The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “But the ending,” says Ben, “add the bloody self-portrait that you took in the elevator mirror, the one after Nick’s fight. That shot, it shows rite of passage.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Your photos have the grit of Capa with the thirst of Dorothea Lange. And seeing a bloody young photographer? That tells a story in itself.”

  Daniel nods, silent. He flips through the stack of photos and retrieves the print Ben speaks of. He tosses it on the table without looking at it.

  Ben eyes Daniel and his enthusiasm retreats. “It’s not your fault, Dan. Entering a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. Lorenza’s to blame. She felt jilted and became vengeful. She stole the photos from your room. It was Lorenza, not your photos, that led them to Rafa and his friend.”

  “How can you know that for sure?”

  “I don’t. But what I do know is that you’re the real deal. You’re going to win this blasted photography contest, you’ll go to J-School, and you’ll come back and get your girl.”

  “I love your optimism.”

  “It’s undeniable. The world is full of Lorenzas: jealous, deceitful people. But you guys?” Ben grabs the stack of pictures, pulls two from the pile, and sets them side by side. It’s the shy picture of Daniel at La Violeta and the picture of Ana, sweetly holding up her knife and fork. “Look at you two. That—is the truth.”

  * * *

  Daniel stares at the empty chair across from him. The waiters refill his water glass. He replays the room-service dinner with Ana in his head. They’re sitting on the floor, talking, laughing, so comfortable together. He can feel her fingers in his hair, grazing the back of his neck.

  No. It’s not over.

  An hour passes. Two. Three. The restaurant empties and quiet descends. Daniel sits alone amidst a room of vacant tables. The candle is nothing but a flicker of wick in a tiny well of wax. And suddenly, a figure appears, walking toward the table.

  Declining offers from the waiters, Nick takes a seat.

  They remain silent, one across from the other.

  “You spoke to her?” Daniel finally says.

  “In person. I went out to Vallecas.”

  The hush of quiet speaks loudly. The pained look on Nick’s face is genuine.

  “Her niece is sick. Rafa’s in jail. I told her she’s not thinking straight and—”

  “Just tell me what she said.”

  Nick takes a breath. “Dan, she says that if you truly do care about her . . . you won’t contact her.”

  Daniel remains motionless, absorbing the painful remark while trying to fight the heartache rising quickly to his throat. He thinks of Fuga. Don’t hurt her. He vowed he wouldn’t. If he truly cares about her, he won’t contact her. That’s what she said.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe—”

  Daniel raises a hand to stop Nick, barely managing a whisper. “Got it.”

  128

  The plane ascends. Daniel stares out the window. The landscape, baked brown, fans out beneath him. He sees downtown Madrid, the cemetery, the hotel, Vallecas, and the road to Talavera de la Reina. He watches as Spain shrinks smaller and smaller. He watches until Ana vanishes beneath layers of cloud.

  Has Carlitos discovered the box yet? He left it at the front desk. A letter to deliver to the ambassador. A letter to mail to Washington. Five silver dollars and his belt buckle.

  Tex-has. Pow. Pow.

  His eyes close, defending his masculinity against the rising tears. He is angry, gutted hollow, and so impossibly sad.

  * * *

  He wakes to the sound of a meal being served. He has no appetite.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” says his mother. “Hold your sister please while I use the restroom.” His mother hands the baby to Daniel.

  His sister.

  They came to Madrid for oil business. He’s leaving with a shattered heart and his parents are leaving with another child. Had they planned this all along? Did they adopt the child from the Inclusa? Daniel looks down at the infant.

  She smiles at him, her face alive with joy and wonder. She quiets his pain.

  “You’re happy,” he says. “Did your ears finally pop?”

  She bats her tiny feet and in the process one of her socks falls off. Daniel takes her foot in his hand. The baby’s smallest toe is nearly nonexistent. “You barely have a fifth toe,” he whispers. “Your foot looks like a four-leaf clover.”

  The baby smiles and a dimple appears on her left cheek. Her eyes bind to his. They stare at each other.

  “Thank you, dear,” says his mother upon her return.

  “I’ll hold her for a while. She’s so happy. I like her,” says Daniel.

  “Well, I hope so. She’s your sister now.”

  “Did you see her foot?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her foot. She just has small toes. Don’t let your father hear you. He’s already groused about the cost of the adoption. She’s perfect.” His mother kisses the baby’s downy hair. “Aren’t you just the sweetest girl, Cristina? Isn’t everything just perfect?”

  He hopes his mother feels that way when she returns to Dallas. She’ll have to cope with the questions. Adopting a child from a foreign country will set her even further apart from society. And Daniel has questions of his own. How much does it cost to adopt a child? Where did the empty coffins really come from? Who are the baby’s birth parents? As the girl grows up, will she wonder about them? And—

  Will she long for Spain as he already does?

  129

  Rafa walks alone down the two-lane road that winds away from Madrid. As expected, the Crows follow him for a few miles until they’re convinced he truly is departing. Once they’re gone, Rafa slows his pace.

