our spirits are a bit low.”

  “Where is Julia’s husband? Where is Rafa?” asks Puri.

  “Antonio is at work. Rafa . . . he’s at work too,” says Ana.

  “I don’t have any ice or rubbing alcohol,” says Julia.

  Puri snaps to attention. “You mustn’t use either of those with an infant. Alcohol can seep into the bloodstream and lead to poisoning. If her fever is high, we must take her to the hospital.”

  “No!” The response comes from Ana and Julia, in unison.

  “No hospitals,” pleads Julia. “Please, Aunt Teresa.”

  “I understand, dear,” she replies.

  Have they all gone mad? Of course they should take the infant to the hospital. A fever indicates infection. If left untreated, the child could have a seizure or convulsions. While her mother digs through the bag she brought, Puri rushes to look at the baby.

  “Remove the bundling and blanket,” instructs Puri. “It’s trapping the heat.”

  Puri holds Lali while Julia pulls off the blanket. Lali cries of discomfort and fever. Once the blanket is removed, Puri dips it in a nearby bucket of water and begins to sponge the child. She looks do
wn at Lali. Her heart goes still. A shiver rises to her skin.

  Puri’s eyes dart to Julia. “What . . . what is this?” asks Puri.

  “What do you mean?” asks Julia. “It’s my baby. She has a fever. Help me!”

  Puri stares at the baby. She closes her eyes.

  ¡Virgen Santa! What have I done?

  127

  Daniel sits at the table, staring into the flickering flame of the candle. He runs his finger across the blue cursive, arched across the bottom of the plate. Lhardy.

  Nick said he told Ana about the dinner. Did he? Or did he drink too much and forget?

  His mother has been shopping for baby clothes, his father arranging immigration paperwork. He spent the day by himself.

  Daniel walked through the entire cemetery. He stood alone in the empty metal shed thinking of Rafa and Fuga and the width between their lives and his own. He photographed the soft depression in the bed of straw that used to hold Fuga. He gathered what appeared to be Fuga’s sole possessions: a magazine clipping of a Miura bull and a small gold pendant with a crackled enamel image of Blessed Mother Mary. Carlitos will get them to Ana.

  He picked up his last rolls of film from Miguel and had lunch with Ben to return the press pass.

  “These are some of the pictures Miguel and I chose for the contest. Miguel reprinted the missing photos.”

  Ben scans the line of images:

  General Franco with his father—Shoeless children in Vallecas—Women in line for blood—Fuga in his suit of lights—Children saluting the photo of Franco—Champagne glasses on the Van Dorns’ dinner table—The nun with the dead baby—The empty infant coffins—The wicked silhouettes of the Guardia Civil.

  Ben rustles with excitement. “Jiminy Christmas. These shots, they’re downright provocative, Matheson. Provocative, that’s the word.” Ben exhales a snake of smoke. “That shot of the Guardia Civil—holy Moses.”

  “Thanks. I need a title for the essay submission. I was thinking . . . ‘War After War.’”

  “YES!” bellows Ben. “Quick, write that down!” He waves his cigarette enthusiastically, decorating his tie with flakes of burning confetti.