The Fountains of Silence(7)

“?Basta!”

Stop. The word reaches him before his friend’s punch. The sting of pain is the customary antidote, a promise fulfilled when memory grabs hold. The memories are poison. Don’t take the poison.

“Gracias.”

Fuga nods, his fierce eyes softening beneath the wilderness of his hair. His hand suddenly extends from his pocket, offering a small mandarin to Rafa.

Rafa craves the citrus of the orange, but it’s too generous. He can’t take his friend’s only meal. He shakes his head.

Fuga shrugs. “Entonces, ask her?”

“Her” means Julia, his older sister. The favor is one only she can fulfill.

“Sí, I’ll ask her.” Rafa tears the newspaper into a stack of neat squares. “Ana says they don’t use newspaper in the American hotel. She says the guests are provided rolls of soft white tissue in the toilets. When you become famous, amigo, you’re going to buy us all white tissue for the outhouse.”

Fuga stares at the baby’s casket. “No,” he hisses. “When I become famous, I’ll unmask the evil homes and rescue the children.” He stabs the shovel into the dirt. “Tell me the words from your book again.”

He is referring to a thin volume that Rafa cherishes. It’s a favorite book of his father’s, containing the philosophy of Seneca.

“Gold is tried by fire and brave men by adversity,” says Rafa.

“Sí,” whispers Fuga. “I will emerge from this fire and when I do”—his head snaps to Rafa, wild eyes ablaze—“I’ll burn them all down.”





7



Daniel reluctantly takes a chair in his parents’ suite. How could he be so stupid? Why didn’t he tell the guards he was staying at the Ritz? They could have followed him there and no one would have known. The guards must have better things to do than chaperone a kid with a camera. It’s not a big deal.

But if it’s not a big deal, why is he still sweating? The images flash constantly through his mind.

The gray baby. The nun’s face snapping toward the lens. Her look of shock as she scurried away. The sudden appearance of the guards.

Daniel stares at the camera in his lap. Thankfully, they didn’t notice the roll in his pocket. Will the image of the infant appear on film as it remains fixed in his mind?

Bringing the camera to his eye, he frames his broad-shouldered father against the small hotel desk. His dad looks up and shakes his head. The disappointment presses Daniel’s well-worn guilt button. Why can’t he find passion in oil drilling like his father? It would be so much easier.

His mother evaluates her dresses and clears the annoyance from her throat.

“It was an accident, Martin. Daniel didn’t know.”

“I’m getting tired of these ‘accidents,’ María. Two days before our trip he got into a fight at the movie theater.”

“I didn’t pick a fight, Dad. I was defending a friend,” says Daniel. He was defending a friend—while enjoying the opportunity to slug a longtime neighborhood bully.

“You’re mighty lucky the Dallas police let you off with a warning. You’re eighteen. You can be tried as an adult. And this?” His father opens his arms in query. “We’ve been in Madrid barely twenty-four hours, and the lobby manager tells me you were escorted back by the Guardia Civil?”

“I wish the valets wouldn’t have seen,” says his mother.

“I wish you hadn’t bought him that camera,” snaps his father.

“I wish you’d stop arguing,” says Daniel.

“We’re not arguing.” His mother sighs and turns to Daniel. “Your father and I, we have weeks of engagements and trips, cari?o. I thought it would be exciting for you to explore on your own. But maybe it’s not safe. I no longer have family in Spain if something happens while we’re away. And now you’re so far from Laura Beth.”

He still hasn’t told his parents about the breakup. They’ll ask all sorts of questions. Daniel examines his camera, dodging the topic of Laura Beth and wishing he had photographed the pretty girl in his hotel room. “I’m sorry. It was a dumb mistake. I’m completely fine on my own. Really.”

He gives his mom an apologetic shrug. Recently, his mother’s tone has developed a tired edge. She’s the one who begged to return to Spain, but since arriving, she seems nervous. Daniel recognizes his mother’s reaction—it’s her fear of not fitting in.

María Alonso Moya Matheson was born in the Galicia region of Spain but raised as a Spanish American in Texas. In public, his mother is the wife of an oil magnate and appears completely American. She baked fund-raiser cakes for the Eisenhower campaign. She supports the Hockaday School and the Junior League, and is accepted by the socialites of Preston Hollow and Dallas at large. At home, his mom speaks to him only in Spanish. He is cari?o, darling, or tesoro, treasure. Many of their servants have Spanish heritage. His mother makes certain that Spanish food and customs are fixtures in his life.

“It’s difficult navigating two cultures,” she once told him. “I feel like a bookmark wedged between chapters. I live in America, but I am not born of it. I’m Spanish.”

His mom is thrilled that oil business has brought them to Spain. She wants to expose them to the country her late parents so adored. Pure Spain. Noble Spain. This is her plan.