“Ana, you’re not a thief. This is all just a misunderstanding. I’ll speak to your manager.”
“No. People can’t know about us.”
“We had dinner. That’s all.”
“That’s not all.” Ana looks at him. “The photos, the dancing,” she lowers her voice, “the kissing. I broke so many rules being with you. It was foolish.”
“I thought you wanted to be there.”
Ana’s voice drops to a whisper. “Of course I wanted to be there. I want a lot of things I can’t have. For you this is a vacation, but for me it’s real life. I’m the daughter of Republicans. Do you understand what that means in this country? This is not America. I know it’s hard for you to understand because you live more like them.”
Daniel recoils in shock. “Wait, are you saying I’m a fascist?”
“I’m saying that you’re not shackled by poverty and silence. You could never understand what it’s like for me.”
“I want to learn. You can help me. I have a plan. I’ll attend university in Madrid. We’ll go to Valencia.”
“You could have many plans. But don’t you see? I’ve lost the only chance I have.”
“That’s not true.”
Ana looks at him. Her eyes fill with tears that spring and trail down her cheeks.
Her tears grip, pulling his heart. “Don’t cry,” whispers Daniel. “We can be together.”
“No, we can’t.” A flush of tears spills down Ana’s face. “I have to go.”
Daniel stands with her. “Don’t leave. Let’s go somewhere private to talk.”
“No!” she cries. “Julia needs my help. Lali is fussy and Rafa didn’t return home last night.”
“Ana, please,” he whispers. He reaches gently for her hand. “At least let me take you back to Vallecas.”
Ana looks at their clasped hands, her eyes swollen with tears. “I’m begging you,” she says. “Please, stop. You’re making this harder and it’s hurting me.”
Daniel releases her hand.
“Thank you.” She reaches out and touches his cheek. Her words are spoken between sobs. “You are wonderful. Truly.” She looks up at him, lips quivering. “But you can’t love me. You don’t understand me. Goodbye.”
Ana kisses him and runs from the garden.
119
They stand in line for blood.
One following the other, the Crows march to the crowded jail cell. They ask Rafa questions. They ask the same questions again. And again.
“What was your friend’s full name?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know.”
They don’t believe him. They hold up a picture of Fuga. Where did they get it?
“How could a man who is weeping, leaking loss from the depths of his soul not know his amigo’s name? You’re a liar.”
Rafa reaches through the bars of the cell for the photo. They snap it away. “Él quería ser torero,” Rafa tells them. He wanted to be a bullfighter. That’s all. He tells them over and over.
“And you?” they demand.
Rafa hangs his head. I pledged to protect him, he should say. But he won’t. The Crows don’t deserve the satisfaction.
When the Crows step away, a prisoner next to him whispers, “Don’t tell them anything. Say you’re from Andalucía, that you’ll leave Madrid and never come back.”
A man from Vallecas is also in the jail cell. He moves toward Rafa. “He’s right, Rafa. Tell them nothing. You’ve never been arrested. They don’t know you like they know us. Come to the back of the cell where you can’t be seen. They’ll keep you for a few weeks. When you leave, walk the road south out of Madrid. They’ll follow you for a while. Just keep walking. Eventually, Father Fernández will come for you. He always does. He’ll take you back to Vallecas. That’s how this works.”
Rafa won’t listen. He grabs the bars of the cell, trying to shake them loose as he screams. “Where is he? Please, let me bury his body!”
The man from Vallecas puts a comforting hand on his back.
Rafa can’t bear the thought of Fuga being dumped in a common trench, his limp body salted with the dirt of his own shovel.
“Who is your family?” demand the Crows.
The question drills into Rafa. His family. If they discover who he is, could Julia, Antonio, and Ana all be punished? Will their years of hard-won anonymity in Madrid be ruined?
You know my family, he wants to say. When I was a tiny boy, I watched you murder my father. My parents were respected teachers. You arrested our mother for sewing flags.
And don’t forget the children.
Rafa’s head snaps like a whip. The voice is Fuga’s. It’s clear and close.
This reminds me of our time in the detention hole in the boys’ home. Remember?
Rafa looks behind him. He looks out from the bars.
Not out there, amigo. In here.
120
Puri dashes from cabinet to cabinet, opening and closing the drawers.
Where is 1940, the year of her birth? Her parents met and married in Madrid. If they adopted her, it would have been from the Inclusa. Her pulse beats. Her neck is chilled with sweat. How long has she been in the basement? Has Sister noticed the keys are no longer on her desk?
She pulls a file. Year: 1940.
Assigned orphan numbers mean nothing to her. She must look for her parents’ names.
It’s taking too long. She slams the file drawer.
She heads to the next row of cabinets. Faster, Puri. Faster! She rounds the corner and hits a wall. As she falls to the cement floor, the iron keys tumble from her hand and clatter to the ground.
Puri looks up. It’s not a wall. It’s the stark white robes.
Of Sister Hortensia.
She stares at Puri. Silent.
“Sister . . .” Puri scrambles to rise.
“No, stay there. I’ve been standing here, listening to you rifle through each cabinet. I knew you were up to something. Don’t compound your filthy sins with lies. What are you looking for, Purificación? Tell me.”
The slap of condescension and the words filthy sins spark a familiar anger in Puri. “I’m looking . . . for answers,” she says flatly.