The Fountains of Silence(38)

Daniel and Ana exchange looks.

“Nice to meet you, se?or,” says Ana to Daniel. He smiles, stifling a laugh.

“And what a shame you don’t have your camera,” says his mother. “I’d love a photo of this gown.”

Mr. Matheson touches his wife’s elbow, eager to depart.

“You were just lovely this evening. So pleased to make your acquaintance, Ana,” says Daniel’s mother. She gives an approving nod before exiting.

How embarrassing. He can only imagine how Ana feels. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry, se?or. I’m not in uniform . . . I don’t look like myself.”

“You look exactly like yourself. I’m the one who looks different,” says Daniel, loosening his tie.

She scans his expensive suit. “I think I prefer the jeans.”

“Good. Me too. Do you need an escort home?”

Ana looks at Daniel. She opens her mouth to speak but stops.

“Such a gentleman.” Mr. Van Dorn slaps Daniel on the back. “Kind of you to offer, Dan, but we’ve arranged for the embassy car to take all the girls home.”

Ana stands, motionless. Daniel tries to decipher her odd expression, her eyes.

“So, see you tomorrow?” he asks, hoping she’ll say yes.

She takes a single, deep breath. The way Ana looks at him, it makes him want to reach for her. She turns and hurries away.

Daniel watches her retreat, stares at her beautiful back, and curses himself. He knows he’s just made a mistake but he’s not sure what it is.





40



Ana sees the note, but pretends she doesn’t. The white corner peeks out of her purse pocket, a small arrow purposefully left to call her attention. She tries to determine when it was placed. Was the note already in her purse when she left the hotel?

Her hand runs a path over the green skirt of her hotel uniform. The uniform is the nicest piece of clothing she owns. But suddenly the fabric feels coarse and stiff, so different from the silky dress. The model was sick. The boutique was desperate. They begged Ana’s manager for permission.

It was a fluke. Nothing more. Like Mr. Van Dorn said, she is just a maid. She pulls a faded handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her mouth, careful to remove all traces of the expensive lipstick.

But despite her sister’s warnings, Ana does not regret the evening. She wore a beautiful dress, a dress she could never own. She spoke to a handsome boy alone in a courtyard and was respected by his mother. For a few hours, she felt beautiful. And for that brief moment, beautiful felt possible.

The pavement ends and the car continues onto the dirt road.

“Pull over, please,” says Ana.

“Are you sure?” asks the driver. “It’s dark. It’s no trouble to drive you in.”

“Gracias, but I’d like some air. I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way,” says Ana.

The driver pulls over and Ana exits the vehicle.

A shiny diplomatic car would draw too much attention in Vallecas. Small children would chase it, men would become suspicious, and the women—Ana thinks specifically of the women—the women would run to Julia with questions and opinions.

She wishes she could tell Julia about her evening. Needlework is Julia’s passion. She’s spent years studying the designs and patterns of Spanish designers like Pedro Rodríguez and Cristóbal Balenciaga. Ana would love nothing more than to give her sister every detail of the beautiful gown. But it’s not possible. The event was at the American embassy. Julia will worry.

The black sedan pulls away. Ana walks alone down the dirt road, and when the sound of the engine has entirely left her ears, she grabs the note from her purse.

    This will be the end of you.



Ana rips the note to shreds, scattering pieces as she walks. She blinks back the oncoming tears and looks over her shoulder, making certain no one is there. Making certain no one sees the trail of threat crumbs, leading straight to her door.





41



Two thirty in the morning.

Daniel sits at a table in the corner with his camera, observing the crowd. The hotel nightclub pulses with music, conversation, and cigarette smoke. Dead bottles of champagne, with their foil collars wrinkled and torn, laze in sterling coolers. Ben Stahl is tomato-faced with perspiration. He shambles around the dance floor, flaming cigarette in one hand, scotch in the other. His rhythmic moves are disjointed from the music, as if he hears a different song entirely. Ben’s having a grand time, seemingly unaware that he’s dancing by himself. Daniel snaps a picture.

Nick drops into the chair next to him.

“Don’t want to dance, Danny boy?”

“I’m having a fine time with the camera. Lots of great shots here.”

“In Texas do you have formal dance classes like we do in New York?”

“Two full years,” nods Daniel.

“Do you dance those crazy Texas dances?”

“Best kind. If I have to dance, I’m most comfortable dancing in boots.”

Nick takes a swig from his glass. “So, what happened with your gal in Dallas? Was it serious?”

“She was very serious . . . about trying to change me.”

“Ouch. Good riddance.” Nick laughs.