Daniel hesitates, sizing up Ben’s invitation. Is this generosity or just another one of his father’s chess moves? He decides to find out. “Sure, a burger sounds good.”
18
Ana sews the button onto Señora Matheson’s silk blouse. The white label on the neckline declares it’s from Neiman-Marcus. An assigned guest once told Lorenza all about Neiman-Marcus. The lavish store, established in Dallas, sells luxury items to oil-rich Texans. Ever since Franco granted drilling rights in Spain, the hotel has been flooded with Texans. Oil fortune brings talk of debutante balls, fancy summer camps, silver dollars, and something called pimento-cheese sandwiches.
The image of Daniel with the candied chestnut floats back to Ana. The little girl, bouncing on her toes, stared at the treat like it was a diamond. Diamonds are also something common on Texans. Is Daniel a common Texan? He’s certainly different from other guests at the hotel. He looked at her when she spoke. He opened the door for her. He carried the bag from La Violeta as if it were his job, not hers. As nice as Nick is, he’s never done that. She thinks of Daniel’s photos and his worn jeans. He’s unusual. Was it rude that instead of answering his questions, she posed her own?
Carefully folding the blouse, Ana places it next to the suitcase packed for Valencia. She positions the two boxes of candy from La Violeta on the desk. She stares at the wrapping, recalling the enchanting atmosphere of the shop. How lucky the recipient in Valencia will be.
Valencia. City by the sea, birthplace of her favorite painter, Sorolla. Hotel guests speak of Valencia’s tranquil beauty, fragrant orange trees, and rolling blue waters. What does a large body of water sound and smell like? Ana wonders. Landlocked, fenced by circumstance, she has never seen the sea. She sees Spain only through images on postcards that guests collect in their rooms. If she transfers to the hotel business office, perhaps one day she too will walk along the beach in Valencia. Ana will need letters of recommendation for her application. If she does a good job, perhaps Daniel’s family might consider it? A letter from an influential American family could expedite consideration.
Ana straightens the room, thinking of oranges, thinking of Valencia. On the chest of drawers she sees a bright turquoise package.
NEW!
Out of color TV research—a great make-up discovery:
Max Factor Hi-Fi Fluid Makeup
Lorenza has whispered that Max Factor and his wife are guests at the hotel. Ana can’t wait to share her findings of the new cosmetics.
She moves to empty the trash. The small bin contains only one item: a squat, green glass bottle. Ana inspects it and immediately wishes she hadn’t. She doesn’t need Texas secrets. She has enough of her own.
Madrid today has got more Texans than Spaniards. The barroom in the Castellana Hilton sounds like roundup time in the Panhandle.
So far in Spain no Texan has leaped into the Plaza de Toros and attempted to show the Spaniards how a real man can bulldog a beef. I have seen no horses ridden into lobbies lately. My friends, riches are weakening the strain that made you exceptional. Constant association with Yankee businessmen is turning you sissy. I blame it on the ladies, largely. They are trying to live up to Neiman-Marcus and are forcing their will on husbands who used to wear spurs to the square dance. The girls say: “Now, you behave!” And the old boys are behaving.
—ROBERT C. RUARK
from “World Travel Is Turning Texans into Real Sissies”
Abilene Reporter-News, Abilene, Texas, July 30, 1954
19
Ben chooses a booth in the small alcove restaurant.
“Quieter here,” he says. “No one talking about makeup.” He yanks at the knot in his tie, loosening it, and lights a cigarette.
“This hotel is deceptively huge,” says Daniel. “It doesn’t seem that large from the outside, but once you step inside, it’s massive.”
“Deceptive. Good word,” says Ben. A waiter appears and discreetly slides an ashtray under Ben’s hand, forecasting the gray snowfall from his cigarette. “I’ve gotten lost in here and I’ve never even made it to the labyrinth beneath. The location is strategic, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
Ben sighs. “Come on. An American hotel in a country ruled by a fascist dictator? It’s no coincidence that the U.S. Embassy is practically across the street. There are several levels belowground in this place. Ask the pretty girl that you came in with.” He grins.
“She’s assigned to help my family. It was just a visit to the camera shop.”
“Which one?”
“Miguel Mendoza’s.”
“Miguel,” nods Ben. “Great guy. Great little darkroom as well. I’d invite you to use the bureau’s darkroom—ours is light-tight—but then you’d have to deal with the censors.”
“Miguel seems nice. I’m happy to give him the business. He’s developing a couple rolls for me and also looked at my portfolio.”
“All right, my turn. Hand it over.”
Daniel quickly retrieves the album from his bag and slides it across the table. It’s a great opportunity. The man in front of him reports for one of the largest newspapers in the world.
Nothing about Ben Stahl is fast. It takes him forever to order from the menu, even though he knows what he wants. It takes him even longer to look through the portfolio. He turns the pages slowly, analyzing each image as if it were a coded message.
Daniel shifts. It’s uncomfortable watching his work reviewed. Ben knows it. He gets to the end of the album, studies the final photograph, and closes the portfolio. Ben takes a long, silent drag on his cigarette. He looks up at Daniel.
“You’re a fraud, cowboy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your father told me that you’re going into the oil business. But the truth, it’s here. You have as much interest in oil as I do in Hi-Fi makeup.”
“I don’t want to be an oilman.”
“So why’d you tell your father that you do?”
“I didn’t. He knows I love photography. I want to be a photojournalist, but my dad doesn’t support it. He’ll only pay for college if I study engineering at Texas A&M.”
“A&M? No, you should go to J-School.”
Daniel looks at Ben, grateful. “I want to go to journalism school. I’ve been accepted at Missouri but my dad won’t pay tuition for J-School.” He pauses. “Speaking of payment, is my dad paying you to keep an eye on me?”
“Your dad? No.” Ben looks at him. “But Shep and the embassy might slide me a few favors if you keep to a darkroom instead of a jail.”