The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  We wish the Spanish people and the Government of Spain well in the period ahead. The United States for its part will continue to pursue the policy of friendship and cooperation which has formed the touchstone for the excellent relations existing between our two countries.

  —GERALD FORD, 38th president of the United States (1974–1977)

  Statement on the Death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco of Spain

  November 20, 1975

  National Archives, Collection GRF-0248

  White House Press Releases (Ford Administration) 1974–1977

  131

  Daniel slides the metal box from the closet. He opens it once every few years. Is it good or bad that the defining items of his life can fit into one small box?

  His mother’s death notice. It mentions that she was a member of the garden club and supported the symphony. It mentions nothing of her vicious battle with cancer.

  His Magnum photography prize certificate.

  His acceptance letter and J-School diploma from Missouri School of Journalism.

  A copy of Ben’s recommendation to National Geographic.

  State Department credentials as a news service photographer.

  The memorial card from Ben’s funeral.

  And as he digs deeper into the box—

  The newspaper photo with Ana and Nick at the embassy fashion show.

  His photo negatives from Spain and Ana’s handwritten captions.

  At the very bottom is the stack of envelopes. Seventeen of them, held together by an old rubber band. The eighteenth will arrive next month. They’re all from Nick Van Dorn. Every December, without fail, an envelope arrives from Nick. Each contains a photo with a brief message on the back, but never a return address.

  He opens one. Nick lies in a hospital bed, his arm in traction.

  1959. Skiing in St. Moritz. Tough break. Aren’t I punny?

  He opens another. It’s a wedding picture in the South Pacific but the woman’s face is crossed out.

  1965. Beach blanket bomb. Married and annulled in three weeks.

  He opens the most recent envelope. It’s postmarked last December. Nearly a year ago. From Madrid.

  1974. Look where I am. Embassy job. Come back to Madrid!

  Daniel looks at the photo. Nick has aged hard. He’s not sure he would recognize him on the street. But the woman in the photo has not aged. She’s beautiful.

  She is Ana.

  When Daniel first received the card, he spent weeks staring at the photo. Of course she must be married. Of course Nick mentioned nothing of it. Of course he’d be an idiot to fly to Spain to find out.

  What would they even talk about? How after a decade as a photojournalist he succumbed to his father’s pleas and joined the business to provide stability for his sister? How he and his father struggled to raise a teen girl in an era of upheaval and free love? How he floundered through Hockadaisy sleepovers, David Cassidy concerts, Kotex errands, and a dreaded debutante ball? Or maybe they could discuss his father’s new marriage. No. None of it is interesting.

  He looks at the photo. For eighteen years he’s carried a torch for a girl he spent a month with in Spain. It used to be an angry, flaming torch.

  He and Ben argued about it one night during an assignment in Australia.

  “You’re disappointed, I get it, but don’t play the blame game.”

  Daniel certainly didn’t blame Ana. He didn’t blame himself. He blamed Franco.

  “Blame’s a cop-out, Dan, and you’re better than that. It’s easier to blame someone or something than do the work. You gotta do the work,” said Ben.

  “What are you talking about? I’ve been working my tail off for years.”

  “Mileage doesn’t make the man. You’ve been working your tail off and you’ve been pissed off, but you’re avoiding the work. The work’s in here.” Ben tapped his chest. “You don’t think I’m disappointed? My parents died in a car accident when I was nine. It messed me up. I clung to books and words because, unlike people, they’d never abandon me. I’m so bad at relationships that no one’s ever loved me enough to marry me—or hell, even date me. But I’m not running around blaming anybody. I’m doing the work.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Letting it hurt. Scraping the rust off my heart. Sitting around this tent fire in the godforsaken bush, freezing my can off, and pondering life’s mysteries with my sad-sack cowboy pal, creating memories that will make me laugh.”

  It made Daniel laugh too. “I can’t believe you’re actually sleeping in a tent.”

