The Fountains of Silence(30)

He turns to the framed photos on the wall. One catches his eye immediately, pulling him closer. Young children sit on a sidewalk, playing a game. Behind them is a ruin of a building with ammunition holes the size of grapefruits. The door of the building is caved in. Stone shrapnel covers the area where the children play. The photo is signed in black ink.

Robert Capa.

“Do you know his work?” Miguel asks, entering from the street.

“Sí, very well,” says Daniel. “How did you get a signed photo?”

“I developed it.” Miguel smiles, and his eyebrows, a winged mix of black and gray, rise as if they could take flight.

“You met him?”

“Many times. Some rolls with personal photos—he didn’t want them developed by the newspapers or magazines. We speak of film; let me get yours.” Miguel disappears behind the curtain.

Capa fascinates Daniel. Robert Capa was born Endré Friedmann, a Hungarian Jew, who fled to Paris. While exiled in Paris, Endré and his girlfriend created the identity of “Robert Capa.” They sold their photos to news agencies under the guise of an American photographer.

“Did you know him as Endré Friedmann or Robert Capa?” Daniel asks.

Miguel’s voice calls from behind the curtain. “Ah, you know the story. To me he was always Capa. His ruse was eventually discovered and abandoned, but the name ‘Robert Capa’ endured.”

Daniel considers the concept of alternate identity. What name would he choose?

“Do you know what his motto was?” calls Miguel from the back.

“Sí. ‘If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,’” says Daniel.

He returns his gaze to the photos on the wall. Capa’s photos make Daniel feel as if he’s inside them. But how close is too close? Three years ago, Capa died stepping on a land mine in Indochina.

Miguel returns with an envelope. “Photographs are personal. Perhaps you’d like to see them privately.”

“Not at all,” replies Daniel. “I’m a finalist in a photography contest in the States. I’d welcome your help.” He opens the paper sleeve and begins removing the photos. He doesn’t look at them. Instead, he quickly lays them on the counter, like he’s dealing from a deck of cards. Once all of the photos are displayed, Daniel steps back to evaluate. He immediately realizes: One photograph is missing.

The photo of the nun and the baby. It’s not among the pictures. He swears he pressed the shutter. The photograph should be there. He sees Miguel eyeing him from behind the counter.

Daniel quickly selects one picture and sets it off to the side, facedown. He chooses two more and moves them to a different position. He then creates two groups, arranged in lines. Miguel watches Daniel with fascination, as he assembles a narrative with the pictures.

“?Qué piensas?” Daniel asks Miguel for his thoughts.

Miguel studies the squares like a chessboard. He opens his hands, asking for Daniel’s permission.

“Por favor.” Daniel nods.

Miguel moves the photo of the hungry girl outside the candy shop next to a shot of the Van Dorns’ lush dinner table.

“Sí,” agrees Daniel. “That’s good.”

Some lines create a narrative with pictures from the same setting. Others build a story by the positioning of opposites.

Daniel and Miguel stand in silent evaluation, arms crossed, brows creased. Daniel suddenly jumps to the counter. He pulls the photos of children and creates a new line. The poor girl at the candy store window, Carlitos posing proudly in the hotel lobby, and the small son of an American diplomat in a miniature suit and tie.

“Sí,” applauds Miguel. “The next generation. The future.” Miguel then takes the photo of the American child and positions it between the two Spanish children.

“That’s it,” says Daniel. “America within Spain.”

They both smile, satisfied with the story threads they’ve created.

Miguel steps back from the counter. “Muy bonito. Is this how you always do it?”

“It’s not how I do it; it’s how I see it,” explains Daniel. “A single photo has to be powerful to tell a story on its own, like Capa’s. I haven’t mastered that yet. For now, I create stories by positioning things side by side. But—” Daniel reaches into the envelope for the negatives. “One photograph seems to be missing.”

“?Ah, sí?”

Miguel remains silent while Daniel inspects his negatives. It’s there. The image is there. Why didn’t Miguel develop it?

Before Daniel can ask, Miguel points to the single photo that sits alone outside the groupings. He turns it over. It’s the photo of Ana, her bright smile reflecting amidst the multiple mirrors in the elevator.

“And this one? Where does she fit in?”

Daniel looks at the picture. It’s perfect. Natural and fun, like their conversation in the basement. “I guess that one’s a story all her own.” He begins to gather the photos.

Miguel bellows a hearty laugh, loud enough to float outside and bounce among the balls on the street. “That’s what Rafael would say.”

Daniel slides the photos back into the paper sleeve. “Rafael’s her boyfriend?”

Miguel watches Daniel avoid his eyes, yet wait for a reply.