The Fountains of Silence(40)
Van Dorn takes a measured breath. “Your father’s going to have my hide when he hears of this. He was adamant about keeping you out of trouble. I owe you one, Dan. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask. I mean that.”
“No one’s going to call the authorities, are they?” asks Daniel.
Shep shakes his head. “As public affairs officer, I manage American affairs privately—if you know what I mean. Franco’s men are trained to shoot, no questions asked.”
Daniel takes a breath. No questions asked. It feels like the mantra for Spain.
* * *
Before leaving the hospital, Daniel stops to look in on Nick. His face—the color and shape of a deformed plum—is monstrous with swelling.
“Hola, prizefighter,” says Nick. “They’ll discharge me by tonight, in time for us to go back to the club. Think my face will be ready by then?” He laughs and then winces in pain. “Did my old man find you?”
“Yeah. We spoke.”
“He’s worried that your dad will be angry.”
“My father knows I fight. I’ve done some boxing in Texas.”
“Really?” Nick shakes his head. “You’re a riddle, Matheson. I owe you one.”
Why do both Nick and his father speak so freely of “owing”? Daniel wonders. “You don’t owe me anything. Get some rest.”
“Take a picture. I know you want to. I’ll hang it in my dorm room.”
Daniel looks through the viewfinder of his camera. Lying in the hospital bed is a young man with every opportunity. Despite being a slick diplomat, Shep seems reasonable and would probably pay for J-School or any school Nick wanted. Father-son dynamics. A complex portrait, indeed.
Daniel snaps a picture.
43
“?Buenos días, se?or!” Carlitos meets Daniel at the entrance to the hotel, bouncing with enthusiasm.
“Hola, Buttons.”
“May I see?”
“See what?”
Carlitos points to Daniel’s hands. “Tex-has! Pow! Pow!”
Daniel slides his hand into his pocket. “How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knows, se?or.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“The hotel staff at the nightclub saw. The two bad men who hurt Se?or Van Dorn tried to hurt you too. They say you punched them both, while the newspaperman was smoking. Did they have big knives?” asks Carlitos, pointing to the blood on Daniel’s dress shirt.
Daniel walks into the hotel. Carlitos trails close behind, peppering him with questions. If Carlitos knows, has the news already reached his parents? He dreads his father’s reaction. He’ll tell him the truth. But what is the truth? That it felt good to fight?
The morning quiet of the lobby falls even more still as Daniel walks across the chessboard-marble floors. Employees cease talking and silently watch him make his way to the elevator. A young porter points and whispers.
The elevator climbs to the seventh floor. The attendant does not make eye contact. Instead, he clings to the wall, keeping distance from Daniel. In the mirrors of the elevator, Daniel sees his reflection. His left hand is caked with freshly clotted scabs. His dress shirt is torn and bloodied. He’s missing his tie.
Daniel holds his camera to the side and snaps a self-portrait in the mirror.
Hoping to avoid his parents, he quickly walks past their suite and quietly enters his own. A note has been slipped under the door.
AT MEETINGS. HEARD ABOUT YOUR NIGHT. LET’S KEEP IT BETWEEN US. YOUR MOTHER IS RESTING. WE LEAVE FOR TOLEDO THIS AFTERNOON IF YOU’D LIKE TO COME ALONG.
—DAD
Let’s keep it between us. No reprimand? No anger?
The suite has been cleaned. Has Ana been there? A large silver tray sits upon the table in the center of the room. Fresh juice, coffee, a large plate of churros with a cup of chocolate, and a small bucket of ice. Daniel puts several ice cubes in the cloth napkin and presses them against his torn fist. He leans back in the chair, exhausted. He is about to close his eyes, but then he sees it. A newspaper, strategically folded and propped next to the coffeepot, displays a photograph.
He’s in it.
44
There is a category of unspeakable things, a dark drawer where inexpressible truths live in exile. Julia knows them well.
Don’t speak. Don’t tell.
Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut. That’s what her aunt Teresa says.
Julia sits in the corner of the shop, repairing a pair of trousers for a matador. The ornate embroidery that scrolls down the outside of the leg is expertly designed and measured to flatter the matador’s frame. Julia tugs at her thread, pulling it taut.
When life is hectic, Julia is able to keep thoughts and questions tucked in the back of the drawer. Today, during a rare quiet of early morning, her thoughts turn gently inward as she works. Each stitch a meditation.
What is the cost of silence? If she remains quiet about her suspicions, is she granting acceptance of what is happening? If she imposes silence upon Ana and Rafa, what is that telling them? That she is ashamed of their parents? Their parents did nothing wrong. They were academics, hardworking, sophisticated people. Their father wanted to create a school outside of the Catholic Church. That is all.