The Fountains of Silence(5)

“We’re going for photos. It will be fun,” coos Puri to the infant.

20 116 is dressed in beautiful clothes that don’t belong to her. Puri will take her to the small white room on the third floor. A man with a boxy black camera will come and hover in front of the orphan, capturing her portrait. Puri will soothe her after the spark of scary flashbulbs. She will make the popping noises.

20 116 will be returned to her ruffled bassinet in the nursery. The pretty clothes will be returned to the dark closet of Sister Hortensia.

One outfit for girls. One outfit for boys.

Sister Hortensia oversees each infant with sincere and devoted affection. Photos of the child will be shared with loving couples in Spain. Puri smooths the baby’s downy wisps of hair, thankful there are so many families willing to adopt unfortunate children.

A large framed portrait of Franco hangs at the front of the room.

“Our defender, El Caudillo, he is watching,” Puri whispers to the baby. “He is taking care of us.” She lifts the infant’s tiny right arm in salute toward the picture. She bounces her in rhythm and sings the anthemic melody:

    “He’s Franco, Franco, Franco. Our guide and captain.”



A nun from a local hospital sweeps frantically into the room, summoning Sister Hortensia. There are nods. Whispers.

“In the street. Yes, just now. And the Guardia Civil . . .”

Puri strains to hear.

20 116 begins to whimper. Puri makes the popping sound.

The two nuns look to Puri.

Puri turns her back.





5



Ana checks the register in her apron pocket for her assigned guest.

Daniel Matheson.

She knocks lightly on the door. No reply.

Using her passkey, she lets herself into the room.

Warmth. Quiet. The air-cooling is turned off and the door to the balcony stands open. The sheer pearl drape rises and falls on the hot breeze.

Most tourists want air-cooled rooms along with their ice. But this guest is different. This visitor welcomes the hot, dry breath of Madrid into the large suite. His clothes are not yet tucked into the drawers or closet. They spill from open suitcases on the floor amidst other litter of arrival. Stacks of newspapers and magazines sit atop the coffee table. A magazine title, LIFE, calls out to Ana. Resting next to the newspapers is a yellow box labeled GE PHOTO FLASHBULBS.

Hotel guests bring an array of expensive belongings. A man from Illinois works for a company called Zenith. He has “transistor” radios in a rainbow of colors, small enough to fit in your pocket. A musician down the hall has a portable record player housed in a suitcase. How do they earn the money to buy such things? The petit lobster appetizer on the hotel menu costs more than most Spaniards earn in months.

“They often leave food untouched, just sitting on the tray,” she tells her brother, Rafael.

“Sure, it’s not expensive for them,” he explains. “American men have something called ‘minimum wage’ for working. One U.S. dollar per hour. And that’s their lowest wage. Can you imagine?” Rafa leans in toward Ana. “Those rich Americanos are happy, not hungry. Put some lobster in your pocket for me,” he says with a conspiring nod.

Ana laughs at her brother’s teasing. Their older sister, Julia, does not laugh. Julia worries. When not holding her baby, her hands hold each other, wringing twists of concern.

“We have five mouths at the table now. No one can lose their job,” says Julia.

Ana loves her job, along with the English classes and the relaxed American atmosphere it provides. She could not bear to lose the position. But Rafa is right. Most guests at the hotel have never known hunger—not hunger for food, nor hunger for life.

Her family has known both.

An open magazine sits quietly on a chair. A photo of an American family stares at Ana. She gently sets down the towels and bends to pick up the magazine.

American girls wear cuffed socks with black-and-white shoes. They stare at pictures of singers who perform something called rock-and-roll music—music considered indecent in Spain. What would happen if Spanish girls wore pants on the street? Would they be apprehended? Would an unmarried woman in Spain ever be allowed a passport?

Ana dreams of travel, of one day leaving Spain. What lies outside the country’s borders is untouchable for families like hers. For decades, Francisco Franco has believed that outside influence will corrupt Spain’s purity and identity. The train tracks in Spain are purposely wider than the rest of Europe’s to prevent unwanted entries and exits.

“Spain needs money and foreign investment, that’s why Franco allowed the American hotel,” claims Rafa. “Ay, a castle in Spain for Americanos,” he laughs.

It’s true. After years of isolation, select industries have been invited from America—tourism, motion pictures, and oil. Americans stay at the Castellana Hilton. But the Hilton has more than just hotel rooms. It has a business office. Ana’s English is strong. Once she’s worked at the hotel for two years she may apply for a position in a different department. The secretarial team from the business office travels with executives throughout Spain. They leave Madrid.

A key clatters in the lock. A tall young man with dark hair enters the room. They both jump, startled. The magazine flutters to the floor.

“Welcome back, se?or.” Ana greets the guest as instructed.