“I received a few cables from the office,” says his dad. As his father recounts the updates from his colleagues in Dallas, Daniel considers what his friends at home might be doing. The guys are probably seeing a picture show at the Majestic. The girls are probably at Titches Tea Room.
Although he thinks about it, Daniel doesn’t miss it. His genetic connection to Spain feels deeply inscribed. He loves the narrow, cobbled side streets of Madrid, the plate-glass windows with piles of pink shrimp, dried tuna, and advertisements for squid cooked in their own ink. He loves that the walls of every café on the Calle de Victoria are pasted with faded posters of bullfights and portraits of matadors. He appreciates the convenience of the Metro and that so much of life in Spain is lived outside, instead of inside. He enjoys his photography mentor, Miguel, the monologues from Ben, and most of all, his exchanges with Ana. In Madrid, Daniel finally feels adult, free to pursue what inspires him, and able to navigate the world on his own.
His mother reaches across the table, interrupting his thoughts. She takes his hand. “I’ve begged your father not to tell you, but perhaps you’ve figured it out. I’ve been sick, tesoro.”
69
Daniel stares out the window of the taxi. It’s well after midnight. Lights and life sparkle in Madrid. He’d prefer to walk on his own, but fears it will offend his parents.
Sick.
His parents are not separating. His mother had what she calls an “incident.” They assure him all will be well. In time. After the “incident” she was sick and there may still be a “procedure.” But she is recovering and wanted to visit Spain. She has no remaining relatives in the country, but it is her country. She gathers strength and grounding here. It will aid her healing.
She shared the cryptic news in a restaurant. This is her way. It would be unacceptable to become emotional in public. So the details were conveyed over cava and vermouth at a candlelit table, where they could be explained flatly, without tears. The plan seemed to work until he began to ask questions.
“Mom, I had no idea you were sick. What’s wrong?”
His mother is silent. After a moment, she looks to his dad.
“There was a baby,” whispers his father.
A baby. Was. Past tense.
“Your mother had wanted another child so badly. We tried through the years but then gave up. A few months ago your mother became pregnant. We were both shocked and elated but said nothing. It seemed too good to be true and we wanted to consult the doctors before sharing the news.”
His mother takes a breath, her lips quivering. “And it was too good to be true. I lost the child.”
His father reaches across the table and gently takes his mother’s hand.
Daniel looks at his parents’ clasped fingers. He fumbles for words. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”
His mother quickly moves her hand to his shoulder. “No, no. I’m okay, tesoro. Really. I’m suffering most from the injustice of it all. It seems incredibly unfair that such a blessing and dream were given and then lost. My spirits were terribly low and so your father has brought us along to Spain. It’s already done a world of good.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was devastated, emotionally and physically. The last thing I wanted was to worry you or for anyone back home to know. I made your father swear the doctors to secrecy. I’ve confided only in the priest and your uncle.”
“Mom, you can’t keep all of this bottled up.”
“I will not plague our family with indecency or gossip.”
“A miscarriage is not indecent.”
“Shh. People talk, Daniel. You must know I hear the whispers and jokes. That we’re a ‘mixed marriage,’ that your father married a Spanish dancer. You don’t understand, dear.”
He does. He hears the jabs too. Oil money is new money. His family is nouveau riche. Laura Beth’s family claimed they weren’t a good fit because his mother was “too ethnic.” Considering the news, he’s relieved he didn’t tell her about the breakup.
“Mom, forget about other people. Your health is what’s important, right?”
The tension at the table is palpable. His mother sits wholly erect, as if a yardstick had been placed down the back of her dress. She holds the stem of her glass delicately, with her thumb and two forefingers. Her large diamond rings reflect and sparkle amidst the bubbles through the glass.
The stiffness, it’s the American part of his mother and it pains him.
“Excuse me.” She smiles and departs for the restroom.
Daniel fiddles with the fork on the table. His father releases a deep sigh.
“What did the doctors say?” asks Daniel.
“An issue with the uterus. They may eventually have to remove it. It’ll all be fine, partner.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
The nervous edge in his mother’s voice, the crying behind closed doors, his parents supporting an orphanage, the pieces complete the picture. He and his father sit, silent, until Daniel speaks.
“Now I understand—the orphanage deal,” he says. “Nick mentioned it.”
“That kid’s a loose cannon. No wonder he’s getting beat up. Nothing’s been decided. I need to close this drilling deal first.” He flags a waiter for another vermouth.
His mother returns to the table full of smiles. “I just love this restaurant, don’t you? It’s a shame you didn’t bring your camera. We could have taken a family picture. You look so handsome in a suit.”
Her enthusiasm is genuine. But he knows his mother. She uses happiness as a shield. She’s trying to protect him or prepare him. Maybe both.
* * *
Daniel unlocks the door to his suite. On the coffee table is a plate with round chocolates bearing the gold crest of the Castellana Hilton. Neighboring the plate are several notes and messages. The first is a folded piece of paper. He hopes it’s from Ana.
¡Amigo! My sister is bringing you this note. Thank you for the photograph. It’s fabulosa! Everyone is impressed by it. Fuga is now El Huérfano, isn’t it great? Please don’t forget us on Sunday. We will be waiting for you and your big car. See you soon, Texano!
—Rafa
The next notes are message slips from the hotel operator.
8:25 p.m. From Benjamin Stahl
Call me at the Bureau. An opportunity.
8:30 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn