The Fountains of Silence(95)

Daniel recalls his last exchange with Fuga. The promise he made. Their handshake.

“Nick, are you sure they shot Fuga because he was trespassing in the pasture?”

“Of course, why else would they shoot the guy?”

Daniel thinks of the empty coffins in the graveyard. He thinks of the Guardia Civil.

Lorenza. This is probably all her fault.

Is Carlitos right? Could Lorenza have given information to her father?

Fear creeps toward him from the vacant spots on the wall that once held his missing photos.





126



The confrontation with Sister Hortensia remains trembling inside of Puri. Her stomach rolls, dread pounds at her temples. The threats. What should she do?

“What’s wrong with you, Puri?”

“It’s late and I’m very tired. I want to go to bed.”

“It’s an emergency,” scolds Puri’s mother, clutching the large bag to her chest. “Julia wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”

Puri exits the taxi in the dark and follows her mother through the pitted road into the village of Vallecas. They pass a shawled woman sitting outside a shack who gives them a prickled stare.

“Do you know where you’re going?” whispers Puri.

Her mother nods.

“You’ve been here before?”

Her mother doesn’t reply. More secrets.

Puri has never visited Ana’s house. Generally, the family meets in a café.

Doors to the shacks stand open, allowing the heat of summer to escape. Puri eyes the crumbling, huddled structures and the people inside. A sewage trench carves its way through the side of the road. This is where they live? How could her parents allow it? Why haven’t her parents brought them to live at the apartment? It would be crowded but certainly better than this.

Puri follows her mother and darts through an open door.

“Aunt Teresa,” gasps Julia. “Thank you for coming.”

“Is she any better?”

“No. She seems to be getting worse,” says Julia.

Puri stands in the doorway of the shack, hesitant to enter. Ana approaches and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “Hola, Puri.”

Ana’s beautiful face is forlorn. “Are you not feeling well either?” asks Puri.

Ana gives a sweet smile and shakes her head. “Our spirits are a bit low.”

“Where is Julia’s husband? Where is Rafa?” asks Puri.

“Antonio is at work. Rafa . . . he’s at work too,” says Ana.

“I don’t have any ice or rubbing alcohol,” says Julia.

Puri snaps to attention. “You mustn’t use either of those with an infant. Alcohol can seep into the bloodstream and lead to poisoning. If her fever is high, we must take her to the hospital.”

“No!” The response comes from Ana and Julia, in unison.

“No hospitals,” pleads Julia. “Please, Aunt Teresa.”

“I understand, dear,” she replies.

Have they all gone mad? Of course they should take the infant to the hospital. A fever indicates infection. If left untreated, the child could have a seizure or convulsions. While her mother digs through the bag she brought, Puri rushes to look at the baby.

“Remove the bundling and blanket,” instructs Puri. “It’s trapping the heat.”

Puri holds Lali while Julia pulls off the blanket. Lali cries of discomfort and fever. Once the blanket is removed, Puri dips it in a nearby bucket of water and begins to sponge the child. She looks down at Lali. Her heart goes still. A shiver rises to her skin.

Puri’s eyes dart to Julia. “What . . . what is this?” asks Puri.

“What do you mean?” asks Julia. “It’s my baby. She has a fever. Help me!”

Puri stares at the baby. She closes her eyes.

?Virgen Santa! What have I done?





127



Daniel sits at the table, staring into the flickering flame of the candle. He runs his finger across the blue cursive, arched across the bottom of the plate. Lhardy.

Nick said he told Ana about the dinner. Did he? Or did he drink too much and forget?

His mother has been shopping for baby clothes, his father arranging immigration paperwork. He spent the day by himself.

Daniel walked through the entire cemetery. He stood alone in the empty metal shed thinking of Rafa and Fuga and the width between their lives and his own. He photographed the soft depression in the bed of straw that used to hold Fuga. He gathered what appeared to be Fuga’s sole possessions: a magazine clipping of a Miura bull and a small gold pendant with a crackled enamel image of Blessed Mother Mary. Carlitos will get them to Ana.

He picked up his last rolls of film from Miguel and had lunch with Ben to return the press pass.

“These are some of the pictures Miguel and I chose for the contest. Miguel reprinted the missing photos.”

Ben scans the line of images:

General Franco with his father—Shoeless children in Vallecas—Women in line for blood—Fuga in his suit of lights—Children saluting the photo of Franco—Champagne glasses on the Van Dorns’ dinner table—The nun with the dead baby—The empty infant coffins—The wicked silhouettes of the Guardia Civil.

Ben rustles with excitement. “Jiminy Christmas. These shots, they’re downright provocative, Matheson. Provocative, that’s the word.” Ben exhales a snake of smoke. “That shot of the Guardia Civil—holy Moses.”