The Fountains of Silence(86)

Yes, for a baby girl, thinks Daniel. He focuses his lens.

Fuga wrests the lid off the plywood coffin. Daniel snaps a picture.

Rafa jumps back in horror. He turns around, streams of vomit spilling from his mouth.

The small coffin for a baby girl does not contain a corpse.

It holds an amputated adult hand, black and eaten with gangrene.





110



Fuga stands outside the shed, smoking the dirty stub of a cigarette he found on the ground. Rafa sits in the dirt, head in his hands. “?Por qué? ?Por qué?”

“How long has this been going on?” asks Daniel.

Fuga shrugs.

“If they’re burying empty coffins, where are the babies? Are there funerals?”

Fuga shakes his head. “The clinics deliver and pay.”

“They’re paying you to bury empty coffins? That makes no sense.”

“Exactamente. That’s why we asked you to come,” says Rafa. “It’s complicated for us. We must do our job. We work to eat. I work two jobs and still, I’m always hungry. As you know, we finally have a chance for a better life. El Huérfano will fight again on Sunday. He will advance, I am sure of it. But this is something that weighs on Fuga. I pledged to protect my friend and this is a distraction. Distractions are dangerous for bullfighters so I’m asking for your help, Texano. We cannot speak of this.” Rafa pauses, looking at Daniel. “But you can. Take your photographs home to America. Show them to people. Ask their opinion. What is happening to the children of Spain?”

Rafa takes a breath. “Will you help us?”

Daniel looks at the press badge hanging from his camera. Should he speak to Ben? Maybe he could talk to Miguel. The nun with the dead baby, Nick’s comment about children not being orphans, the photos of the coffins—does it all tell a story?

Fuga remains by himself. He has replaced the cigarette with a long, dry piece of grass. He stands tall, practicing his passes as if in front of a bull.

“Rafa, can I speak to Fuga alone?” says Daniel. Rafa nods and walks away. The two young men stand face-to-face, equal in both height and courage.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me,” says Daniel.

“I know your kind.”

“So, why did you invite me here to take pictures?”

“I didn’t. Rafa did. The baby coffins make me angry. He says it’s distracting.”

“I understand.”

Fuga gives a disgusted laugh. His voice drops to a hiss. “You understand? No, you don’t. You’ve never been abandoned, ruined by the hands of adults, seen as trash, so hungry you’ve eaten grass, so poor that you have to steal. Tell me, have you ever been hungry, Texano?”

Daniel considers his words. “I’m sorry. You’re right. What I should have said is, I want to understand.”

“Why, so you can print sad pictures of poor Spain in your magazines?”

“No,” says Daniel. “So I can show the effects of war and a dictatorship.”

“You feel powerful because you have money. Your money buys our wine and sunshine, but it doesn’t buy the right to our history.”

Daniel absorbs his words. If there is a story here, whom does it belong to? He looks at the man standing in front of him. Fuga’s face and body are taut, cabled with years of resistance and endurance. He runs from nothing. His truth is his power.

“Is that it?” says Daniel. “No. I think you have something else to say to me.”

Fuga bores deep into Daniel’s eyes, grabbing the collar of his soul. His words are steeped with threat. “No le hagas da?o.”

Don’t hurt her.

Daniel stares back in vow, unwilling to even blink. “I won’t.”

The glares hold until Fuga concludes with a satisfied nod.

Daniel extends his hand to Fuga. They shake.

Rafa comes running. “?Fantástico! See, it’s not so difficult. We can all be friends. But now we must bury these coffins. El Huérfano trains tonight.”





111



“Texano! I’m so happy to see you. I was just about to close.”

“Hola, Miguel. I was hoping I could drop off a few rolls.”

“Sí. Sí. And I was hoping to congratulate you on this.” Miguel reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a newspaper. He points to the photo credit and releases a huge smile. “Front page! ?Felicidades! This is sure to win your contest.”

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s a bit complicated because of the man in the photo.”

“The man with Generalísimo Franco?”

“Sí. He’s my father.”

Miguel nods, absorbing the situation.

“The judging committee might find it odd. ?Nepotismo, no? But I have some photos on these rolls that could be very strong. I’m also bringing you my negatives. I want you to make duplicate prints of every photo I’ve taken.”

“Every photo?”

“Sí.”

Miguel points to the press badge. “An official press badge probably gets you very interesting photos.” Miguel reaches to inspect the credential.

“Claro, but I have to give it back. Once the shots are developed, would you help me select some for the contest?”