He is referring to a thin volume that Rafa cherishes. It’s a favorite book of his father’s, containing the philosophy of Seneca.
“Gold is tried by fire and brave men by adversity,” says Rafa.
“Sí,” whispers Fuga. “I will emerge from this fire and when I do”—his head snaps to Rafa, wild eyes ablaze—“I’ll burn them all down.”
7
Daniel reluctantly takes a chair in his parents’ suite. How could he be so stupid? Why didn’t he tell the guards he was staying at the Ritz? They could have followed him there and no one would have known. The guards must have better things to do than chaperone a kid with a camera. It’s not a big deal.
But if it’s not a big deal, why is he still sweating? The images flash constantly through his mind.
The gray baby. The nun’s face snapping toward the lens. Her look of shock as she scurried away. The sudden appearance of the guards.
Daniel stares at the camera in his lap. Thankfully, they didn’t notice the roll in his pocket. Will the image of the infant appear on film as it remains fixed in his mind?
Bringing the camera to his eye, he frames his broad-shouldered father against the small hotel desk. His dad looks up and shakes his head. The disappointment presses Daniel’s well-worn guilt button. Why can’t he find passion in oil drilling like his father? It would be so much easier.
His mother evaluates her dresses and clears the annoyance from her throat.
“It was an accident, Martin. Daniel didn’t know.”
“I’m getting tired of these ‘accidents,’ María. Two days before our trip he got into a fight at the movie theater.”
“I didn’t pick a fight, Dad. I was defending a friend,” says Daniel. He was defending a friend—while enjoying the opportunity to slug a longtime neighborhood bully.
“You’re mighty lucky the Dallas police let you off with a warning. You’re eighteen. You can be tried as an adult. And this?” His father opens his arms in query. “We’ve been in Madrid barely twenty-four hours, and the lobby manager tells me you were escorted back by the Guardia Civil?”
“I wish the valets wouldn’t have seen,” says his mother.
“I wish you hadn’t bought him that camera,” snaps his father.
“I wish you’d stop arguing,” says Daniel.
“We’re not arguing.” His mother sighs and turns to Daniel. “Your father and I, we have weeks of engagements and trips, cariño. I thought it would be exciting for you to explore on your own. But maybe it’s not safe. I no longer have family in Spain if something happens while we’re away. And now you’re so far from Laura Beth.”
He still hasn’t told his parents about the breakup. They’ll ask all sorts of questions. Daniel examines his camera, dodging the topic of Laura Beth and wishing he had photographed the pretty girl in his hotel room. “I’m sorry. It was a dumb mistake. I’m completely fine on my own. Really.”
He gives his mom an apologetic shrug. Recently, his mother’s tone has developed a tired edge. She’s the one who begged to return to Spain, but since arriving, she seems nervous. Daniel recognizes his mother’s reaction—it’s her fear of not fitting in.
María Alonso Moya Matheson was born in the Galicia region of Spain but raised as a Spanish American in Texas. In public, his mother is the wife of an oil magnate and appears completely American. She baked fund-raiser cakes for the Eisenhower campaign. She supports the Hockaday School and the Junior League, and is accepted by the socialites of Preston Hollow and Dallas at large. At home, his mom speaks to him only in Spanish. He is cariño, darling, or tesoro, treasure. Many of their servants have Spanish heritage. His mother makes certain that Spanish food and customs are fixtures in his life.
“It’s difficult navigating two cultures,” she once told him. “I feel like a bookmark wedged between chapters. I live in America, but I am not born of it. I’m Spanish.”
His mom is thrilled that oil business has brought them to Spain. She wants to expose them to the country her late parents so adored. Pure Spain. Noble Spain. This is her plan.
His father snaps open his briefcase.
“I’m not here to bail you out of trouble, Dan. This isn’t a vacation for me. Franco will only grant drilling rights to a few American companies. I’ll tour the sites and close a deal before summer’s end. That’s the plan,” says his father. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replies Daniel.
Daniel is freshly graduated from St. Mark’s School of Texas. In the fall he’ll enter Texas A&M University and following graduation he’ll join the family oil operation—his college tuition is contingent upon it.
Daniel’s thoughts return to the image of the dead baby; the photograph could anchor his portfolio submission. The cash award from the Magnum prize could easily pay for a year of journalism school instead of Texas A&M.
“We’re invited to a dinner reception at the Van Dorns’,” says his father. “They have a son your age and he’s back from boarding school in Switzerland.”
“The Van Dorns. Diplomats from Oyster Bay, the Long Island set,” says his mother. “Several of these prestigious families have posts in the U.S. Embassy. Daniel, mi amor, please wear slacks and a tie. I wish you wouldn’t wear those denims all the time. You look like a ranch hand.” She grimaces. “Is your sleeve torn?”
Daniel quickly examines his shirt. “Oh, must have caught it on something.”
The guards took his film and tore his sleeve? If that’s how they treat tourists, how do they treat locals? He heads toward the door.
His mother gently takes his arm. “I saw they have postcards in the lobby. Make sure to mail a card to Laura Beth each day. Her family will expect that.”
He exits the room with his camera, unwilling to cause a scene.
No need to worry his mother with the truth about Laura Beth.
8
Puerta del Sol. The heartbeat of Madrid.
Evening gathers tourists and locals who linger near the fountains and stairs to the Metro. The words GONZÁLEZ BYASS glow green from the TÍO PEPE sign atop a building, throwing an eerie radiance into the paling sky.
Ana walks down the narrow cobblestone street. The swallowed note is gone, but a taste remains.
I know what you’ve done.
She looks over her shoulder before slipping through the unmarked door. At the bottom of the darkened stairway, a soft light pulses beneath the entry. She pauses to listen, then pushes through the door.