The Fountains of Silence(51)

I send another letter, not to disturb you, kind Sir, but simply to appease my conscience. My wife said the child she gave birth to was bald and had a red birthmark on his arm. The deceased infant shown to us was larger than our son, had a bit of dark hair, and did not have the marking on his arm. You and Sister Hortensia advised that grief over our child’s death was clouding our recollection. But is it possible that perhaps there was some mistake? Perhaps it was the child of another couple that died? Of course we infer no accusation of you or your clinic, simply an honest error. We anxiously await your reply and hope you will help us pursue the matter in more detail.



Puri looks at the next letter.

    Dear Sister Hortensia,

In contemplating our finances, we’ve found that 300,000 pesetas to adopt a newborn is simply not within our means. You had suggested payments of 30,000 pesetas over ten years but that is also beyond our reach. Unfortunately, we will not be able to pursue adoption of a newborn. With gratitude for your understanding. ?Viva Espa?a!



Three hundred thousand pesetas? Puri looks at the letter. It’s dated several months prior. The next letter is unsigned and contains only a few handwritten sentences.

    You stole our child.

God forgive me if I am wrong. If I am right, there is no forgiveness for you.



Puri looks at the first sentence.

You stole our child.

What does that mean? Who stole their child?

Puri thinks back to the woman who stopped her on the sidewalk. She said her child had been taken for baptism but was never returned. Her tone was insistent, desperate, but also full of fear.

A noise sounds in the hallway. She must return to the garden. Puri rolls the remaining letters from the correspondence file and puts them down her blouse, where they are secured by her undergarments and hidden by the apron.

Heart pounding, she dashes up the stairs. As she passes the receiving office, she hears a male voice.

“I found him crying on the sidewalk. He was holding this note.”

“Thank you for bringing him inside.”

Puri stops in the doorway. A boy with tearstained cheeks and holes in his pants is perched upon a chair. A young man crouches in front of him. He rises to leave and she gasps.

“Daniel?” exclaims Puri.

The young man looks at her, confused. Sister Hortensia shares his expression.

Puri brings a hand to her chest. “It’s me, Puri. Ana’s cousin.”

But the words are hardly audible. When Puri’s hand touches her chest, a crunching of paper sounds from beneath her apron.





60



“He seems nice enough,” says Antonio. “Maybe a bit na?ve.”

“Of course he’s na?ve. Arriving in Vallecas uninvited? He’s from a rich American family. He knows nothing of Spain.” Julia lifts Lali from her crate for feeding.

“That’s not true, his mother was born here. He speaks Spanish well,” says Antonio. “And he seems generous. It’s kind of him to take the boys to the bullfight.”

“I’m not worried about the boys. I’m worried about Ana. Did you see the way he looked at her?”

“Most everyone looks at Ana like that. You should be more concerned about the way Ana looked at him.”

Antonio is right. Julia noticed the way Ana downplayed her excitement while scrubbing her face and pinning her hair. She also noted the silent rhythm between her sister and the Texan. She wishes she could encourage and support Ana instead of blocking her at every pass.

“Ay, even if he is nice, he’s a hotel guest. She mustn’t jeopardize her job,” she tells Antonio.

The infant wiggles in Julia’s arms. She looks at her daughter. She’s still so small. Another woman in Vallecas has a two-month-old child who’s already larger than four-month-old Lali.

“Mi amor, we’ll be short again this month,” says Antonio. “Is there any way Luis could give you an advance?”

Julia releases a deep sigh. “I can’t ask Luis again. Take the candy from La Violeta to work. See if you can sell the box somewhere along the way.”

“Didn’t you tell Ana that we would keep one box?”

She did. Ana promised to sell one box at the hotel but begged Julia to keep the other.

Julia recalls the way Ana hugged the ribboned box to her chest, pleading, “Just this once, Julia. Por favor. For me.”

She hates disappointing her sister, but hates poverty more. Why did she open the wine? It would have brought a dear sum. They’ve been saving money to move and every peseta counts. By Julia’s calculations, in two months they will be close to having the money.

“Mi amor, tell me the truth. Is it the candies you want to get rid of—or the Texano?” asks Antonio.

He means to tease, but fatigue has stolen her humor. “We don’t have the luxury of candies, Antonio. Please, sell it. We need the money.” Julia recalls the conversation.

The war is over. We must accept our fate and make sacrifices. Pursue peace and stability above all, Julia. Leave truth for some distant day in the future, her mother had said.

How distant is that day? It’s been nearly twenty years since the war ended and truth still clings to the shadows. But Julia reassures herself that even if withholding the truth is painful, it is the right thing to do. It keeps the peace. It is what her mother wanted.