Laura Beth sighs and turns toward Daniel’s father. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matheson. I told you this wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure my father will reimburse you for the plane fare.”
She hands her napkin to Daniel. “You have lipstick on your ear.”
109
They stand in line for blood.
June’s bright sun shines across a string of women waiting patiently at el matadero. Fans snap open and flutter, replying to Madrid’s warmth and the scent of open flesh wafting from the slaughterhouse.
The women carry empty jars and cans, bladders for the blood. Daniel lies on the ground, snapping photographs of their well-worn shoes painted with dry dirt and life mileage.
A woman scowls at him until another points to his press badge. Periodista, she advises. Upon seeing the government-approved badge, the woman’s grimace dissolves. To the rear of the slaughterhouse, young matadors train with their promoters. Daniel snaps a picture.
“Sí, that’s where El Huérfano will eventually train,” announces Rafa.
Daniel takes pictures of empty meat hooks dangling from the ceiling, of Rafa scrubbing and hosing blood from the floor, and tacking his apron at day’s end.
“You must return to take training pictures. But for now, let’s go to the cemetery.”
Rafa flags down a gasping truck. He and Daniel join a dozen men in the back of the vehicle. Their faces are soot stained, labor worn, and hungry. Three men share a clay jug of wine. No one speaks. The violent bouncing upon the pitted road makes Daniel’s teeth clack and his tailbone hurt. The man next to him is fast asleep.
He sits on his shins, pulling up to his knees to photograph the men whenever the truck pauses or stops. Daniel has been granted access to a world outside his own. He is inside the photo.
And he loves it.
And then, at an intersection, he sees the shot he has been waiting for.
A group of Guardia Civil stand on the corner. The Crows.
Patent-leather men with patent-leather souls.
Light hits their faces, and their winged hats throw ominous, bruised shadows on a nearby wall. The men in the truck stare into their laps. Daniel looks through the lens. This is it.
Ben’s lecture returns to him. Be smart about it. Daniel holds the camera in position but moves his face away from the lens as if he’s looking elsewhere. He presses the shutter. He quickly hunches back down in the truck, holding his breath. The vehicle drives on.
Rafa shakes his head. “Estás loco, Texano.”
A sense of triumph floods through him. He’s not crazy—he’s happy.
After several minutes of driving Rafa bangs on the cab of the truck, and it comes to a stop. They jump down and Daniel follows Rafa to a quiet side street that runs along the edge of the cemetery.
“Have you got enough film?” asks Rafa.
“Plenty.”
They enter through a small maintenance gate. A corrugated metal shed, the size of a single-car garage, stands at the perimeter. It’s dented, rusty, and crooked.
“Welcome, amigo, to the house of El Huérfano,” says Rafa, opening his arms. “Come inside.”
Fuga lies in the corner of the shed, asleep on his straw. Near his sandaled feet are two small coffins made of wood. Daniel crouches, photographing Fuga as he sleeps.
Rafa gives a whistle that awakens Fuga.
“Hola,” says Daniel.
Fuga says nothing.
Daniel props open the shed door for light. “I’m here to take some pictures?”
“Sí. Fuga believes there is a news story here.”
“What kind of story?”
“A confusing one,” says Rafa. “These tiny coffins. We receive a couple each month. They are brought by the hospitals or the maternity clinics. Of course it’s very sad.”
Daniel looks at the coffins, each the size of a bread box. One has a hand-drawn blue cross on the lid, the other a pink cross.
“Take a picture,” commands Fuga.
“Of these?” asks Daniel.
Fuga kneels in front of the coffin. He lifts a small tire iron from the dirt.
“Wait, you’re not going to open it, are you?” Daniel’s head snaps to Rafa.
“Tranquilo, Texano,” advises Rafa.
“That’s probably illegal,” says Daniel.
Fuga pries open the lid.
“Stop!”
Fuga grabs a fistful of muslin from the coffin. He holds up the empty box.
“Wait,” says Daniel, exhaling in relief—and confusion. “It’s empty?”
“Sí,” says Rafa.
“They’re asking you to bury empty coffins?” asks Daniel.
Fuga moves to the coffin with the pink cross on top. “¿Bebita?” he asks Daniel.
Yes, for a baby girl, thinks Daniel. He focuses his lens.
Fuga wrests the lid off the plywood coffin. Daniel snaps a picture.
Rafa jumps back in horror. He turns around, streams of vomit spilling from his mouth.
The small coffin for a baby girl does not contain a corpse.
It holds an amputated adult hand, black and eaten with gangrene.
110
Fuga stands outside the shed, smoking the dirty stub of a cigarette he found on the ground. Rafa sits in the dirt, head in his hands. “¿Por qué? ¿Por qué?”
“How long has this been going on?” asks Daniel.
Fuga shrugs.
“If they’re burying empty coffins, where are the babies? Are there funerals?”
Fuga shakes his head. “The clinics deliver and pay.”
“They’re paying you to bury empty coffins? That makes no sense.”
“Exactamente. That’s why we asked you to come,” says Rafa. “It’s complicated for us. We must do our job. We work to eat. I work two jobs and still, I’m always hungry. As you know, we finally have a chance for a better life. El Huérfano will fight again on Sunday. He will advance, I am sure of it. But this is something that weighs on Fuga. I pledged to protect my friend and this is a distraction. Distractions are dangerous for bullfighters so I’m asking for your help, Texano. We cannot speak of this.” Rafa pauses, looking at Daniel. “But you can. Take your photographs home to America. Show them to people. Ask their opinion. What is happening to the children of Spain?”
Rafa takes a breath. “Will you help us?”