Shep shakes his head. “As public affairs officer, I manage American affairs privately—if you know what I mean. Franco’s men are trained to shoot, no questions asked.”
Daniel takes a breath. No questions asked. It feels like the mantra for Spain.
* * *
Before leaving the hospital, Daniel stops to look in on Nick. His face—the color and shape of a deformed plum—is monstrous with swelling.
“Hola, prizefighter,” says Nick. “They’ll discharge me by tonight, in time for us to go back to the club. Think my face will be ready by then?” He laughs and then winces in pain. “Did my old man find you?”
“Yeah. We spoke.”
“He’s worried that your dad will be angry.”
“My father knows I fight. I’ve done some boxing in Texas.”
“Really?” Nick shakes his head. “You’re a riddle, Matheson. I owe you one.”
Why do both Nick and his father speak so freely of “owing”? Daniel wonders. “You don’t owe me anything. Get some rest.”
“Take a picture. I know you want to. I’ll hang it in my dorm room.”
Daniel looks through the viewfinder of his camera. Lying in the hospital bed is a young man with every opportunity. Despite being a slick diplomat, Shep seems reasonable and would probably pay for J-School or any school Nick wanted. Father-son dynamics. A complex portrait, indeed.
Daniel snaps a picture.
43
“¡Buenos días, señor!” Carlitos meets Daniel at the entrance to the hotel, bouncing with enthusiasm.
“Hola, Buttons.”
“May I see?”
“See what?”
Carlitos points to Daniel’s hands. “Tex-has! Pow! Pow!”
Daniel slides his hand into his pocket. “How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knows, señor.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“The hotel staff at the nightclub saw. The two bad men who hurt Señor Van Dorn tried to hurt you too. They say you punched them both, while the newspaperman was smoking. Did they have big knives?” asks Carlitos, pointing to the blood on Daniel’s dress shirt.
Daniel walks into the hotel. Carlitos trails close behind, peppering him with questions. If Carlitos knows, has the news already reached his parents? He dreads his father’s reaction. He’ll tell him the truth. But what is the truth? That it felt good to fight?
The morning quiet of the lobby falls even more still as Daniel walks across the chessboard-marble floors. Employees cease talking and silently watch him make his way to the elevator. A young porter points and whispers.
The elevator climbs to the seventh floor. The attendant does not make eye contact. Instead, he clings to the wall, keeping distance from Daniel. In the mirrors of the elevator, Daniel sees his reflection. His left hand is caked with freshly clotted scabs. His dress shirt is torn and bloodied. He’s missing his tie.
Daniel holds his camera to the side and snaps a self-portrait in the mirror.
Hoping to avoid his parents, he quickly walks past their suite and quietly enters his own. A note has been slipped under the door.
AT MEETINGS. HEARD ABOUT YOUR NIGHT. LET’S KEEP IT BETWEEN US. YOUR MOTHER IS RESTING. WE LEAVE FOR TOLEDO THIS AFTERNOON IF YOU’D LIKE TO COME ALONG.
—DAD
Let’s keep it between us. No reprimand? No anger?
The suite has been cleaned. Has Ana been there? A large silver tray sits upon the table in the center of the room. Fresh juice, coffee, a large plate of churros with a cup of chocolate, and a small bucket of ice. Daniel puts several ice cubes in the cloth napkin and presses them against his torn fist. He leans back in the chair, exhausted. He is about to close his eyes, but then he sees it. A newspaper, strategically folded and propped next to the coffeepot, displays a photograph.
He’s in it.
44
There is a category of unspeakable things, a dark drawer where inexpressible truths live in exile. Julia knows them well.
Don’t speak. Don’t tell.
Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut. That’s what her aunt Teresa says.
Julia sits in the corner of the shop, repairing a pair of trousers for a matador. The ornate embroidery that scrolls down the outside of the leg is expertly designed and measured to flatter the matador’s frame. Julia tugs at her thread, pulling it taut.
When life is hectic, Julia is able to keep thoughts and questions tucked in the back of the drawer. Today, during a rare quiet of early morning, her thoughts turn gently inward as she works. Each stitch a meditation.
What is the cost of silence? If she remains quiet about her suspicions, is she granting acceptance of what is happening? If she imposes silence upon Ana and Rafa, what is that telling them? That she is ashamed of their parents? Their parents did nothing wrong. They were academics, hardworking, sophisticated people. Their father wanted to create a school outside of the Catholic Church. That is all.
Her mind reaches deeper into the drawer. That is not all.
After the Francoists killed her father, Julia’s mother joined the resistance. Despite the pleas of friends and family, her mother secretly sewed Republican flags for nearly a year. When Franco’s troops arrested her, no one came to her aid. Neighbors hid behind their curtains, full of fear and panic. Those who shared her convictions did nothing to protect her. The price was too high.
They shaved her head in prison. They branded her bare flesh with the yoke-and-arrow symbol of the Falange. They force-fed her castor oil so she would soil herself. They paraded her mother through the streets, human dignity excreting down her legs for all to see. Their mother, a teacher, became a human billboard:
This is what happens when you become a Rojilla, a little Red.
There is so much heartache, so much pain. Tired of being fearful, tired of being hungry—most days Julia is too tired to fight. But keeping the drawer of secrets tightly locked doesn’t mean she condones the dictator or the Falange. It means she wants to protect all that remains. So she repeats Aunt Teresa’s mantra: Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut. Life is prettier with its mouth shut.
Her siblings feel otherwise. Full of energy, they long for truth and justice. It is difficult for the younger generation. Rafa believes he can liberate himself through the conquering of fear. He will assist the gravedigger matador. The bullring will become his theater of courage. Ana believes she can author her own destiny and eventually leave Spain. But her sister’s dreams are too large. Too dangerous. Ana thinks Julia does not see her pain. She does. Last night Ana cried herself to sleep after returning from her day at the hotel. Her sister’s tears, the audible famine of isolation, it made her cry as well.