Meet us at Taberna de Antonio Sánchez.
9:45 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn
Eating at Botín. Join us.
11:10 p.m. From Nicholas Van Dorn
Heading for Pasapoga club on Gran Vía.
11:15 p.m. From Tom Collins
Sleep well.
Tom Collins. He smiles. The message was an hour ago. Is Ana home in Vallecas now? Or is this one of the days she stays overnight at the hotel? He thinks about stealing down to the basement to check.
At the very bottom of the stack is a Western Union telegram. The envelope is sealed and addressed to Daniel. Is it from his uncle? He tears it open.
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
—VIA NIGHT LETTER CABLE
SENDER: LAURA BETH JOYCE—DALLAS, TX
MR. DANIEL MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON, MADRID
CAN WE TALK? I’M SORRY. I WANT TO COME TO MADRID.
70
Daniel calls to have the breakfast dishes picked up, hoping to see Ana. Just as he hangs up the phone, there’s a knock at the door.
Ben Stahl leans on the doorframe, tie wrestled loose. Pieces of his normally slick hair stand in exclamation points. His flapping shirttail is stained with red wine. “I called you.” Ben’s voice sounds like he’s gargled with gasoline.
“I got back after midnight. I figured it was too late,” says Daniel.
“Late? You’re joking, right? I haven’t been to sleep yet. But the word late, let’s think about that word. It’s such an important one, isn’t it? Late—often paired with regret or disappointment.” Ben’s lungs chime in, hacking up a nightclub of cigarette smoke.
“How did you know what suite I was in?” asks Daniel.
“I’ve got connections to get me where I need to be. Listen, I need a photographer on Monday. My guy has to be in Barcelona. Are you available?”
Daniel’s heart hops. He tries to act casual. “Sure. What’s the assignment?”
“You’ll be perfect for this. But I don’t have a budget so there’s no pay.”
“That’s fine,” says Daniel. As the words leave his mouth, he knows he responded too quickly.
Ben nods. “That’s fine because you’re stinkin’ rich or that’s fine because you understand the value of an opportunity?”
Daniel accepts the challenge. “First, I’m not rich. If I were, I’d be on my way to J-School. Second, if you need a free shoot it sounds like you’re the one who grasps opportunity value.”
Ben laughs. “There he is, swingin’ those punches. Hey, can I use your john?”
Without waiting for an answer, Ben pushes past Daniel into the room. He sees the wall of photos and stops.
“Actually, I’m not ready to share those yet,” says Daniel.
“You’re not ready? Looks like you’ve got your own exhibition here.” Ben scans the photos. He moves in, pushing his face close to the pictures. “Holy hell, Matheson.”
A knock echoes at the door. Daniel opens it and finds not Ana, but Lorenza, lips candied like an apple, hip swung to one side.
“Buenos días, señor.”
Unlike Ana, Lorenza enters without invitation. Her eyes are instantly glued to the photo wall. Ben’s eyes are instantly glued to Lorenza.
“Hi there, sweet cheeks.”
Lorenza gives Ben a wave and turns to Daniel. “Do you like flamenco, señor? You should photograph some flamenco dancers.” Lorenza stares at him. Her beckoning gaze reminds him of Laura Beth and how her every expression looks staged, like she’s posing for a camera.
“Flamenco, sure. Say, Lorenza, could you have Ana bring up some towels?” asks Daniel.
Lorenza makes a clucking with her tongue. “Ay, no. Ana is very busy, señor.” Lorenza slaps the back of the chair with a cloth, as if she’s dusting it, sauntering closer to the photos.
“Ay, look at the matador. Oh and Ana, washing his face. Qué bonito. Oh, look at the pequeñines! Sweet little ones. How did you get such photos?”
“It’s what we do. We’re journalists,” says Ben. “Excuse me. Gotta drain the radiator.” Ben closes the bathroom door.
Daniel is equally honored and unnerved that Ben is referring to them together as journalists. He’s also unnerved that so many people are in his room.
“If Ana is too busy, shall I call the manager to make the request?” he asks Lorenza.
Lorenza stiffens. “No. I’ll get her now. Towels, you said?” She scurries toward the door.
“And the breakfast dishes?” says Daniel.
“Señor, you must call room service for the dishes.”
“I did. I thought they sent you. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
The door clicks shut.
Ben emerges from the bathroom, returns to the photos, and lights a cigarette.
“Really, Matheson. I’m impressed. The Magnum judges will be too. These are better than anything in your portfolio. I might even be able to use some.”
Daniel accepts the compliment.
“Has anyone seen these?”
“Just my dad,” replies Daniel. “And Miguel, who developed them.” He doesn’t mention that Ana has also seen them. All of them.
“Keep your negatives in a safe place,” says Ben. “Meet me in the lobby of the hotel Monday at nine a.m. I’ve gotta get some shut-eye.” He gives a wave and exits.
Daniel still has no idea what the assignment is.
71
Lorenza dashes into the supply room. “Ana, where have you been? Señor Matheson has requested towels. I told him you were very busy this morning. He became impatient and said he’s going to complain to the manager.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you weren’t doing your job. Ay, why is he so serious all the time? Max Factor is much nicer. He gave me the prettiest bottle of perfume. It’s a cat with a feather boa and—Ana, are you listening? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” says Ana, grabbing two towels from the shelf.
“Bueno. I thought maybe you were sick.” Lorenza edges closer with a curling grin. “Lovesick.”
Ana ignores the remark and rushes by Lorenza to the elevator. When she arrives at Daniel’s suite, a room-service attendant is removing the breakfast dishes.