The Fountains of Silence(21)
Daniel looks at Ben, not certain he understands. Is he baiting him or trying to inspire him? “But life seems fine here. My mom’s Spanish and she claims Franco’s sympathetic. Nick says things are better now.”
“Franco’s an architect,” whispers Ben. “Maybe things are better than when the war ended, but wages here—they’re still lower than what they were in 1936. But that’s not the point.” Ben drills his finger on the cover of Daniel’s portfolio. “You’re a photographer, a storyteller. In a dozen pictures, you showed me ten layers of Texas. Choose an angle and show me ten layers of Madrid.”
Daniel stares at Ben, trying to interpret his comments. “And you’ll print my pictures in the Herald Tribune?”
“Hell no. I can’t do that. I’m the visiting correspondent here. I have to play by the rules. I’m knuckled by the censors. Why do you think it’s been so hard to tell this country’s story?” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “But meaningful photos, human beings enduring hardship, that’ll get the attention of the Magnum judges. That’ll win you the cash prize and get you to J-School. And who knows, when you get back to Dallas you might happen to stumble upon a contact for LIFE magazine. Madrid through the eyes of a young American—pretty interesting stuff, don’t you think?”
LIFE.
Daniel sits, frozen, not willing to believe what Ben is suggesting. A potential photo essay in LIFE magazine? Robert Capa, Eugene Smith, Gerda Taro—all of his heroes shot in Spain. LIFE printed their photos. The image of the nun with the baby returns to Daniel. Why is he hesitant to tell Ben about it?
Ben takes a wide bite of the hamburger. He removes a package of Bisma-Rex antacids from his pocket and sets it on the table. His voice returns to a whisper.
“Focus your lens on the Spanish people,” Ben lifts his cigarette and points it at Daniel, “but don’t be stupid. There is a dark side here. Sure, they’re selling sunshine and castanets to the tourists. But that’s not all Franco’s selling. One wrong move and the police will be on you. You’ll be dead in a dirt pit.”
The major thrust, I think, of the Political Section was to give to Washington an idea of how the ordinary Spaniards were living under the regime, how they felt toward it, and what the regime’s relationships with the European countries were. Obviously, Spain’s relations with us at that time were somewhat controversial since there were many people in this country, particularly in the Congress, who felt strongly unfavorable to the Franco regime.
—STUART W. ROCKWELL, U.S. political section chief, Madrid (1952–1955) Oral History Interview Excerpt, October 1988
Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection
Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training Arlington, VA www.adst.org One of the amusing things to me was that there was a ministry called The Ministry of Information and Tourism headed by an old line Falangist who I am sure hadn’t had a new idea in a long while. On the one hand he was the chief censor, that’s what information meant. Information did not mean giving out information, it meant control of information.
—FRANK ORAM, U.S. public affairs officer, USIS, Madrid (1959–1962) Oral History Interview Excerpt, April 1989
Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection
Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training Arlington, VA www.adst.org
20
Julia carries a package wrapped in stiff brown paper. Before she arrives at the open door, she hears the baby begin to cry. “Mamá is coming, Lali.”
Her husband, Antonio, carries the infant back and forth across the earthen floor. The slight drag of his left foot is a teenage souvenir, courtesy of the Guardia Civil. At fourteen, Antonio and his friends thought they were mature. They shared cigarettes, analyzing Spain’s political straitjacket, and whether Franco was using memories of the war to control the population. Their secret conversation resulted in brutal beatings that cost one boy an eye, another his teeth, and Antonio his gait.
Julia closes the door. A tin kerosene lamp dangles from a wire stapled to the sagging ceiling. Absent the daylight from the door, the only remaining light in the room comes from the primitive lamp and a small broken window.
“Why are you home so early?” asks Antonio, concern striping his face. “And why are you closing the door? It’s too hot.”
Julia kisses her husband and the baby. She sets the papered bundle on a chair and reaches into a crate for a piece of folded fabric. With a flick of her wrists the fabric billows and settles over the scarred wooden table. “Luis sent us out of the shop. An American actress wanted to discuss a custom cape. She requested privacy.”
Antonio releases a sigh of relief. “Let me guess. Ava Gardner.” He shakes his head. “Poor Luis. A request from one of her bullfighter boyfriends, no doubt.”
Julia moves the fat bundle to the table. “Sí, but this is why I closed the door.”
She pulls the twine and the corners of the starched paper flower open like an envelope magically unfolding itself. Even in the dim space, the stack of garments shimmers and glows like electric starlight.
“?Maravilloso!” breathes Antonio. “It’s beautiful.”
Julia nods, picking up the chaquetilla, the matador’s ornate, cropped jacket. “No sleep tonight. I must finish the beading that lines the edges. Ordó?ez comes for it tomorrow.”