“¡Dios Mío! Ana, look. The tall one. Is he a famous actor?”
Ana raises her eyes to the street. It’s not an actor. It’s Daniel. He sees her and waves. She waves back.
“He’s a hotel guest,” whispers Ana.
“Ay, mi madre, you know him?” Puri quickly smooths her hair and skirt.
“Howdy. Taking a break?” asks Daniel.
Ana nods. “This is my cousin, Purificación. We’re visiting for a few minutes. She doesn’t speak English.”
Daniel introduces himself to Puri in Spanish.
Puri’s eyes expand. “Where are you from?” she asks.
“Texas. But my mother is from Spain. Galicia.”
“El Caudillo is from Galicia,” says Puri with a bob of approval.
“Oh, really?” says Daniel.
Puri nods, appraising him. “How old are you?”
Ana shoots an apologetic look, but Daniel smiles. “Nineteen soon.”
“Nineteen,” nods Puri. “In Texas, are you Catholic?” she asks.
“Puri!” gasps Ana.
“I’ve heard that some Americans aren’t Catholic.”
“Many Americans aren’t Catholic,” says Daniel.
“Why?” asks Puri.
“Because some are Protestant, some are Jewish. There are quite a few religions in America.”
Puri’s brow knits in confusion.
“I’m sorry, señor,” says Ana, trying to reroute the conversation in English. “She hasn’t met many Americans. She’s just curious. She doesn’t mean any offense.”
“I’m not offended. My mom is Catholic. My dad had to convert to marry her. Kind of an ordeal in Texas.”
Puri frowns at their English, excluded from the conversation.
Daniel looks at Ana. “Say, I just picked up my photographs from Miguel.”
“Are you pleased?”
“I think so. I’d like your opinion. But I better be careful.” Daniel lowers his voice. “Did you hear? Boys from Dallas are getting lost in the basement.”
Ana raises her eyes to his. “Yes, I heard. Probably hunting for ice.”
She glances casually to the street, trying to conceal the blush deepening down the length of her neck. She hopes he does not see it.
He does. His grin says so.
Ana notes Puri trying to decode their exchange, trying to rejoin the conversation. Puri’s eyes land on Daniel’s boots. They’re the color of toffee, have a squared toe, and are well past the effort of a shine. “Do you ride a horse in Texas?” she asks.
“I do. We’ve got a bay quarter named Tony.”
“You have a horse named Tony?” Puri bursts into a nervous fit of giggles.
Daniel looks to Ana. “I guess that’s funny? Well, I’m going to head up to my room.” He gives a wave to the girls and departs down the sidewalk.
Puri grabs Ana’s arm. “I just met an American,” she whispers.
“Yes, you did.”
“Nice to meet you, Daniel!” Puri calls after him.
“Nice to meet you too, Puri.” He points to Ana and switches to English. “She called me Daniel. Sounds pretty good, don’t you think?” He smiles and shrugs his shoulders.
“What did he say?” asks Puri.
“He said goodbye,” says Ana quietly, watching the retreating figure of Daniel Matheson cast a tall shadow on the sidewalk.
32
Puri stares at her cousin. Ana is lying. Again.
The American boy said more than goodbye. Does Ana speak with many boys at the hotel? Is she properly chaperoned in their rooms when she cleans? Ana’s cheeks are flushed. The look in her eyes, is that what Puri has been warned about?
Puri thinks of all that Ana might see at the Hilton. Are some of the guests Protestants and Jews, like Daniel mentioned? Sister Hortensia says Americans are known to be indecent and libertine. Puri thinks of it with equal parts pity and fascination. What, exactly, defines indecency? Was it indecent of her to call out to Daniel on the street?
Her parents whisper about Ana. They say it is not her fault. They say Ana is a beautiful girl, punished by her father’s blood.
Spanish Republican blood. The “Reds” tried to pull Spain away from virtue. But what does that really mean? wonders Puri. And why won’t anyone answer her questions?
“Thanks for coming to visit me,” says Ana sweetly.
Puri wraps her arms around her cousin. Poor Ana. But perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps Puri can help Ana like she helps the orphans at the Inclusa.
Perhaps she can save her.
The sensual woman has sunken eyes, flushed cheeks, transparent ears, pointed chin, dry mouth, sweaty hands, broken waist, insecure step and a sad overall being. . . . Only her damaged imagination remains active with the representation of lascivious images which fill it completely. The sensual woman should not expect serious work, serious respect, clean feelings or welcoming tenderness.
—FATHER GARCÍA FIGAR
Medina, magazine of the Sección Femenina, August 12, 1945
33
Rafa finds Fuga in the cemetery work shed. On most nights, when Fuga’s not roaming the pastures or visiting Rafa, this is where he sleeps. In the corner of the corrugated metal hut between stacks of shovels sits a lantern and a pallet of straw. Apart from his tattered clothing, Fuga has only two possessions that Rafa knows of—a magazine clipping of a Miura bull and a small gold pendant with a serene, hand-painted likeness of Blessed Mother Mary.
The energy in the shed has a brewing, cyclonic feel. ‘‘¿Qué pasa?’’ asks Rafa.
Fuga paces the small space, nostrils flared, fingers splaying and clenching. Anger courses through his body with such force that the vibration is visible.
“Cálmate. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Fuga slowly raises his hand and points.
A miniature plywood coffin sits in the dirt. It’s for an infant.
“Ay, it’s very sad,” agrees Rafa. “Poor niño.” Rafa understands his friend’s frustration. Whether sick, disabled, or orphaned, vulnerable children trigger deep feelings of injustice within Fuga. He wants to protect them. “No one protected us. No one,” he often says.
“I’ll help you bury it. It will be quick with two of us.” Rafa takes a step toward the coffin, but Fuga moves to block him. He looks down at Rafa and shakes his head.