  “Don’t worry. Someone from Vallecas will come for you. They always do,” whispered the man in jail.

  He stands alongside the road. Day turns to afternoon and folds into evening. He thinks of Fuga, his traveling partner for over ten years. He sees them walking the roads from Barcelona, sleeping under the olive trees, and punching the memories from each other. He feels his amigo. Close.

  It was supposed to be three weeks. Three months in jail have left him shades paler and thinned. But somehow, he is stronger. Clearer. Sí, life is struggle. But he will commit wholly to the struggle and find meaning in it, rather than trying to silence it. Fear is an unholy ghost, but it is the one thing that Franco and the Crows can never take from him—his freedom to fight fear. The realization fills him with confidence. On the floor of the jail cell he scratched a proverb for future inmates:

  Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.

  As the sky loses its light and his legs begin to ache, a car pulls to the side of the road.

  The smiling face of Father Fernández greets him through the open passenger window. Rafa does not recognize the driver or the car, but doesn’t care. Father Fernández has come for him. He is going to Vallecas. He is going home.

  Rafa climbs into the vinyl back seat. It’s hot, holding tight to the temperature of the day. “How is my family?” he asks.

  “Some changes but they are well,” replies the priest. “Antonio was given a night job at the Pegaso Truck Factory. More money and much better than garbage collection. Ana has a new job too. Lali was quite sick for a while but seems to have recovered. We’ll catch up on everything soon enough.” He hands Rafa a bundled cloth. Inside are an orange, olives, and a clutch of black bread.

  A newspaper sits on the seat next to Rafa. A picture of Generalísimo Franco stares silently at him. Rafa looks at the picture and smiles. He leans back on the warm seat and closes his eyes.

  You don’t know me, Generalísimo, but I know you.

  I am Rafael Torres Moreno and today, I am not afraid.

  At 68, General Franco shows no signs of wearing
out or wishing to retire. He gives no indication of sharing his power to any significant degree with anyone as long as he maintains his physical and mental health. Thus he is expected to continue to rule for the foreseeable future as he has in the past.

  “Contingency Paper—1961: Succession Problem in Post-Franco Spain”

  John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum

  November 1, 1961

  January 20, 1961

  Mr. President [Kennedy],

  On behalf of various Spanish democratic groups, we are addressing this letter to you on this date, which symbolizes an end and a beginning, because we understand that when you take the oath of office today as President of the United States of America, you will assume, together with the obligation of preserving, protecting, and defending your country’s Constitution, that of ensuring the survival and triumph of freedom throughout the world and maintaining and strengthening the unity of the Western World.

  . . . Lastly, Mr. President, we Spanish democrats hope that, with your skill and your help, we can very soon fully obtain for Spain what the great Abraham Lincoln desired and obtained for his country: “. . . that this nation, Under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.”

  We sincerely extend to you again our best wishes for a successful administration.

  Very respectfully yours,

  [Personal signatures representing] The Christian Democrat Left, The Spanish Workers’ Socialist Party and the General Labor Union, Democratic Action, Democratic Republican Action

  from declassified letter to President John F. Kennedy

  (delivered to the U.S. Embassy in Madrid on January 20, 1961)

  John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum

  “We in the United States feel grateful to Spain and Spanish culture, which contributed so much to American life,” Nixon said in brief remarks interrupted by screaming jetliners moving into position at Madrid’s Barajas Airport.

  “Particularly in the past 10 years,” he continued, “we have seen increased cooperation between the United States and Spain.”

  He pledged to continue working with Spain’s leader, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, and the Spanish cabinet for peace and for the economic improvement of the two nations.

  —HERB SCOTT

  from “1.5 Million Cheer Nixon in Madrid,” Stars and Stripes, October 3, 1970

  Spaniards of all walks of life could see the Americans with all kinds of special privileges—special stores they could shop in, goods that were not available for the Spaniards, cheap gas, all kinds of things, so that they could drive their big gas guzzlers along the small Spanish roads. These were all things that were very irritating to the average person in Spain. The Spaniards were very definitely pushing. What they would have liked on the Foreign Ministry side was to close down Torrejon and to limit severely these extraterritorial rights that the American servicemen had. But, as I say, they were overridden by the military. Franco went along with the military, so that we got our way on almost every issue.

  —CURTIS C. CUTTER, U.S. political officer, Madrid (1970–1972)

  Oral History Interview Excerpt, February 1992

  Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection

  Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training

  Arlington, VA www.adst.org

  PART TWO

  1975

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  1976

  MADRID, SPAIN

  130

  Born in Valencia in 1863, Sorolla was orphaned at two years old. He met his wife and lifelong muse, Clotilde, when he was just a teenager. Together in Madrid they—

  The museum director appears, pulling Daniel’s gaze from the plaque on the wall. “Thanks for coming, Dan. The family appreciates your support.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “How’s your sister?”

