The Fountains of Silence(31)

“No, Texano,” he says quietly. “Rafa is her older brother.” And after a pause, “She has an older sister too.”

Daniel nods without raising his glance. He reaches for his wallet to pay. “Gracias, Miguel. But . . . I think you missed one frame on the strip.”

Miguel takes the money from Daniel and drums his tobacco-stained fingers on the counter. He disappears behind the curtain. When he reappears, he’s holding a photo. “Ay, I thought perhaps this one was a mistake.” He sets it on the counter.

The swirling robes of the nun. The empty stare of the dead child. The image is there, just as Daniel remembers it. It’s haunting, unsettling. There’s a story, but what is it? He should have paid more attention to his surroundings, to the buildings on the street.

Miguel clears his throat. “You’re very talented. But remember, Spain is not your country. Be careful, amigo.”

The Guardia Civil delivered a similar message. Daniel knows the words of caution are meant to dissuade him. They should.

But they don’t.





Mr. Capa, specialist in the shot-and-shell school of photography, was the kind of close-up lens artist who made veteran combat troops blink in uneasy disbelief. . . . He jumped with paratroopers into Germany; he landed on the Normandy beachhead on D-Day; he was one of the advance arrivals on Anzio. And he shrugged away the risks with the remark that “for a war correspondent to miss an invasion is like refusing a date with Lana Turner after completing a five-year stretch at Sing Sing.”


“Cameraman Capa Killed in Vietnam: Photographer for LIFE Dies in Explosion of a Land Mine—At Front Only Few Days”

The New York Times, May 26, 1954





31



Ana stands on the sidewalk near the hotel, laughing at her inquisitive cousin.

“Ay, don’t laugh,” says Puri. “Julia must know Ordó?ez. She makes suits for all of the famous matadors. Has she met him? Just tell me.”

Ordó?ez. To her cousin, he is Spanish perfection. Bullfighter, husband, father.

“Julia doesn’t speak of the customers. You know that,” smiles Ana. Puri is remarkably na?ve. La Sección Femenina, the women’s section of the fascist movement, is succeeding with her cousin. Women should aspire to the ultimate cultural archetype—the Virgin Mary.

For some girls, nature dissolves doctrine once they’re noticed by boys. Ana wonders when Puri’s innocent world might become more complicated. Daniel’s photograph of the Texas party and the sultry girl blowing a kiss to his camera returns to Ana. Is that his girlfriend?

“Is it true that Rafa’s friend will fight near Talavera de la Reina?”

Ana wipes a meandering hair from her cousin’s eyes and takes her hand. “Puri, in the few minutes we have, let’s speak of something other than bullfights. How are Aunt and Uncle?”

“They’re fine,” she says with a sigh. “Mother would like to see Julia and Lali. It’s been a month.”

Ana nods. Puri’s mother is her aunt Teresa, her mother’s younger sister. Aunt Teresa took care of Ana while her mother was in prison. She longs for details of her mother’s final days, but her aunt still refuses to provide any. Is it too painful or too dangerous? Ana avoids the alternative: It is too shameful.

“?Dios Mío! Ana, look. The tall one. Is he a famous actor?”

Ana raises her eyes to the street. It’s not an actor. It’s Daniel. He sees her and waves. She waves back.

“He’s a hotel guest,” whispers Ana.

“Ay, mi madre, you know him?” Puri quickly smooths her hair and skirt.

“Howdy. Taking a break?” asks Daniel.

Ana nods. “This is my cousin, Purificación. We’re visiting for a few minutes. She doesn’t speak English.”

Daniel introduces himself to Puri in Spanish.

Puri’s eyes expand. “Where are you from?” she asks.

“Texas. But my mother is from Spain. Galicia.”

“El Caudillo is from Galicia,” says Puri with a bob of approval.

“Oh, really?” says Daniel.

Puri nods, appraising him. “How old are you?”

Ana shoots an apologetic look, but Daniel smiles. “Nineteen soon.”

“Nineteen,” nods Puri. “In Texas, are you Catholic?” she asks.

“Puri!” gasps Ana.

“I’ve heard that some Americans aren’t Catholic.”

“Many Americans aren’t Catholic,” says Daniel.

“Why?” asks Puri.

“Because some are Protestant, some are Jewish. There are quite a few religions in America.”

Puri’s brow knits in confusion.

“I’m sorry, se?or,” says Ana, trying to reroute the conversation in English. “She hasn’t met many Americans. She’s just curious. She doesn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m not offended. My mom is Catholic. My dad had to convert to marry her. Kind of an ordeal in Texas.”

Puri frowns at their English, excluded from the conversation.

Daniel looks at Ana. “Say, I just picked up my photographs from Miguel.”

“Are you pleased?”

“I think so. I’d like your opinion. But I better be careful.” Daniel lowers his voice. “Did you hear? Boys from Dallas are getting lost in the basement.”