“It’s not a big mouth. It’s called a bright smile. You don’t want the picture?”
She shakes her head. Next to her picture is the photo she took of Daniel in the candy shop. The left side of his mouth lifts in a grin, on the brink of laughter. He looks into the camera with eyes so honest, yet so evidently out of place amidst the pretty sweets. The photo she took is good. It’s beautiful. But it has nothing to do with her photography.
His project—if Daniel made a formal request to her manager—could they work together on it?
Her sister’s warnings whisper loudly.
Ana lifts the basket and makes her way toward the door. “I’m very sorry, señor, but I don’t think I can help you with your project. The hotel keeps me so busy.”
Daniel stands, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He nods in understanding.
As Ana passes the coffee table, she stops. The image in the Hilton hotel magazine sends a wave of chills across her neck.
The massive granite cross.
It’s perched on a hilltop northwest of Madrid within jagged fangs of stone. It towers one hundred fifty meters high and can be seen from over thirty kilometers away.
El Valle de los Caídos. The Valley of the Fallen.
The magazine text barks and beckons:
Nearly twenty years in the making, the Valley of the Fallen approaches completion. Visitors will soon experience this beautiful place of rest and meditation in memory of all those who fell in the glorious crusade.
The reeds of the basket crack beneath her grip. She points to the magazine. “Do you know what this is?”
“Yes, the site where tourists will learn about the Spanish Civil War.”
“Is that what you think?” gasps Ana.
“Is that wrong?” he asks. “I was thinking of visiting to take photos. See, this is why I need your help. I don’t understand, but Jane Doe can explain it to me.”
Ana stares at him, a lump rising in her throat. So, this is how the world sees Spain? Do they think the Valley of the Fallen is a place to buy souvenirs? It’s being built by Republican prisoners.
Ana returns to the photos on the floor, to one that instantly caught her eye. She picks up the photo of the nun and the baby and tosses it on the coffee table. “Sometimes there is no explanation, señor. Good evening.”
Ana exits the room, fighting for breath. She turns the corner in the hallway, slumps down the wall, and wills herself not to cry.
There is a thriving temporary village at the Valley of the Fallen which houses two thousand workers and their families. . . . A marvelous combination of grandeur, magnificence, and simplicity. We strongly recommend a visit.
Castellana Magazine, Hilton Hotels, July 1957
35
They walk in darkness. Madrid’s night sky stretches deep and wide. Their footfalls issue soft calls on the dry sand of the dirt road. Rafa tries to make conversation, but Fuga marches ahead in a trance. He utters only one word: mentirosos.
Liars.
That afternoon they had exhumed the corpse of a four-year-old boy for lack of payment. The family, too poor to pay rent on the cemetery plot, stood crying as the child’s remains were churned and reburied in a common trench. The grandmother wailed curses.
“Please, señora,” explained Rafa. “It is not our fault, only our job. If we do not work, we do not eat.”
“May you choke on the bread you earn from this,” spat the bereaved woman.
“Fuga, she wasn’t blaming or cursing us,” says Rafa. “She was grieving for the child.” Rafa knows that Fuga not only grieves for the boy, he sees himself in every poor child, in each pit heaped with bones. With each trench of the shovel, he is burying himself.
“Mentirosos,” hisses Fuga.
“Think of your own words to me,” says Rafa. “You say we mustn’t allow ourselves to be poisoned by circumstance. Your plan is honorable.”
Fuga nods and spits on the side of the road.
Rafa thinks of his friend’s pledge. Fuga says he will fight for the child—the innocent, the unwanted, the lost children of Spain. He will use money earned from bullfighting to pay rent for the cemetery plots of children. He will save destitute boys from the evil “homes.” This is his plan.
Fuga stops and motions for silence. Was it a voice or a bird? They run to a nearby row of cypress trees. Lying on their stomachs, they listen.
Rafa hears only Fuga. Nostrils flared for fight, Fuga is aflame with determination. The mantra of bullfighting is “To become a bullfighter, you must first become a bull.” Fuga has long been a bull. He has courage and strength to battle any man or beast and remarkable finesse while doing it, but sometimes Rafa worries his friend lacks the inherent grace required of a torero.
The pasture of Don José Isasa Cuadros is not far. Rafa hopes it’s an owl Fuga heard. He hopes at this late hour the Crows are asleep on their barrack cots. So despised are the Crows that they do not serve in the region where they live. The risk to their families is too great.
“Perhaps we train another night,” whispers Rafa.
Fuga says nothing. After several breaths, he stands and resumes walking. Rafa follows his friend toward the pasture, the moon’s glimmer their sole guide.
Most matadors are gentlemen, classically trained toreros. Joselito, Belmonte, and Spain’s beloved Manolete—Rafa reveres them all. When Manolete died, a piece of Spain died with him. He was gored through the thigh, and the teams of special surgeons couldn’t save him. He and Fuga have no special surgeons. There is no one supporting them.
They trudge on, into the closing dark. Rafa issues the reminder.
“The world we seek entrance to, it is a world of men with fat cigars, expensive automobiles, and relationships over many generations. You know that. But it is also a world where courage and skill transcend ancestry, Fuga. If a matador is truly talented, the blood running through his veins is not judged. It is protected.”
Fuga nods.
To practice with bulls in a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. If caught, punishment will be immediate—and final. Rafa will go to confession before Mass on Sunday. He will again ask their priest in Vallecas for forgiveness and courage. Rafa pledges that once he earns money as part of Fuga’s cuadrilla, his entourage, he will secretly compensate the breeders for tainting their bulls. This is his own plan.
They arrive at the pasture. The rumbling exhales and stomps of the bulls pass loudly on the still night air. Fuga unrolls his rusty blanket. He looks to Rafa and nods.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen,” recites Rafa. He makes the sign of the cross.