“Do you know something?”
Ana closes her eyes and releases a frustrated exhale. “Hotel privacy forbids me from saying more.” She leans forward and puts her hand on Daniel’s. “Señor, your parents are not separating. I am so certain of it, let’s make a wager. If I am wrong, I will help you with your project.”
“You’ll be Jane Doe?”
“No, I will not,” says Ana. “I’ll be Tom Collins.”
“Who’s Tom Collins?”
“Tom Collins is a drink on the lobby bar menu. It’s a drink with lots of ice.” She smiles sweetly.
Daniel laughs.
“But we needn’t speak of your project because I will win our bet,” says Ana.
Daniel stares at Ana’s delicate hand on his. She’s touching him, just as she did near the car in Vallecas. He slowly rotates his palm. Their fingers graze and gently thread together. A rush of heat flows down to his hand.
Ana’s eyes flutter and close. “I . . . are those your photos from Vallecas?” She rises and their joined hands surrender. She walks to the display of photographs on the desk.
Ana stands, silent, with her back to Daniel. He runs his nervous palms down the thighs of his jeans.
“Miguel developed them today.”
One image has been enlarged. It’s the portrait of Fuga and it’s stunning.
“¡Dios Mío!” exclaims Ana. “Look at Fuga. He looks like a real torero! Rafa will be thrilled.”
Daniel approaches behind her. “I’m glad you like it. Take it to Rafa. I know he needs the photograph to promote the fight.” Daniel puts the photo in the envelope.
“He will be so pleased, señor. Gracias. You have been very kind to my family.” She looks up at him. “I should be going. Just call room service if you need more ice.” She gives a flustered laugh and makes her way to the door.
He doesn’t want her to leave. “I saw your cousin today.”
Ana stops. “You saw Puri? Where?”
“At the Inclusa. Antonio suggested I go there to take pictures.”
Ana’s face clouds with concern. “The Inclusa?” Her mental processing is visible. “I’m sorry. I must go. I can’t miss my transport back to Vallecas. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow. I know your parents return from Toledo in the morning.”
Daniel nods. “Thank you for talking with me, Ana. I hope you’re right.”
“My pleasure, señor.” She steps outside into the hallway, then pops her head back around the door with a big smile. “I know I am right.”
64
Rafa waits until lunchtime. His announcement will have more impact if all are gathered together. He peeks at the photograph in the envelope, trying not to soil it with fingerprints.
Fuga stands in profile. His figure is in sharp focus but the long road behind him is soft, creating the imagery of a path to destiny. The elegance of the suit is contrasted by the power of his strong jaw and vaulted cheekbones. The photo captures the power, the internal freight train that is Fuga.
The Americano is not only a nice guy, he’s a good photographer.
Rafa passes the bloody aprons hanging from their hooks. He walks to his coworkers, seated at the lunch table. Their sleeves and shoes are smeared with death. Rafa shakes the voices from his head, focusing.
“Caballeros, you have heard of my amigo who will fight this Sunday near Talavera de la Reina.”
“You mean your amigo whose bowels will be punched open by a mangy bull calf?” The men at the table laugh and one interjects with a tale. “I once knew an amateur maletilla. His intestines were gored out. He was so desperate to fight he had a friend stuff his guts back in his belly and sew him up with twine. The hurried stitches were too loose. A piece of his intestine was hanging out.”
The table issues collective groans and nods.
“Sí, sí,” says Rafa. “We have all heard tales of young men pursuing this dream—seeking victory on a Sunday afternoon. For four hundred years, this dream has led Spain’s sons to the grave, has it not?”
The men all nod in agreement.
“We know that it is spectacle and tradition that drives men with money to the ticket window, but it is often hunger and desperation that drives a torero onto the sand.”
The men issue supportive chants of sí, sí.
“These amateur village capeas, we know they are the only way to be seen by benefactors and ranchers. They are often the only way for an amateur to meet a bull. The road to Las Ventas arena in Madrid is long, amigos. But for one aspiring torero who seeks a benefactor and entrance into the world of the corrida, it begins this Sunday. Support this young bullfighter at his first capea. Support him in hopes that he may soon come to el matadero and train here alongside the other aspiring toreros. When he does, we shall claim him as our own.”
Rafa receives a round of applause.
“Does he have a name yet?” asks the supervisor.
“He does.” Rafa steps forward. “Caballeros, you will remember this day, the day you first saw his face. I present to you . . . El Huérfano!”
He removes the photograph from the envelope and proudly displays it to the table. The group of men erupts in loud cheers and applause. Rafa beams with pride.
“El Huérfano. ‘The Orphan’?” mutters his supervisor.
“Sí, he chose the name himself,” whispers Rafa. “During one of his stays in jail a nice cellmate referred to him as El Huérfano.”
The men begin to chatter.
“Have you ever seen a maletilla with such a photograph?”
“Or with such a suit of lights for a village capea?”
Rafa’s supervisor pats him on the back. “Bien hecho. Great job. But, Rafa, are you sure you want to be part of this man’s cuadrilla? You are a natural promoter.”
“Gracias, but this has always been our plan. When we were younger, he helped me. Now I will help him.”
Rafa will wear only a modest black suit of lights. He will always walk behind Fuga, not next to him. No one will ever ask for Rafa’s autograph, nor will he be allowed to eat at the same table as his matador. But he will stand on the sand. He will protect his friend.
He will face fear. And he will win.
65
“He’s fine.”
Sister Hortensia assures Puri that the newly arrived orphan enjoyed a comfortable first night and that the other young boys have welcomed him warmly.