Daniel looks at Ana, processing what’s most important to him. She isn’t dating Nick. She’s in trouble. A charge flows to his fists. Who is threatening her?
“Is anyone nearby?” asks Ana.
Daniel peeks around the palms. He shakes his head.
“The dance last night . . .” Ana lowers her voice. “It was special, dancing with you. I just wanted to tell you, well, in case you were wondering.”
He smiles. What he’s wondering is when he can kiss her.
“But the missing photos—I’m frightened,” says Ana. “Who was in your room and why did they take them?”
He’s concerned too but doesn’t want to worry her. “I don’t know. I hope it was Ben. When someone steals a photo, there’s a reason. That’s good news for my contest entry but bad news for hotel security.”
“It’s bad news for me too. Those captions were personal.” Ana stands to leave. “My break is nearly over. I must get back. I’m babysitting for the next few hours and staying at the hotel tonight.”
“Ana, have dinner with me. We’ll figure this out together.”
“Señor, I cannot be seen dining with a hotel guest.”
“You won’t be seen. I’ll order room service for us. Say you’re visiting Puri and her family. I’ll give some excuse to my parents.”
Ana hesitates. “I don’t think so. I mean, no, I can’t.”
“Please? How can I figure this out by myself?” He gives an imploring look.
“Oh, stop.”
“Say yes. But only if you want to.”
Ana shakes her head. She looks over her shoulder and then suddenly blurts, “Okay, maybe. Yes. I’d like that. I have to go. But promise me you’ll go inside the museum. It’s magical. Sorolla is my most favorite painter.”
“Really? Why?”
Ana smiles widely. She is lighter, unburdened by sharing a truth with Daniel.
“When I look at Sorolla’s pictures of the seaside, I feel the wind and the water. I can feel what it might be like—to be free.”
100
Rafa hacks the shovel into a patch of dry earth, waiting for Fuga. Madrid’s soil is untender, strong and enduring like many who walk upon it. He reviews his rehearsed points. If the Texano takes pictures of the empty coffins, the story will be captured. It will bring Fuga peace and he can focus on bullfighting. This is the plan. But now he must convince his friend.
Fuga appears in the distance, walking over a hill, shovels on each shoulder. The image is solitary, quiet, like Fuga. How can courage be so still, when fear is so powerful? For Rafa, fear wears many faces. It may arrive through a nerve, fluttering upon his eyelid like a moth to a light. Sometimes it’s a hand that awakens him in the night, reaching through a seam of sleep to punch his tired mind. When he asks Fuga about his stillness, his friend shrugs and says, “El momento.”
The moment.
To Fuga, the past no longer exists. The future is yet to exist. Fuga pledges loyalty to the “is,” not the “if.” When he meets a bull, he is fully present. Fuga is passionate but exists in the moment, gives himself to the moment. Rafa envies his friend’s singular presence.
Rafa wipes the sweat from his brow and looks out amidst the graves. Families of Republicans are not able to publicly mourn those they have lost. Even if the location of his father’s body was known, they could not visit the grave. Rafa is lucky to have a job as a gravedigger. He is able to whisper words to his mother each and every day. And sometimes, she whispers back.
Fuga arrives and gives a nod to Rafa.
“I have news. The promoter called. You will fight in Arganda del Rey on Sunday.”
Fuga’s habitually knitted brow rises. A small smile emerges on his cloudy face.
“Sí. Es fantástico,” nods Rafa. “But we have just a few days to prepare. You must listen to me, amigo. You must be focused.”
“¿Yo?” Fuga points to his own chest, offended.
“Sí, tú. You can’t lose your temper and break coffins. You’ll end up in jail and then everything we have worked for is lost. When you become a famous matador, you will save many children and support the orphanages. But as you often say, the future is yet to exist. We exist right now. And right now you must work to become a famous matador.”
Fuga chews on a piece of grass, gazing upon the cemetery, content within his silence.
Rafa begins his rehearsed speech. “Antonio had an idea. I think it’s a good one. The Texano—”
Fuga turns to Rafa with a glare.
“Tranquilo. Listen. The Texano has a camera. He wants to be a photojournalist. If the Texano takes pictures of the empty coffins, he can take photos back to his big papers in America. The issue is no longer silent. Let him share these dangerous stories and the consequences. You stick to the bulls.”
Fuga pauses, digesting Rafa’s words. He then jams his shovel into the dirt and begins to dig.
Dig. Throw. Dig. Throw.
Rafa’s conscience calls out a warning. Dangerous stories. He didn’t imply that the Texano would be in danger, did he? That’s not what he meant. Should he have said important stories?
Fuga pauses, wiping sweat that weeps from his brow. “Sí. Bring the Texano,” he mutters.
Rafa nods, noting the snap of intense determination within his friend.
Fuga returns to his shovel and digs with vigor.
The grave opens like a jaw.
101
Puri walks down the gray tile floors of the clinic. They look cold, like wet concrete.
The clinic serves only one woman today. She’s been in labor since Puri arrived, moaning and asking for her husband.
“You must calm yourself, señora,” instructs the doctor. “Hysterics put undue stress on both mother and baby.”
Puri thinks on the doctor’s comment. The woman is in pain but she isn’t hysterical. Perhaps it’s less dignified to moan about, but giving birth must be extremely difficult. Puri once asked her mother if giving birth was painful. Her mother cringed and waved away the question as if it was not only painful, but too painful to discuss.
Puri takes her place at the front desk. She studies her own frayed cuticles, blocky black shoes, and saggy nylon stockings. Adoption would explain her lack of resemblance to her parents or Ana’s family. Could she really be adopted? If so, did her mother wear a pillow like the woman who came to the Inclusa? Is that why she waved away the questions about childbirth?