The Fountains of Silence(9)

Ana has no memory of the war, but she remembers the tears of separation after her parents disappeared. She remembers crying desperately the day she left Zaragoza to be raised by her aunt and uncle in Madrid. Though her aunt and uncle have a daughter of their own, her cousin Puri is different. Obedient. Puri is free of heartache and shame. Free of secrets. Ana envies her.

“How was your palace today?” Julia asks.

Lies and threats. But don’t worry, I swallowed them.

“The same. Ice and more ice,” says Ana with a laugh. She tries to redirect the conversation. “I’ll be on the seventh floor for the summer. I’m assigned to a very wealthy family, staying through August. They have a son about my age.”

Julia nods.

“He’s from Texas,” says Ana. “He has American magazines.”

Julia’s expression shifts from fatigue to fear. “That hotel is not real life, Ana. Not for people like us.”

“Julia, it seems unbelievable to us, but for them it’s real life!” says Ana. “American women drive their own cars and fly around the world on airplanes. It’s not considered sinful. They don’t need permiso marital. They can seek employment, open a bank account, and travel without their husband’s permission.”

Julia glances over her shoulder before whispering, “Ana, please stop picking through trash in the hotel rooms. Stop reading those books and magazines! You know very well that the content is banned in Spain. This is not America.”

Julia is right. In Spain, women must adhere to strict subordinate roles in the domestic arts. Ana remembers the teachings of the Sección Femenina: “Do not pretend to be equal to men.” They also teach that purity is absolute. Women’s bathing suits must reach the knees. If a girl is discovered in a movie theater with a boy but no chaperone, her family is sent a yellow card of prostitution.

Julia’s brow buckles as she reaches for Ana’s hand. Even her whisper is unsteady. “The world at the hotel is a fairy tale. I’m sorry, Ana, but that is not our world. Please remember that. Be careful who you speak to.”

“It’s my job to be conversational,” says Ana.

“And that’s fine, as long as it’s a one-way conversation. You may ask questions but try not to answer any.”

That might work. Guests enjoy talking about themselves. As long as she reveals little about her own life, there’s no need for concern. Her stomach turns, digesting the note.

“Ana, is something wrong?” asks Julia.

“No.” She smiles. “Nothing at all.”





The life of every woman, despite what she may pretend, is nothing but a continuous desire to find somebody to whom she can succumb.


—SEMANARIO DE LA SECCIóN FEMENINA, 1944


Throughout her life, a woman’s mission is to serve others. When God made the first man, he thought: It is not good for man to be alone. And he made the woman, to help him and keep him company, and to be used as a mother. God’s first idea was “man.” He thought about the woman later, as a necessary complement, that is, as something useful.

—FORMACIóN POLíTICO SOCIAL (textbook), 1962





9



Daniel stands in the elegant parlor of the Madrid villa. Tall glass doors ornamented with flowering wrought iron stand open to the terrace and gardens below. The hands on the marbled clock approach nine. Dinner has yet to be served. Daniel looks through the viewfinder of his camera. His eyes scan the intricate inlay of the wood floor, the nineteenth-century furniture, and the exquisite handwoven carpets. His lens lands on Nicholas Van Dorn, the diplomat’s son who greeted them upon arrival.

Through the crosshairs of the viewfinder, Daniel sees his parents were right; they’re close in age. Nick Van Dorn has a suntan, slick blond hair, and quick brown eyes. He wears a blazer, pressed slacks, and expensive new loafers. His socks have the diamond pattern his mother loves. She says they’re “argyle.” His dad calls them “sissy socks.” The viewfinder stops on Nick’s hand holding a glass. Scabbed knuckles. A brawl? Interesting. The grated knuckles seem to contradict the rest of his appearance. Daniel snaps a picture.

“My friend hates being a diplomat’s kid. I enjoy it. I get bored being in one place too long.” Nick’s gaze lands on the lens. “Hey, Dan, I’ll show you a good spot for photos.”

Nicholas leads Daniel away from the guests onto the tiled back terrace of his parents’ villa. He gestures to Daniel’s camera and then to the landscape. Illuminated fan palms cast fingered shadows that creep toward a glistening fountain. But manicured trees don’t interest Daniel. People do. They are living, breathing landscapes. When captured at the right moment, truth reveals itself to the camera.

“Your father works for the embassy?”

Nick nods. “He’s the U.S. public affairs officer. Madrid’s a good post. There’s a lot to do here. Great nightlife and wine is cheaper than water.” Nick sips from his glass.

A servant with white gloves is suddenly at hand, passing a tray of olives cured in garlic. He disappears in the manner he appeared. Silently.

“And outside Madrid?” Daniel asks.

“Still pretty impoverished. That’s why so many have poured into the city. It was brutal after the civil war. But things are looking up now. Spain allowed the Americans to build military bases here. But you probably know that. Your mom’s Spanish, yeah?”