The Fountains of Silence(90)

Puri stares into her lap. Is there a chance that she too had a cardboard father? The boy who can’t remember his parents has circular scars on his legs. Sister Hortensia says that when he came through the torno as an infant he had cigarette burns all over his shins. Puri has several odd scars herself. “You were a bit clumsy as a toddler,” her mother tells her.

Is that true or just another secret?

“I’m going to be a futbolista!” refrains the boy who loves soccer. “Father López says that an orphan once played for Real Madrid. That’s going to be me,” he says, pointing a thumb to his chest.

The children whoop with delight, talking of jersey numbers and stadium seats, completely forgetting the conversation of parents and cardboard fathers. As Sister Hortensia says, they are well fed, clothed, educated, and safe. They are happy. Puri knows that not all orphanages are as wonderful as the Inclusa. Some children speak of other institutions that sound horrific.

“We want to give children the best chance to thrive, to be raised by those who will devote resources and ensure Catholic values,” said Sister Hortensia. “These children are the best chance of protecting our future and all we’ve worked so hard for.”

Protecting the future. That’s something Puri hasn’t thought of. Generalísimo Franco, Auxilio Social, the Inclusa, and the doctors, nuns, and priests—are they simply protecting the future? With all they’ve done to make Spain the wonderful country she loves, how could she ever doubt that?

But a quiet part of her does.

Spain protects itself from evil enemies, wanton behavior, and sin.

Lying is a sin. And Puri knows the doctor at the clinic was lying. But questioning is an insult to her leader and her country. It’s ugly and disrespectful. A knot rises in her throat. Sometimes she commits sins. Does she search for truths to avoid her own truth? Her eyes well.

The little girl pets her hair. “Se?orita, why are you crying?” she asks.

Puri shakes her head and forces a smile.

Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada.

It’s true. We really are prettier with our mouths shut.





117



Daniel sits in the museum garden near the fountain of whispers.

Ana wanted to hide it. Nick wanted to hide it. The comments in the car between his father and Mr. Van Dorn were not incidental. In saying that Daniel was a gentleman, his father announced that Mr. Van Dorn wasn’t.

And he was right.

Despite their circumstances, Daniel knows he and Ana are more alike than different.

He called Ben and Ben agreed, grumbling and lecturing over the phone.

“No, I didn’t take your photos and, oh yeah, news flash: Shep Van Dorn’s a louse. He’s notorious. That’s why his wife is never in Madrid and poor Nicky’s so messed up. Nick came to me when he was trying to help Ana. Yeah, the gold teeth are from a bracelet, but Ana didn’t steal it. The family gave it to her for Christmas. Shep toyed with her, insisted she call him by his first name, told her he’d bring her on at the embassy as a secretary or something. Ana was too sweet to realize he expected something in return.”

“He can’t get away with this,” says Daniel.

“Oh, he’ll get away with it and more. C’mon, Dan. Politicians and businessmen, they get what they want. When Van Dorn didn’t, well, he got mean, tried to intimidate her. I could share tales, both hilarious and terrifying, about these guys on overseas posts. I pray the stories make it into the D.C. archives. This one guy, he roared into a village—”

“I don’t want to hear stories. We have to do something.”

Daniel hears Ben slap his desk. “I love your energy, Matheson! What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to write to the ambassador.” Daniel pauses. “And I’m going to write to the State Department and let them know who they’ve got representing our country.”

Daniel hears Ben exhale a double lung of smoke and light another cigarette.

“Sure, you can do that. Your sense of justice, it’s refreshing. But listen, cowboy, if I were you—and believe me, I wish I was—I wouldn’t waste this time. You’re nineteen in Madrid, and you’re in love, for Christ’s sake. Don’t blow your breath on a horse’s ass like Van Dorn. This is your golden hour. Rent the Buick and whisk her off to the Costa Brava. Roll the windows down and feel the sun on your face. Walk along the beach together. Take pictures. Stay up late and sleep in later. Wake up with sand in your hair, sand in your pants. Don’t come back until you run out of money. This is your time, Dan. Grab it and run. Do the stuff you see in the movies. It’s the stuff no one gets to do. But you can do it, Matheson. I don’t want you calling me in ten years whining that you should have done this and should have done that. As the saying goes, it’s later than you think.”

Daniel stares at the numbers on the telephone in front of him. “Did you do all this stuff?”

“Hell, no. Why do you think I’m telling you to do it? So you don’t end up like me, alone in the movie theater at four in the afternoon, smoking fistfuls of cigs and watching couples stroll along the beach in Costa Brava.”

Daniel smiles.

“Listen, Matheson, I like you. You’re a heck of a photographer and you throw a punch like Joe Louis. I have no idea what else you do. But whatever it is, now’s the time to do it.”