The Fountains of Silence(14)

“Oh yeah? Which do you prefer?” asks Daniel.

“Actually, I’d prefer to hear about your camera. It looks very special.” Ana smiles.

Daniel follows Ana through the crowded sidewalks lined with acacia trees, sharing details of his camera. He stops to photograph an old brick archway.

“That is the entrance to the Sorolla Museum, se?or. You must visit. It’s wonderful.”

They approach a café adorned with brightly painted tiles. A sunburned tourist sits alone at a sidewalk table. He dozes, clutching a glass containing a final sip of wine. As he surrenders to sleep, the glass and remaining liquid tip dangerously close to his pants.

Daniel pauses.

Ana grins and nods quickly. “Sí, sí.”

Just as Daniel snaps the picture, the man opens his eyes, catching them in the act. They hurry away, laughing.

“Think he was drunk or just sleepy?” smiles Daniel.

“Both!” laughs Ana. “But which was the better photo? The sleeping tourist or our faces when he opened his eyes?”

“Great question! Wish we could see the two together. It’s so easy to miss the good shots.” Daniel’s smile retreats as they pass two men in gray uniforms on the corner. They’re holding billy clubs and sour expressions.

“There are also some shots to avoid, se?or,” says Ana, her voice dropping in volume. “The police corps in the gray uniforms—los grises—and of course the Guardia Civil.”

“Right. Gracias.” He nods. “Are there many Guardia Civil?”

Ana pauses, thinking. “Perhaps forty thousand?”

There’s a clutch to his throat. “Forty thousand?”

“Yes, but you probably won’t see them. They mainly patrol outside the city centers.”

But he has seen them, in the city center. Why were they following the nun with the baby? Somehow, losing his film to them makes him want the picture even more.

Horns hoot and engine radiators bubble through the hot, congested streets.

“How did you discover photography?” asks Ana.

“My art teacher, Mr. Douglas. He convinced me to join the school paper.”

Their conversation continues, alternating naturally between English and Spanish as they walk. Ana listens carefully, the first in a while to show interest in his photography.

“Sorry. I’m rambling about camera stuff,” he says.

“You’re not rambling. I asked, se?or.”

Leading him down the wide cement stairs to the Metro, Ana explains how to purchase a ticket and which transit line they will take to cross the city. Although the glances aren’t overt, Daniel feels the eyes of the locals. He also feels the eyes of Ana. Is it the jeans, the large belt buckle, or the boots that draw attention?

The Metro is a thrumming underground tube of white tile. Suspended lights illuminate colorful advertisements painted on the arched walls. The platform is clogged with passengers, but orderly. With such well-ordered society, are so many police and guards on the street really necessary?

“That’s our train. Quick, let’s catch this one before it departs.” Ana pulls Daniel by the sleeve into a throng of people boarding a car. The door closes, sandwiching the passengers together.

Ana grasps the metal handrail overhead. The air inside the car is heavy with heat. As the car jerks forward, Daniel feels a trickle of sweat make its way from his hairline down to his ear. They stand so close a sheet of paper would barely slide between them.

“Is it too hot for you, se?or?” whispers Ana.

He feels a wisp of her breath on his neck. He tries to wipe his brow. “No. It’s pretty hot in Texas too.”

“Do you have a Metro in Dallas?”

He shakes his head. “We have bus service.”

Daniel thinks of his journalism project. Last year, the Dallas Transit Company announced its buses would be desegregated and the WHITE and COLORED signs would be removed. But they weren’t. Daniel documented the delay, taking photos and reporting each week to the national headquarters of the Associated Press. He received an A on his project, but his efforts displeased many.

“You have subways in New York City, though,” says Ana, interrupting his thoughts.

The train suddenly sways, jostling the passengers and pressing Ana against him. The feel of her so close, he nearly forgets to reply. “Yes . . . subways in New York.”

“Grand Central is a big station.”

“Oh, you’ve been to New York City?” asks Daniel.

Ana looks up, her nose nearly touching his chin. She shakes her head. “No, I’ve never been to New York. I’ve never left Spain, se?or.” She pauses, then looks away quickly.

The sudden change in her expression, he can’t place it.

Is it sadness—or is it fear?





14



“Ay, Julia. It’s just for a few hours.”

“Rafa, I told you, no!” Julia shakes her head at her brother. Why is he so impossible?

“Just ask Luis. He’ll understand. A torero can’t go into the ring without a suit of lights.”

“Torero?” Julia looks to the corner where a savage young man in rags is fast asleep across two broken chairs. He is barefoot, his face and arms covered with grime. Loud snores reverberate from his unhinged mouth.