  “Neither can my bulging disc. But I wanted to see the stars on this side of the earth. Thought if I put myself out here something might come of it. I’m doing the work.”

  * * *

  Many years later, he still thinks of Ben’s words. What good did anger and blame bring? It polluted him. It didn’t empower him. It didn’t bring him peace.

  It didn’t bring him Ana.

  Almost any bigtime Dallas socialite is likely to hire Draper’s Party Service to handle invitations. That means providing the printed invitations of course, as well as addressing them (you can always tell a Draper envelope—the handwritten lines are flush right), mailing the invitations and keeping track of RSVPs. Draper might also consult with a hostess on whom she’s inviting to the party. . . . If necessary, she might even do some matchmaking. Draper has lists of acceptable young men and women who want to attend the fall social events, and will match dates from her list, notifying a young man of his date for a given evening.

  “Party Power: Why Society Loves Ann Draper”

  D Magazine, October 1976

  132

  Daniel parks outside of the estate. He pushes the Eagles 8-track into the player and stares out the windshield. He’ll sneak in late and slip out early. The grand gala, organized by a professional party planner, is a birthday celebration for his father’s new wife. Sissy is a lifelong Dallas socialite. She’s thoughtful, patient, and very kind. But she’s nothing like his mother.

  Prior to the second marriage, the house held tight to the essence of his mom. The spirit of María Alonso Moya Matheson walked barefoot through the expansive rooms. She hummed her favorite melodies and hovered nearby during late paella dinners. He felt her. But over the past months Spanish food, music, and art have all slowly disappeared from his childhood home. Mealtimes have been altered. It’s not her fault, but Sissy’s presence seems to amplify his mother’s absence. It stings.

  Today Spain has an absence—their dictator who ruled for thirty-six years. What is Ana’s reaction? What is the country feeling? If Ben were alive, they’d be on the phone. Daniel puts his hand on the steering wheel and closes his eyes, listening to the song, letting it hurt. He’ll do the work.

  A knock sounds on the glass. A clean-cut valet gives him a wave. He rolls down the window.

  “Good evening, Mr. Matheson. Your sister thought you might be out here. She said your father will be asking about you.”

  “Thanks, Buck. You can take it from here. I’ll walk up.”

  Daniel heads down the road. He runs a hand through his hair and steps through the high, pillared gates of the family property. A trail of expensive cars lines the long ribbon lane leading to the fountain and circular drive in front of their Preston Hollow estate. The trees bordering the drive twinkle with tiny gold lights.

  The party swings. Tuxedoed waitstaff circulate with champagne and hors d’oeuvres while a jazz singer croons from an interior Juliet balcony. His sister stands with a group of classmates from Hockaday. When she sees Daniel, she darts toward him.

  “¡Hola!” She throws her arms around his neck. “No fair hiding in your truck, unless you take me with you,” she whispers in Spanish.

  “Hola,” he laughs. “Thanks for sending Buck with the two-minute warning.”

  �
��De nada.” She tugs at his sleeve. “Oh my, letting your rebel run? Most men are in suits and you’re wearing a blazer and boots. Mrs. Draper will not be pleased. You’re sabotaging her matchmaking efforts.” Daniel rolls his eyes.

  His sister steps back to display her dress. “The new wife bought it for me. It’s pretty, don’t you think?”

  “Very pretty, but don’t call her that. Her name is Sissy. And remember, no Spanish. It’s unfair. She doesn’t understand.”

  Cristina sighs. “Mom would hate that the house staff speaks English now. It’s weird.”

  It is weird, but he doesn’t comment.

  “And . . . do not go upstairs. Sissy redecorated. Everything is chintz charming. Dad doesn’t like it but won’t say anything. Last weekend I found him long-faced, rooting around in the attic. He claims things are missing. Did you steal some of Mom’s stuff?”

  “I didn’t steal it, I rescued it.” He smiles.

  Cristina grabs his arm. “Oh, Danny, please let me come live with you. My friends, they all love you.”

