The Fountains of Silence(68)

86



Daniel pulls the Buick onto the apron of elegant pavers in front of the hotel. A man in a green-and-gold uniform sprints to the car.

“Welcome back, se?or.”

Nick yawns, groggy. “You want to get something to eat?” he asks Daniel.

“No, I’m gonna head up.”

Daniel briefly checks the lobby to see if his dad might be there. His father is not in the lobby, but Paco Lobo is, peering over a wrinkled map spread out in front of him. He waves Daniel over.

“Hello. I was just checking to see if my father was here.”

“Your parents had drinks with Max Factor. They went up about an hour ago,” says Paco, looking up at Daniel through his glasses. “Say, my eyes are so bad, I can’t see the small print. On the coast, south of Valencia, can you find a city named Dénia?”

Daniel leans over the map. “Here.” He points to a city in the Costa Blanca region. “Are you adopting another village?”

“No,” Paco Lobo says with a laugh. “I have to visit for work.”

“Oh, I thought philanthropy was your work.”

He shakes his head and pushes the wire frames higher on his nose. He puts a finger to the map. “Yes, there it is. Thank you.”

Daniel notices a small notepad near the map. “The names and words you’ve got there, they’re German, aren’t they?”

“My, your eyes are good.” Paco Lobo quickly slides his notes beneath the map. “Daniel—” Paco speaks without looking at him. “During cocktails, I overheard your father tell Max Factor that you met the Guardia Civil. He sounded proud, said you held your own. I’m sure it was nothing, but Franco’s police and guards”—his eyes leave the map and lock to Daniel’s—“they’re thorough. Have a good night.”

The statement is a dismissal. Is it also a warning? Daniel wonders as he heads for the elevator. His father and Max Factor—the makeup mogul. They couldn’t be more different. The cocktail conversation must have been lacking if his father had to bring up the incident from the first day in Madrid. And proud? No. That’s not a word he’d use about his son being reprimanded. Perhaps Paco Lobo is the one who had a few drinks.

Daniel enters his suite; it’s quiet and comforting with just a glow of the desk lamp. A telephone message sits squarely within the lamplight.

    11:45 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl

Lobby 9:00 a.m. Pros wear suit and tie. 100 ASA. Bring your passport.



100 ASA is for bright light. The shoot is probably outside. Why does he need his passport?

Daniel takes off his shirt and tosses it over the back of a chair. Ana was right. Turndown service has been completed. Did she do it herself before leaving for the night? Daniel turns and finds the answer. Taped under each photo on the wall is a small strip of paper. A caption.

From Tom Collins.

He snaps on the lights.

The picture of Nick, face bludgeoned, slumped in the back of the taxi:

    Sometimes, when there’s nothing left to burn, we set ourselves on fire.



The happy girl from Vallecas with the raven braid and holes in her shoes:

    She has a name for the tapeworm that lives inside of her. She calls him Chucho.



The hairy-chested tourist asleep at the sidewalk table:

    The drink he spills costs more than many earn in a week. Who benefits most from tourist dollars in Spain?



Shep Van Dorn, entertaining guests at the dinner party:

    Expensive clothes or cheap drapes of emotional poverty?



Rafa, smile beaming, standing by the Buick:

    The lashing scars on his back live like veins above the skin. But sometimes, a good smile can chase the memories away.



Each caption provides a new lens into the image, peeling back invisible layers to reveal a human story. He can’t wait to discuss them with her. As he scans the wall, his eyes land on the picture that Ana took of him that day in the candy shop.

The caption is just two words, but says everything.

    Hola, Daniel.





87



Rafa removes his bloody apron for lunch. A fellow slaughterhouse worker passes behind him.

“Rafa. Supervisor wants to see you. By the way, I heard about yesterday. Sounds like your torero made an impression. ?Felicidades!” he says, patting Rafa on the back.

“Gracias, amigo.” Rafa smiles. His colleagues have been generous with words of encouragement and congratulations. His announcement and their enthusiasm have made for a very happy Monday. He heads to the office and knocks on the frame of the door.

“Adelante.” His supervisor waves him into the small, windowless room with brick walls. “A gentleman called this morning asking about you. Did you tell someone at the capea that you work here at el matadero?”

“Just the man in the big hat. The one who gave me his card.”

His supervisor nods. “He asked me to confirm that you are employed here and then he asked a lot of questions about your torero.”

“Questions about El Huérfano? What kind of questions?”

“About his training, his background. Questions I couldn’t answer. But I told him I do know you and that you’re a good worker.”