The Fountains of Silence(16)

Ana looks through the viewfinder. “Okay, say, ‘Texas boys like violet candy.’”

“Wait, what?” Daniel laughs.

And at that moment, when his smile is wide and eyes uncomfortably shy, Ana snaps the picture. “We have to hurry. Miguel will be closing the camera shop soon,” she says, moving toward the door.

But Daniel is at the register, buying a candied chestnut wrapped in gold foil. “We’ll give it to the little girl outside,” he says, motioning to the window. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Ana nods slowly.

Of course she’ll like it. Any girl would like it.



* * *





The camera shop is the size of a long closet. Room for one and cramped with two; a wooden counter divides the small space. Between rows of shelves that hold film and accessories hangs a black curtain. The acrid and wet metallic scent of photo-developing fluid exhales from the back of the shop.

“That smell, I love it,” says Daniel.

“Ana!”

Miguel emerges from behind the curtain wearing a timeworn Panama hat. His darkroom hours give him a youthful complexion for a man in his late fifties, but his hair and eyebrows have tones of a black-and-white photo.

He greets Ana with a broad smile. “I was just about to close.”

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I have a guest from the hotel. He speaks Spanish, so we won’t be long.”

Miguel gives a wave of his hand, indicating that he doesn’t mind. His eyes shift to Daniel’s camera. “?Caray! That’s a serious camera for a young man. Do you know how to use it?”

“You’ll have to be the judge, sir.” Daniel removes a roll of film from his bag and winds a second from the camera.

“I’ve only seen a couple of these new Nikons. Both with American journalists. They told me they paid over three hundred U.S. dollars for that camera. I hope it’s worth it.”

The familiar pang of sadness thuds within Ana’s heart. Three hundred American dollars? That’s eighteen thousand pesetas. Eighteen thousand pesetas is more than the average Spaniard earns in five years. The cost of Daniel’s camera could move her entire family of five from their leaky hut in Vallecas to a decent apartment in Lavapiés, closer to the city center. The cost of the camera could eliminate the debts and threats that strangle her life. She thinks of the note she swallowed in the hotel basement. A shiver trills up her spine.

“Yeah, it’s probably too nice for me,” says Daniel. “It was a gift for my graduation. But really, my old camera was swell.” He removes a portfolio from his bag. “I took these with my old camera.”

Miguel slowly turns the pages of the album. “?Ave María Purísima!” He points to a picture.

“Sí,” says Daniel. “There was a tornado in Dallas last April. It obliterated sixteen miles and hundreds of homes.”

Ana stares at the massive, twisting tornado. It’s positively demonic, unholy. And he was in front of it. “Weren’t you terrified?” she breathes.

“I didn’t have time to think about it. I really wanted the shot,” says Daniel.

Miguel continues to page through. He stops on a photo of dozens of men in cowboy hats. They stand in the dark, one light overhead, hands raised in the air. Fatigue and sunburn line their weathered faces.

Ana peers at the photograph. “Who are they?”

“Braceros,” says Daniel, “manual laborers from Mexico working in Texas. At the end of the day they’re inspected and searched, to make sure they haven’t stolen anything.”

Miguel pauses, absorbing the image in front of him. “Qué duro,” he says quietly. Daniel nods in agreement. Rough.

“This is Texas?” asks Ana.

“Not all of it. Just part of it.” Daniel flips the portfolio forward several pages. “This is also Texas.”

Ana stares at the black-and-white photos. A parched landscape dotted with oil rigs, bathed in a sunset of fire. The photo is so evocative she can imagine the colors. He turns the page. A lavish garden party. Carpets of thick grass surround a swimming pool that sparkles like a suit of lights. Groups of glamorous people cocktail and make merry against the backdrop of a massive estate.

Miguel points to a young woman lying by the pool in a bikini. “She would be reprimanded in Spain.”

“My mother claims some should be reprimanded for wearing them in America,” says Daniel, laughing.

Ana eyes the picture. The woman looks beautiful, relaxed. There is nothing offensive about a bikini, but of course she could never say that aloud.

Miguel picks up the rolls of film that Daniel has set on the counter. “What’s your name, Americano?”

“Daniel Matheson.”

Miguel reaches over the counter to shake hands. “I’m Miguel Mendoza. You have a clear eye, Daniel. You see many angles.”

“Gracias, se?or. I had a great teacher at school. Those photos were part of a contest I entered. So maybe it’s not fair. I’m showing my best work.”

“Who knows,” says Miguel, holding up the two rolls of film. “Maybe this is your best work. They’ll be ready in a day or two.”

Their words are muffled noise to Ana. She stares at the photo of the Texas garden party, absorbing every detail. Tables of endless food. Cardigan sweaters, strings of pearls, the nice teeth, glowing faces, the vibrancy of freedom. Young girls and boys stand around a phonograph, holding record albums. Women are smoking. Dozens of carefree people—happy instead of lonely—oblivious to the camera. And then she sees it. In the corner of the frame, a beautiful girl with beckoning eyes stares straight into the lens. She looks like a movie star. She’s blowing a kiss to the photographer.