  “Shh,” he says. “Here they come. Remember, no Spanish.”

  Daniel’s father and his wife circulate toward them through the crowd.

  “Happy birthday, Sissy,” says Daniel.

  “Thank you, Daniel, darling. And thank you for the beautiful flowers!”

  “Well done, Dan. You’re showing me up,” jokes his father. Mrs. Draper, the party sovereign, appears.

  “Good evening, Daniel.” She surveys his attire and pinches a smile. “So handsome and . . . individual. Funny, I know you were born here but sometimes you seem more Spanish than your sister.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he replies, sliding a grin to Cristina.

  Ann Draper takes Sissy by the elbow, pulling her toward a newly arrived guest.

  “¡Ay, por favor! No me vengas con tonterías,” whispers Cristina. “You are not more Spanish than me.”

  “It’s not a competition,” laughs their father. “All well at the office today, Dan?”

  “Yes. Delta Drilling sent numbers over.” Daniel accepts a glass from a waiter and tries to sound casual. “Say, Dad, did you hear? General Franco died.”

  “I heard it on the news. Must be quite the shock in Spain.”

  “What do you think Mom would say?” asks Cristina.

  Daniel has wondered the very same thing.

  Their father pauses, enjoying the memory of his wife. “Honestly, I think María would be very sad.”

  “Really? Was Mom a fascist?” asks Cristina.

  “No,” says their father quickly. “Your mother was romantically old-fashioned about Spain. That doesn’t mean she was a fascist. I don’t think you’d understand. It’s difficult.” He sighs and leaves to join Sissy.

  Cristina stares at the floor.

  Daniel slings an arm around her. “As if being adopted from a foreign country and losing your mom isn’t difficult,” he says.

  His sister nods, grateful. “Exactly. Just because I’ve never been to Spain doesn’t mean I won’t understand. Don’t forget. You promised, Daniel.”

  “I know.”

  “We better start planning now. I’ll be eighteen before you know it. Adventure in Madrid!” Cristina hugs him and sashays off to rejoin her friends.

  Of course Cristina wants to visit her birthplace, that’s natural. His mother’s adamant refusal to take her to Spain always puzzled him. Perhaps her health was a factor. She felt so compelled to hide her illness.

  Jorge, his father’s elderly butler, approaches. He’s well past retirement age but refuses to consider it. “Hola, Jorge.”

  “Buenas tardes, señor. You received a phone call very early this morning. It was an international call and the connection was quite poor. Or perhaps the caller was inebriated. He kept repeating, ‘Tell Danny boy, Franco ha muerto.’”

  “Did the caller give his name?”

  “Indeed. It was Dick. Or Nick. Or maybe Rick. Lo siento, I can’t remember.”

  Jorge has worked with the family for decades. He left Spain just before the Civil War. Daniel wonders what he thinks of the news. “Jorge, Franco ha muerto. ¿Qué piensas?”

  Jorge releases a slow, content smile. “Every opportunity lies ahead, señor.”

  133

  “Your sister runs a mile a minute. I’d never keep up with her. You’re sure you don’t mind this?” asks his father.

  “Not at all. Just a bunch of sightseeing. It’ll give me a chance to use my camera.”

  “Sissy wants to take a vacation too. But of course Spain isn’t appropriate for us. I think I’ll whisk her away for a weekend.” Daniel’s father appraises him. “It’s been a long time since our trip to Madrid. Think it will all come back to you?”

  “Maybe,” he lies. It’s never left him.

  “Have a good trip, son. Give a call if you need anything. Do you have enough travelers checks?”

  “Plenty. We’ll be fine, Dad. I traveled for the magazine with just a backpack.”

  “I know. But Cristina’s hardly a backpacker.”

  His father is uncharacteristically attentive. There’s a quiet sadness in his eyes. “I hope this won’t be too emotional for her,” he says.

  I hope this won’t be too emotional for you, thinks Daniel.