  “She’s well. Nearly eighteen,” he replies. “Hard to believe.”

  Daniel stands amidst a charity reception in the Spanish gallery of the Meadows Museum. “Quite a collection of Spanish art to have here in Dallas,” he comments.

  “Yes.” The director nods. “I know your mother was Spanish. Didn’t you spend some time in Spain?”

  Daniel stares at the painting on the wall. “Yes,” he says softly. “Like the Meadows family, we had oil business in Madrid. My sister was born there.”

  The museum director notes Daniel’s enchantment with the painting. “You’re a fan of Sorolla?”

  Daniel sees Ana’s glowing face shining with excitement over the Sorolla book he bought her. He sees her walk into the flowered garden of the museum toward the fountain.

  “Dan?”

  “Sorry. Yes, a fan of Sorolla,” he replies.

  “I’d like a Tom Collins, please.”

  Daniel turns toward the voice. A gray-haired woman stands at the bar. She puts an affected hand to her pearls, greeting a friend. “Bless your heart. You’ve lost more weight than Patty Hearst. Have a drink.”

  “Excuse me,” says Daniel to the museum director.

  He walks through the gallery, exchanging quick pleasantries with those who recognize him.

  “Great year for your company,” says a man in a turtleneck with thick sideburns. “Your father must be proud to have you on board.”

  “Thank you,” nods Daniel.

  “But still the elusive bachelor,” says the man’s wife disapprovingly. “I hear Laura Beth is divorced. Didn’t you two date in high school?”

  “What a strong memory you have. Excuse me, ma’am.”

  He can’t exit the museum fast enough. Thunder rumbles in the distance as he jogs to his truck. The angry clouds are the stock of childhood nightmares, like villains descending from the sky. He grabs his camera from the floorboard and looks at the smoky, churning formations. Uninspired, he doesn’t press the shutter.

  Drops fall against his windshield as he heads toward Preston Hollow. He turns on the radio, hoping to catch a forecast and hoping the horses are in the stable. Instead of a weather bulletin, the station offers a promotion for Foster Grant sunglasses. He turns it off.

  Eighteen years. It’s been eighteen years and seeing a Sorolla painting or hearing the words Tom Collins still throws him into a spiral of memory.

  Pathetic.

  The storm swells past midnight with threats of tornadoes. Daniel spends the night in the stable with the horses, trying to calm the animals and stay on top of the weather. At 3:00 a.m. the breaking news tone sounds from the radio. He turns the volume dial, listening for the storm bulletin.

  “CBS News reports that Generalísimo Francisco Franco, dictator of Spain, has died in Madrid. Despite his team of thirty-two doctors, the end was a struggle for Franco. The dictator came to power thirty-six years ago during the Spanish Civil War, with support from Hitler and Mussolini. Franco ruled his country with an iron hand. Recently, Spain has enjoyed relative stability, especially after reforms introduced in 1959. Leaders of European countries have been guarded in their reaction to the dictator’s death and express hope for modern democracy in Spain. No Western nations will be sending a head of state to the funeral apart from Monaco. Flags around Spain are at half-mast and the general’s body is now lying in state at El Pardo Palace. Franco will be buried next week at the Valley of the Fallen. Official mourning will last thirty days.”

  A haggard and grief-stricken Carlos Arias Navarro, the Prime Minister, speaking to the nation at 10:00 a.m., said in a breaking voice:

  “Spaniards. Franco has died. The exceptional man who before God and history assumed the immense responsibility of demanding and sacrificial service to Spain, has given up his life, burned up day by day, hour by hour, in the fulfillment of a transcendental misssion.”

  Then with tears, welling up, he read the mes
sage General Franco is believed to have written a few days after he fell ill on Oct. 14. The general spoke of his love for Spain and implored his countrymen “to continue in peace and unity” and to “extend the same affection and support you have given me to the future King of Spain, Don Juan Carlos de Borbón.”

  “Do not forget that the enemies of Spain and Christian civilization are watching,” he added.

  At another point he said: “I ask forgiveness from all, as I give my most heartfelt forgiveness to those who declared themselves my enemies. I believe and hope that I had no enemies other than those who were enemies of Spain—Spain, which I will love until the last moment and which I promised to serve until my dying breath, which is near.”

  Many Spaniards shared the Prime Minister’s grief and genuinely felt affection, or at least respect, for the only leader most of the country had known. There was official mourning in the form of black armbands on policemen, and many men wore black ties today. When the hearse with the highly polished wooden coffin went through the gate of the palace a small knot of people applauded and old women wept.

  Others were glad to see what they considered a hateful period of Spanish history close and were impatient to get on with the task of forging a more liberal regime.

  from “Franco Urged Spain in a Final Message to Maintain Unity”

  The New York Times

  November 21, 1975

  It was with sorrow that I learned of the death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who led his country for almost four decades through a significant era in Spanish history. With his passing, I express deepest sympathy to his wife and family on behalf of the Government and people of the United States.