Daniel looks at the press badge hanging from his camera. Should he speak to Ben? Maybe he could talk to Miguel. The nun with the dead baby, Nick’s comment about children not being orphans, the photos of the coffins—does it all tell a story?
Fuga remains by himself. He has replaced the cigarette with a long, dry piece of grass. He stands tall, practicing his passes as if in front of a bull.
“Rafa, can I speak to Fuga alone?” says Daniel. Rafa nods and walks away. The two young men stand face-to-face, equal in both height and courage.
“I get the feeling you don’t like me,” says Daniel.
“I know your kind.”
“So, why did you invite me here to take pictures?”
“I didn’t. Rafa did. The baby coffins make me angry. He says it’s distracting.”
“I understand.”
Fuga gives a disgusted laugh. His voice drops to a hiss. “You understand? No, you don’t. You’ve never been abandoned, ruined by the hands of adults, seen as trash, so hungry you’ve eaten grass, so poor that you have to steal. Tell me, have you ever been hungry, Texano?”
Daniel considers his words. “I’m sorry. You’re right. What I should have said is, I want to understand.”
“Why, so you can print sad pictures of poor Spain in your magazines?”
“No,” says Daniel. “So I can show the effects of war and a dictatorship.”
“You feel powerful because you have money. Your money buys our wine and sunshine, but it doesn’t buy the right to our history.”
Daniel absorbs his words. If there is a story here, whom does it belong to? He looks at the man standing in front of him. Fuga’s face and body are taut, cabled with years of resistance and endurance. He runs from nothing. His truth is his power.
“Is that it?” says Daniel. “No. I think you have something else to say to me.”
Fuga bores deep into Daniel’s eyes, grabbing the collar of his soul. His words are steeped with threat. “No le hagas daño.”
Don’t hurt her.
Daniel stares back in vow, unwilling to even blink. “I won’t.”
The glares hold until Fuga concludes with a satisfied nod.
Daniel extends his hand to Fuga. They shake.
Rafa comes running. “¡Fantástico! See, it’s not so difficult. We can all be friends. But now we must bury these coffins. El Huérfano trains tonight.”
111
“Texano! I’m so happy to see you. I was just about to close.”
“Hola, Miguel. I was hoping I could drop off a few rolls.”
“Sí. Sí. And I was hoping to congratulate you on this.” Miguel reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a newspaper. He points to the photo credit and releases a huge smile. “Front page! ¡Felicidades! This is sure to win your contest.”
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s a bit complicated because of the man in the photo.”
“The man with Generalísimo Franco?”
“Sí. He’s my father.”
Miguel nods, absorbing the situation.
“The judging committee might find it odd. ¿Nepotismo, no? But I have some photos on these rolls that could be very strong. I’m also bringing you my negatives. I want you to make duplicate prints of every photo I’ve taken.”
“Every photo?”
“Sí.”
Miguel points to the press badge. “An official press badge probably gets you very interesting photos.” Miguel reaches to inspect the credential.
“Claro, but I have to give it back. Once the shots are developed, would you help me select some for the contest?”
“I’d be honored. And tell me, how are Rafa and his matador?”
“Very well. El Huérfano has a fight this Sunday in Arganda del Rey.”
“Qué bien. And Ana? How is she doing?”
Daniel looks at Miguel, unable to contain his smile. “We’re doing very well.”
“Ah, I see,” says Miguel. “That makes me very happy.”
“Me too,” says Daniel.
* * *
Daniel exits the Metro, thinking of the first time he rode with Ana. He feels at ease in Madrid now. Perhaps he can rent a car again and surprise Ana with a trip to Valencia. Then he can share his plan about studying in Madrid.
He finds the hotel lobby thrumming with its usual bustle. Carlitos passes Daniel, carrying a suitcase as big as his body.
“Hola, Buttons. Have you seen Ana?”
“Wait for me,” whispers the boy.
Daniel waits near the elevators. Carlitos sprints back and grabs him by the sleeve. He leads him to the basement staircase, tucked into the wall. They descend two steps and Carlitos stops.
“Is everything okay?” asks Daniel.
Carlitos shakes his head, his eyes full of fear. “Señor, Ana was fired.”
112
Fired.
“No one knows why,” whispers Buttons.
Daniel frantically presses the button for the elevator, hoping Ana is in his room.
Lorenza holds a tray of cigarettes in front of Mr. Van Dorn and Paco Lobo. Standing next to them is Laura Beth. As if on cue, they all turn to him. The walls of Daniel’s brain begin to fold, like the sides of a melting candle. He opts for the stairs and takes them in twos until he’s reached the seventh floor. He runs down the hall and clatters through the lock and the door.
“Ana?”
His suite is empty.
Don’t you hurt our Ana, said the women in Vallecas.
I love my job, I could not bear to lose it, Ana had said.
And Fuga’s threat. Don’t hurt her.
Daniel paces the room. Someone must have seen Ana in his room last night. Ben wouldn’t tell, would he? Did Ana mention their dinner to anyone?
He can help. He can fix this. He’ll go to the hotel manager and say it’s his fault. He’ll beg forgiveness. He’ll ask his father to help. He’ll pull any and all favors.
Favors.
Shep Van Dorn owes him a favor. He said so, at the hospital, the morning after he defended Nick in the fight. The Hilton is an American hotel. He saw the picture of Mr. Van Dorn with Conrad Hilton himself. A special request from the U.S. Embassy would certainly carry favor. Daniel runs from his room, hoping to catch Van Dorn in the lobby before he leaves.