“Not at all,” replies Daniel. “I’m a finalist in a photography contest in the States. I’d welcome your help.” He opens the paper sleeve and begins removing the photos. He doesn’t look at them. Instead, he quickly lays them on the counter, like he’s dealing from a deck of cards. Once all of the photos are displayed, Daniel steps back to evaluate. He immediately realizes: One photograph is missing.
The photo of the nun and the baby. It’s not among the pictures. He swears he pressed the shutter. The photograph should be there. He sees Miguel eyeing him from behind the counter.
Daniel quickly selects one picture and sets it off to the side, facedown. He chooses two more and moves them to a different position. He then creates two groups, arranged in lines. Miguel watches Daniel with fascination, as he assembles a narrative with the pictures.
“¿Qué piensas?” Daniel asks Miguel for his thoughts.
Miguel studies the squares like a chessboard. He opens his hands, asking for Daniel’s permission.
“Por favor.” Daniel nods.
Miguel moves the photo of the hungry girl outside the candy shop next to a shot of the Van Dorns’ lush dinner table.
“Sí,” agrees Daniel. “That’s good.”
Some lines create a narrative with pictures from the same setting. Others build a story by the positioning of opposites.
Daniel and Miguel stand in silent evaluation, arms crossed, brows creased. Daniel suddenly jumps to the counter. He pulls the photos of children and creates a new line. The poor girl at the candy store window, Carlitos posing proudly in the hotel lobby, and the small son of an American diplomat in a miniature suit and tie.
“Sí,” applauds Miguel. “The next generation. The future.” Miguel then takes the photo of the American child and positions it between the two Spanish children.
“That’s it,” says Daniel. “America within Spain.”
They both smile, satisfied with the story threads they’ve created.
Miguel steps back from the counter. “Muy bonito. Is this how you always do it?”
“It’s not how I do it; it’s how I see it,” explains Daniel. “A single photo has to be powerful to tell a story on its own, like Capa’s. I haven’t mastered that yet. For now, I create stories by positioning things side by side. But—” Daniel reaches into the envelope for the negatives. “One photograph seems to be missing.”
“¿Ah, sí?”
Miguel remains silent while Daniel inspects his negatives. It’s there. The image is there. Why didn’t Miguel develop it?
Before Daniel can ask, Miguel points to the single photo that sits alone outside the groupings. He turns it over. It’s the photo of Ana, her bright smile reflecting amidst the multiple mirrors in the elevator.
“And this one? Where does she fit in?”
Daniel looks at the picture. It’s perfect. Natural and fun, like their conversation in the basement. “I guess that one’s a story all her own.” He begins to gather the photos.
Miguel bellows a hearty laugh, loud enough to float outside and bounce among the balls on the street. “That’s what Rafael would say.”
Daniel slides the photos back into the paper sleeve. “Rafael’s her boyfriend?”
Miguel watches Daniel avoid his eyes, yet wait for a reply.
“No, Texano,” he says quietly. “Rafa is her older brother.” And after a pause, “She has an older sister too.”
Daniel nods without raising his glance. He reaches for his wallet to pay. “Gracias, Miguel. But . . . I think you missed one frame on the strip.”
Miguel takes the money from Daniel and drums his tobacco-stained fingers on the counter. He disappears behind the curtain. When he reappears, he’s holding a photo. “Ay, I thought perhaps this one was a mistake.” He sets it on the counter.
The swirling robes of the nun. The empty stare of the dead child. The image is there, just as Daniel remembers it. It’s haunting, unsettling. There’s a story, but what is it? He should have paid more attention to his surroundings, to the buildings on the street.
Miguel clears his throat. “You’re very talented. But remember, Spain is not your country. Be careful, amigo.”
The Guardia Civil delivered a similar message. Daniel knows the words of caution are meant to dissuade him. They should.
But they don’t.
Mr. Capa, specialist in the shot-and-shell school of photography, was the kind of close-up lens artist who made veteran combat troops blink in uneasy disbelief. . . . He jumped with paratroopers into Germany; he landed on the Normandy beachhead on D-Day; he was one of the advance arrivals on Anzio. And he shrugged away the risks with the remark that “for a war correspondent to miss an invasion is like refusing a date with Lana Turner after completing a five-year stretch at Sing Sing.”
“Cameraman Capa Killed in Vietnam: Photographer for LIFE Dies in Explosion of a Land Mine—At Front Only Few Days”
The New York Times, May 26, 1954
31
Ana stands on the sidewalk near the hotel, laughing at her inquisitive cousin.
“Ay, don’t laugh,” says Puri. “Julia must know Ordóñez. She makes suits for all of the famous matadors. Has she met him? Just tell me.”
Ordóñez. To her cousin, he is Spanish perfection. Bullfighter, husband, father.
“Julia doesn’t speak of the customers. You know that,” smiles Ana. Puri is remarkably naïve. La Sección Femenina, the women’s section of the fascist movement, is succeeding with her cousin. Women should aspire to the ultimate cultural archetype—the Virgin Mary.
For some girls, nature dissolves doctrine once they’re noticed by boys. Ana wonders when Puri’s innocent world might become more complicated. Daniel’s photograph of the Texas party and the sultry girl blowing a kiss to his camera returns to Ana. Is that his girlfriend?
“Is it true that Rafa’s friend will fight near Talavera de la Reina?”
Ana wipes a meandering hair from her cousin’s eyes and takes her hand. “Puri, in the few minutes we have, let’s speak of something other than bullfights. How are Aunt and Uncle?”
“They’re fine,” she says with a sigh. “Mother would like to see Julia and Lali. It’s been a month.”
Ana nods. Puri’s mother is her aunt Teresa, her mother’s younger sister. Aunt Teresa took care of Ana while her mother was in prison. She longs for details of her mother’s final days, but her aunt still refuses to provide any. Is it too painful or too dangerous? Ana avoids the alternative: It is too shameful.