Daniel nods, furthering the covert conversation. “I saw the classroom. I was down there last night. You must also study courtesy. Everyone here is so polite. They insist on calling me señor.”
“But of course! We must refer to everyone in that manner.”
Everyone. So apparently to Ana, Nick is not “everyone”?
“Say, Buttons, if you can deliver this letter privately, I’ll give you a good tip when I return.”
Carlitos clutches Daniel’s sleeve and pulls him close. “Of course, señor. Privacy is one of the first words we learned in the classroom. After all, a hotel is a house of secrets.”
Daniel hates secrets, but his are quickly multiplying. The photo of the nun with the baby, the breakup with Laura Beth, his plan for J-School, and now, the opened telegram.
He takes a breath, acknowledging the reality:
A secret never stays secret for long.
28
Carlitos makes his way into the basements in search of Ana. His cheery whistle dances off the walls as he winds through the underground maze. She is nowhere to be found. He heads to the staff break room. Lorenza stands in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Women in Spain don’t smoke, especially not in public. It’s considered vulgar and indelicate. But while working at the hotel, some employees exploit American customs. Lorenza seems to exploit all of them.
“Have you seen Ana?” he asks.
Lorenza exhales a scarf of smoke, leaving a lipstick print the color of murder on the cigarette. “Sí, she was requested upstairs in the Placita. Why?”
“No reason. If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”
Lorenza snaps the envelope from his hand. “Who’s it from?”
“Ay, Lorenza, give it back.”
She lifts the envelope to the light, trying to peer into it. “Don’t worry, pequeñín, I’ll give it to her.”
“No, the guest asked me to deliver it myself.”
Lorenza pulls the envelope to her chest and lowers her voice. “It’s from a guest? Which one? Is it Max Factor?”
The boy’s face wrinkles with concern, as if he’s committed a grave error. “It’s private, Lorenza. If you interfere I might not get a tip.” He clasps his hands together in a begging plead.
“Fine, chico. I’m just trying to help Ana. We don’t want her to get into trouble again.”
The boy’s eyes widen. “Ana was in trouble?”
Lorenza pulls another drag on her cigarette. “Uy, you didn’t hear that from me. But let’s just say that Ana’s sweet smile might not be so sweet after all.”
“Ay, stop.” Carlitos grabs the envelope and leaves Lorenza to her cigarette.
He takes the service elevator up two levels to the shopping Placita. The Placita is a large cobblestone rotunda, surrounded by a circle of expensive stores. Originally a palace courtyard, the shopping area now features a men’s hat shop, a hair salon, a Spanish specialty store, and the couture boutique of renowned designer Pedro Rodríguez.
That’s where he finds Ana.
Carlitos peers through the storefront window and sees a slender woman wearing a long pink gown, covered with crystal flowers. Ana assists the tailor with a fitting. Carlitos stands by the door, unwilling to step into the underworld of sequins and silk. The fabric finery isn’t the only reason he is bashful. In most department stores in Spain, clothing is displayed on flat silhouettes. The mannequins in the hotel shop have a human female form, with curves and bumps. Some of the curvy mannequins wear revealing dresses.
“I have a delivery,” he calls out, looking away.
Much to his despair, the tailor waves him into the shop.
Ana kneels on the floor near the hem of the dress, taking instruction from the tailor.
“What do you have?” asks the tailor. His speech is garbled through fitting pins held in his mouth.
“A letter.”
He extends a hand to Carlitos.
“No, señor, not for you. For Ana.”
Ana’s head snaps to the boy. “For me?”
“It will have to wait. We’re nearly done,” says the tailor. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Carlitos gives a thick swallow. “Nearly done? But half of the dress is still missing, señor,” he whispers.
“It’s not missing. It’s a plunging back.”
Carlitos pretends to understand. “Oh. Where is she plunging?”
“No, chico, it means the back is open,” says Ana. “The dress is for the fashion gala at the American embassy.”
“Ay, the dress is for Americans. That’s good, we must keep Spanish girls like you out of trouble,” says Carlitos, doing his very best to sound mature.
“Ana, in trouble?” The tailor laughs. “Ana’s too nice to cause trouble.”
29
Trouble? Has someone seen the notes? Ana spies the envelope clutched tightly in the boy’s damp hand. The gold emblem. Her heart drops.
An official hotel envelope.
How could this happen? She swallowed the note days ago. She told no one, not even Rafa. She snatches the envelope from Carlitos and stuffs it in her apron pocket.
“Bueno, you may carefully remove the dress,” the tailor tells the woman, unzipping the side.
Ana follows the model to the fitting room and helps her remove the gown.
“¡Ay! You’re poking me with the pins. What’s wrong with you?” snaps the woman.
“Perdón. I’m sorry, señorita.”
“You should be sorry,” huffs the model. “I can’t have scratches on my skin wearing a dress like this.” She hands the garment to Ana and orders her out of the fitting room.
Ana looks at the beautiful pink gown, a gown she could never afford, a gown too revealing for Spain. The letter from the hotel peeks out of her apron pocket and her sister’s nervous warning floats back to her. She cannot lose this job. They have five mouths to feed.
Ana heads to the back of the shop, and after laying the dress on the tailor’s table, she slips behind a rack of jeweled dresses. She stares at her name on the envelope.
The handwriting is artistic, unique. Fingers trembling, she opens the flap, frightened to look inside. She removes the paper. It’s not a termination letter. It’s an advertisement.
Ana recognizes it immediately. It’s from LIFE magazine, an issue she peeked at in Daniel’s room.