The Fountains of Silence(54)

Daniel nods. “Thank you for talking with me, Ana. I hope you’re right.”

“My pleasure, se?or.” She steps outside into the hallway, then pops her head back around the door with a big smile. “I know I am right.”





64



Rafa waits until lunchtime. His announcement will have more impact if all are gathered together. He peeks at the photograph in the envelope, trying not to soil it with fingerprints.

Fuga stands in profile. His figure is in sharp focus but the long road behind him is soft, creating the imagery of a path to destiny. The elegance of the suit is contrasted by the power of his strong jaw and vaulted cheekbones. The photo captures the power, the internal freight train that is Fuga.

The Americano is not only a nice guy, he’s a good photographer.

Rafa passes the bloody aprons hanging from their hooks. He walks to his coworkers, seated at the lunch table. Their sleeves and shoes are smeared with death. Rafa shakes the voices from his head, focusing.

“Caballeros, you have heard of my amigo who will fight this Sunday near Talavera de la Reina.”

“You mean your amigo whose bowels will be punched open by a mangy bull calf?” The men at the table laugh and one interjects with a tale. “I once knew an amateur maletilla. His intestines were gored out. He was so desperate to fight he had a friend stuff his guts back in his belly and sew him up with twine. The hurried stitches were too loose. A piece of his intestine was hanging out.”

The table issues collective groans and nods.

“Sí, sí,” says Rafa. “We have all heard tales of young men pursuing this dream—seeking victory on a Sunday afternoon. For four hundred years, this dream has led Spain’s sons to the grave, has it not?”

The men all nod in agreement.

“We know that it is spectacle and tradition that drives men with money to the ticket window, but it is often hunger and desperation that drives a torero onto the sand.”

The men issue supportive chants of sí, sí.

“These amateur village capeas, we know they are the only way to be seen by benefactors and ranchers. They are often the only way for an amateur to meet a bull. The road to Las Ventas arena in Madrid is long, amigos. But for one aspiring torero who seeks a benefactor and entrance into the world of the corrida, it begins this Sunday. Support this young bullfighter at his first capea. Support him in hopes that he may soon come to el matadero and train here alongside the other aspiring toreros. When he does, we shall claim him as our own.”

Rafa receives a round of applause.

“Does he have a name yet?” asks the supervisor.

“He does.” Rafa steps forward. “Caballeros, you will remember this day, the day you first saw his face. I present to you . . . El Huérfano!”

He removes the photograph from the envelope and proudly displays it to the table. The group of men erupts in loud cheers and applause. Rafa beams with pride.

“El Huérfano. ‘The Orphan’?” mutters his supervisor.

“Sí, he chose the name himself,” whispers Rafa. “During one of his stays in jail a nice cellmate referred to him as El Huérfano.”

The men begin to chatter.

“Have you ever seen a maletilla with such a photograph?”

“Or with such a suit of lights for a village capea?”

Rafa’s supervisor pats him on the back. “Bien hecho. Great job. But, Rafa, are you sure you want to be part of this man’s cuadrilla? You are a natural promoter.”

“Gracias, but this has always been our plan. When we were younger, he helped me. Now I will help him.”

Rafa will wear only a modest black suit of lights. He will always walk behind Fuga, not next to him. No one will ever ask for Rafa’s autograph, nor will he be allowed to eat at the same table as his matador. But he will stand on the sand. He will protect his friend.

He will face fear. And he will win.





65



“He’s fine.”

Sister Hortensia assures Puri that the newly arrived orphan enjoyed a comfortable first night and that the other young boys have welcomed him warmly.

“I wish there was something we could do for the older children,” says Puri.

“Whatever do you mean?” demands Sister Hortensia. “We are housing them, feeding them, bathing them, clothing them, and seeing to their education. Most are children of degenerates! But here, they feel a sense of community and will grow into very fine adults.”

“Yes, most are very happy. But they have no parents.”

Sister exhales her annoyance. “It is better to have no parents than the wrong parents.”

Puri thinks on Sister’s statement. She had a hard time sleeping, thinking of the crying boy, abandoned on the sidewalk. Many families have eight or ten children but no way to support them. She thinks of José, the little boy who lost his tooth, and the letter from Sister Hortensia to his family, explaining how gifted and smart he is. But they did not want him back. They are the wrong parents. José is fortunate to live at the Inclusa. He will grow into a fine man. Puri thinks of little Clover, her favorite. What if no one wants her?

Puri knows she is lucky to be an only child and receive her parents’ full attention, but one child does not satisfy the Francoist mandates for large families. She once tried to discuss it with her mother. When Puri commented that being an only child like herself was a rarity in Spain, her mother became deeply offended and stomped off to her room.