The Fountains of Silence(60)

Daniel shakes his head. “No, she doesn’t.”

Ana takes a breath and points to a picture of his parents on the wall. “Your turn.”

Daniel looks at the photo. “The caption is . . .”

When he finally speaks, his deep voice has thinned. “They say everything will be fine. But what if it’s not?”

The vulnerable tone in his voice. Her hand reaches, gently touching his back. He turns to her. When Ana realizes what she’s doing, she draws quickly away. “I must return to work.” She manages a small smile. “Just call if you need more towels, se?or.”

Daniel follows her to the door. “Ana, are you sure you can’t come to the bullfight on Sunday?”

“Sí. That is my brother’s passion. But it’s very nice of you to take them. It’s just a capea. The animals won’t be harmed, but the amateurs might be. Make sure you bring towels for your car.”

“For what?”

Ana looks at him with surprise. “For the blood,” she replies.





72



Puri sits at the front desk of the clinic, nervously rolling her apron between her fingers. It is her new assignment, the plan of Sister Hortensia. One day per week, she will work at the maternity clinic down the street from the Inclusa.

“Special cases are handled here,” explains Sister. “Difficult and high-risk pregnancies are brought from the hospital for direct attention. You must be sensitive to the fact that women at the clinic have been informed of a possible complication. They are often fearful, which is understandable. Labor and childbirth can be a lengthy process, so the doctor may ask you to sit with the women to calm their nerves. During labor they are administered an anesthetic. You may also have to sit with them after the birth until they are fully awake.”

Puri’s nerves roil, releasing a chilled sweat on her palms. The tour of the clinic was too brief. The doctor heaped so much information upon her. How is she to remember it all?

There are already two women in labor in the clinic. One is a young, unwed mother. When Puri sat with her, she expected the girl to wail with remorse for her carnal sins. Instead, she told Puri she was an actress and was anxious to take her child to Barcelona.

“I’ll pray for you,” Puri assures her.

But Puri doesn’t pray for her. She sits and wonders whether the woman really is condemned. The girl is excited both to be a mother and to pursue her interests in Barcelona. Does she not remember the teachings about motherhood and her duty to Spain?

Puri looks at her notes. She is expected to ferry supplies if needed. Water, towels, basins.

Basins. Where did the doctor say the metal basins were?

Puri walks quietly down the gray tile floor of the hallway. The clinic feels cold and sterile, not homey like the Inclusa. The Inclusa smells of baby powder, soap, and bleached diapers. The clinic smells . . . what exactly is the smell? Puri locates the room with the towels and laundry. Farther down the hall is a room that looks familiar, similar to the bottling room at the Inclusa. Is this where the doctor said the basins are stored? Puri enters.

Perhaps the basins are in the metal cabinet. She pulls the handle on the silver door. A rush of cold air flows out, causing her to blink. Her knees lock. Her hand flies to her mouth, muffling a scream.

The refrigerated cabinet does not hold a basin.

It holds a dead baby.





73



Rafa waits at the end of the road. He shields his eyes from the sun, watching for the shiny black car. Ana assures him the Texano will come, that he won’t forget. He paces the road, hoping she’s right. Without a ride, he and Fuga will miss the capea entirely. The truck with the dead animal parts left yesterday.

Rafa gave confession this morning and professed regret for a mixture of trespassing and fibs. Following the issuance of penance, the priest leaned forward toward the latticed screen.

“Today is your capea.”

“Sí, Padre.”

“At the back of the sanctuary, I have left three votive candles. Take them with you. Help your matador follow the proper ritual.”

“Sí, Padre. Gracias, Padre.”

Fuga has been absent for two days, but it does not worry Rafa. He knows that his friend was in the cemetery, practicing with the cape, becoming El Huérfano. Early this morning Fuga walked silently into Vallecas, just as Rafa knew he would.

Most matadors begin training very young. Will they ask how old he is? Fuga doesn’t know. When they lived in the boys’ home and Rafa had asked his age, Fuga just shrugged.

“Well, when’s your birthday?” Rafa inquired.

“What’s a birthday?” asked Fuga.

Following their escape, they traveled the roads, begging. Outside of Barcelona they came upon a small town where an old Catalonian woman shared kindness and food. That night they lay on their bellies in the dirt, peeking through a crack in the stone wall. The villagers were assembled in a dark building to watch a flickering film. The hero of the movie was Currito de la Cruz, “Curro,” an orphan from the slums of Sevilla who becomes a bullfighter. They couldn’t hear the sound, but they didn’t need to. The visuals told the story. That night Fuga did not sleep. He lay on the grass next to Rafa, staring at the darkened sky.

“Is it really possible for us, amigo?” Rafa had asked.