  His father gives a defeated sigh. “I know you didn’t want to leave National Geographic, Dan. But having you here these past years, well, I couldn’t have done it on my own.” His gaze turns to his daughter. “And I think we did a mighty fine job.”

  Cristina stands near the TWA gate in red culottes and large sunglasses. She’s speaking Spanish to the gate agents. Cristina has the strength of their mother but a warmth and sense of humor all her own. She comes bubbling over to them.

  “Dad, don’t look so serious. It’s only two weeks. I’ll be back before you know it. I just learned that our hotel, the InterContinental, used to be the Castellana Hilton. Isn’t that where you stayed? The gate agent said it was quite a scene back in the day. Do you remember much about it?”

  “Of course I do.” Their father’s eyes become misty. “Your mother loved it. She loved everything about Spain. It was her true home.”

  Daniel’s eyes begin to well.

  “Good grief. You two are worse than a pair of debutantes. Enough of that or I’ll start crying and we’ll all be a puddle. Mom wouldn’t like it.”

  She’s right.

  His father hugs Cristina to him as if she might blow away. Without making eye contact with Daniel, he gives an extended handshake and pats him on the shoulder as they board the plane.

  “You take the window now,” says Cristina, “and I’ll take it when we land.”

  Daniel accepts her plan and takes his place at the window.

  Eighteen years. He could have returned to Spain. But he didn’t. He could have accepted magazine assignments in Madrid. But didn’t. Instead, he remained miles away, both in geography and relationships. Photography kept him on the road, making it easy to be alone. He hopped from assignment to assignment, continent to continent. He developed film in the sea, broke his leg jumping from a helicopter, and worked through two bouts of dengue fever. Fellow Texans referred to him as intrepid, venturous, mysterious. When he returned home to Preston Hollow, people whispered.

  Poor Daniel. No wife. He lost his mother to cancer. What did he see covering Vietnam? Had he been jilted by a fiancée along the way? So eligible, especially since he cut his long hair. The casserole committee came out in force.

  “My daughter, Fern, made this Stroganoff for you. She isn’t married either.”

  “You remember Alice. She’s quite recovered from her episodes.”

  “Call me sometime. We could have a drink,” said Laura Beth.

  “The sweet girl in Madrid,” his mother commented quietly one Christmas. “It probably wou
ldn’t have worked. The divide was too wide. Memories are hungry, tesoro. You mustn’t feed them. I’d hate to think that a teenage fling might leave you alone for the rest of your life.”

  Ben never called it a fling. He understood. He scheduled intersections with Daniel’s assignments whenever he could to reminisce.

  “Our summer in Madrid, Dan. That summer in Madrid! I’m counting down to the ‘I told you so.’”

  The card from Nick gave him hope. Cristina’s interest gave him courage. Nick was elated to learn of their visit.

  Daniel releases a breath, trying to loosen the tightness that’s lived in his chest for eighteen years. He looks out the oval window of the plane.

  Behind the tall glass terminal window waits his father. He stands, staring at the jet, Stetson clutched in his hands. Daniel squints to sharpen his view.

  Despite their many differences, he and his father do have one thing in common.

  They love their family.

  Daniel buckles his seat belt. He’s really doing it. He’s returning to Madrid.

  134

  “There he is! Over here, cowboy.”

  Nick Van Dorn stands in the arrivals hall of the airport with a young woman. He’s older and journey-weathered, but has the same darting eyes and mischievous exuberance. He slaps Daniel into a hug.

  “Not fair. You haven’t even aged!” says Nick. “I expected you to look mealy and road-torn like the people you photograph. Or maybe my ego hoped the Marlboro Man would pickle a bit.” He laughs. “This is my secretary, Ruth.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” nods Daniel.

  “Texas. Nothing but ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir’ from this guy,” says Nick to Ruth. “So, where’s the baby sister? Did she get fed up with you already?”

  Daniel waves to Cristina who approaches. “There she is.”