The Fountains of Silence(26)

25



Ringing.

It comes in intervals. It begins, stops, then begins again. Daniel’s eyes flutter. His body feels nailed to the bed, his limbs too heavy to lift. Just as his eyelids close, the shrill sound resumes. Drunken with sleep, he stumbles from the bed to the sitting room of the suite. Daylight peeks through the heavy drapes covering the sheers. He locates the phone and lifts the receiver.

“Daniel? Is that you, cari?o?” His mother’s voice peals as shrill as the ringing.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve been calling and calling.”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

“It’s already midday,” she announces. “You must still be on Texas time.”

“Or maybe I’m more Spanish than we realized.”

“I called the front desk. They said that my telegram arrived.”

“I have it. I’ll go get it.”

“No, no,” says his mother. “It’s business, well, of the womanly sort. I know how you hate that kind of thing.”

She laughs. The fake laugh. The nervous laugh.

“You don’t need to open it, dear. There’s a cable office downstairs in the hotel. Take it there and have them forward it to me at the Hotel Alhambra in Valencia.”

Daniel yawns, looking back toward the bed. Fatigue pulls harder than curiosity.

“Did you hear me, Daniel? You don’t need to open it. I’ll be here waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll send it. Goodbye.” He stares at the bed. It beckons. Her voice is still chirping through the handset as he hangs up the phone.



* * *





More ringing.

Daniel looks from the pillow to the clock. He’s been asleep for two more hours. Anticipating his mother’s reprimand, he doesn’t answer the phone. Instead, he heads for the shower but stops midway. He sees the telegram on the table and recalls the urgency in his mother’s voice, along with Ana’s desire to deliver it.

It felt like it might be important, said Ana.

You don’t need to open it, his mother insisted.

Daniel retrieves his camera. He snaps a picture of the telegram on the side table, the stormed bed looming in the background. He sets down his camera and picks up the telegram.

And then he opens it.





26



Miedo. Fear.

It lingers in the blood. Of that, Rafa is sure.

He arrives at el matadero, the cavernous slaughterhouse, and changes into his issued work clothes: white pants; white shirt; white apron; and wooden clogs. The same clothes are worn for the entire workweek. On the sixth day, employees bring their uniform, stiff and rank with decay, home to wash.

Each Sunday, Rafa rises with the sun. He carries the galvanized tub to the well. Using castile soap and lemons, he scrubs at the scents and smears of blood, feces, and innards living in the clothes. He watches the remnants of death seep from the fabric into the water. When he is finished, the tub is a bath of muddy chestnut, the clothes closer to their original selves, and the apron a pale shade of dead blood that smells like citrus.

Fuga says there is good death and bad death. Fear brings bad death, it leaches into the organs and skin. Butchers claim it affects the product. Good death, peaceful or unaware, quickly separates the Holy Ghost from the suitcase of skin holding the bones.

The cemetery is full of bones. At first Rafa was afraid of them. Most are sealed in coffins, but there are mass pits with the poor and the older pits with the Protestants. The cemetery and slaughterhouse require Rafa to face his fear of death. That’s why he endures them. “You see, by facing fear, I am cleansing myself, straining my past of the horror that infects me,” he tells Fuga.

Each day, Rafa chooses a brave and happy smile. He faces fear and wins. The temporary victory is silent, but sings through his soul.

“Rafael!” his supervisor calls out to him. “Are you still trying to get to Talavera de la Reina for the bullfight?”

“Sí. The Sunday after next.”

“We have an offal transport to a cosmetics factory the day before. They might be able to drop you on the way.”

Rafa runs to his supervisor. “Is it confirmed?”

“Not yet, but if things fall into place you will arrive in Talavera de la Reina on Saturday night. Would you have a place to stay?”

“We’ll sleep outside.”

“Your torero will be okay with that?” asks the supervisor.

“You don’t know Fuga,” smiles Rafa. “But you will. Por favor, without transportation we’ll have to walk or hitchhike. We don’t have money for a bus.”

“What sort of promotion are you doing for this bullfight?”

“Word of mouth. Tell everyone you know that on Sunday next the people of Talavera de la Reina will witness history. They will see a star rise.” Rafa hears a rising swell of chants in his head. He must get to the cemetery and tell Fuga of the transport.

“But what’s his name? You can’t call a torero Fuga.”

Rafa pauses to think. His name? For years he’s answered only to “Fuga.”

His supervisor shakes his head. “If you want word to spread, start with his name. I’ll know something about the transport in a couple days. Now get to the floor.”