The Fountains of Silence(88)

Daniel stares at Van Dorn, unable to speak.

“I know, terrible. Such a beautiful little thing. What a waste.”

Lorenza appears at Van Dorn’s side. “The waiter is coming with your scotch, se?or. He wanted to open a new bottle.”

“You don’t want to open my bottle, little mouse?” says Van Dorn with a grin.

Lorenza purses her lips, staring at Van Dorn. She twists a piece of her hair and throws her head back with laughter.

In an instant, Daniel’s lens changes. His focus sharpens.

Van Dorn watches Lorenza saunter away before he returns to the conversation. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, Dan. Between you and me, it’s fine to try a new swimming hole once in a while, but smarter to fish in your own pond, if you know what I mean,” says Van Dorn. “Laura Beth, she’s a great girl.”

One punch. That’s all it would take. And it would feel so good. Assault? No. A gift to the Foreign Service.

Daniel stands to leave, fighting the desperate urge to clench his fists. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Van Dorn. I sure do appreciate it.”

“Oh, are we done?” Shep Van Dorn stares at him with a grin.

Daniel smiles back. “Oh yes, sir. We’re done.”





113



Daniel makes his way to the elevator.

“Texano!” calls Carlitos. “I have your postage stamps.” Carlitos gives him a discreet tip of the head and slides a piece of paper into his hand.

    Tom Collins. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Sorolla.



“Is she still here?”

“They escorted her off the property after she gave me the message.”

“Thanks, Buttons.” He reaches in his pocket for a tip.

“No, no.” Carlitos shakes his head. “This favor is for Ana. I don’t understand how this could happen to her.” The boy is on the verge of tears. “Texano, can I ask you something? The pretty girl from Texas—is she really your girlfriend?”

“No, Buttons, she’s not.”

“Ay, I didn’t think so.” Carlitos releases a satisfied smile.

Daniel knows that Carlitos sees much at the hotel. “Buttons, just between you and me, what do you think of Mr. Van Dorn over there?”

Carlitos leans in to Daniel. “Ay, Texano, I know nothing. But my aunts once told me the story of Don Juan, a disguised man who was able to manipulate language and seduce women. Our Spanish flu epidemic many decades ago? It was initially believed harmless but proved deadly. Some still refer to it as Don Juan. So you see, I know nothing of Mr. Don Juan over there, except he never tips. The staff prefers his generous son.”

And this time, Carlitos does accept a tip from Daniel.



* * *





Daniel returns to his room. Should he call Nick? He moves toward the phone.

No. He’s calling Ben.





114



To keep his friend sharp and awake for training, Rafa recounts historical details.

“Francisco Romero of Ronda,” says Rafa. “Think of him on Sunday when you fight. This is the man they say invented the red muleta cape. Remember, for many years bullfighting was used to train knights. Only nobles on horses faced bulls.”

Fuga says nothing. He marches ahead as if in a trance.

“Of course red is only a matter of tradition. Bulls are color-blind and—”

Fuga motions for silence. They stand still as statues on the dark dirt road, listening.

Rafa moves his hands in a stepping motion. Fuga nods.

Horses.

They steal to the side of the road, taking cover beneath a line of scrubby bushes. “We’re early today,” whispers Rafa. “Perhaps the breeders are still in the fields?”

Rafa hopes it’s the breeders. The alternative is far worse. The Crows.

Noise is not uncommon. They must wait for others to leave or move to another side of the pasture. Rafa lies on his back, staring at the bright glow of the moon. He glances at his friend, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. But Fuga’s brow is arrowed. He is troubled.

They have spent so many nights sleeping in the dirt of Spain that they feel part of it. But slowly, things are changing. If Fuga performs well on Sunday, he will be granted another fight. He will be allowed to train at the slaughterhouse. A promoter with a fat cigar will drive them from city to city, where Fuga will fight young bulls in the novilladas. They will sleep in a nice car instead of the dirt. And once Fuga makes his alternativa—his graduation ceremony from novice—he will become a full-fledged matador. Then they will sleep in hotels.

The quiet of night finally descends. Fuga stands from the dirt and begins stretching. Fuga has faced full-grown bulls in the fields for over a year. He became El Huérfano not recently, but the first time he crawled beneath the barbed-wire fence.

There is something special that lives inside Fuga. A sense. A knowing. He fights in the dark, the lamp of the moon his only guide. As part of the cuadrilla, Rafa will be by his amigo’s side, helping him, learning from him. It will be a big life, better than an education at a university. Ernesto Hemingway, an author whose books are banned by Generalísimo Franco, once wrote, “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up, except bullfighters.” Rafa agrees with Don Ernesto.