Ben rustles with excitement. “Jiminy Christmas. These shots, they’re downright provocative, Matheson. Provocative, that’s the word.” Ben exhales a snake of smoke. “That shot of the Guardia Civil—holy Moses.”
“Thanks. I need a title for the essay submission. I was thinking . . . ‘War After War.’”
“YES!” bellows Ben. “Quick, write that down!” He waves his cigarette enthusiastically, decorating his tie with flakes of burning confetti.
“But the ending,” says Ben, “add the bloody self-portrait that you took in the elevator mirror, the one after Nick’s fight. That shot, it shows rite of passage.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Your photos have the grit of Capa with the thirst of Dorothea Lange. And seeing a bloody young photographer? That tells a story in itself.”
Daniel nods, silent. He flips through the stack of photos and retrieves the print Ben speaks of. He tosses it on the table without looking at it.
Ben eyes Daniel and his enthusiasm retreats. “It’s not your fault, Dan. Entering a breeder’s pasture is highly illegal. Lorenza’s to blame. She felt jilted and became vengeful. She stole the photos from your room. It was Lorenza, not your photos, that led them to Rafa and his friend.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“I don’t. But what I do know is that you’re the real deal. You’re going to win this blasted photography contest, you’ll go to J-School, and you’ll come back and get your girl.”
“I love your optimism.”
“It’s undeniable. The world is full of Lorenzas: jealous, deceitful people. But you guys?” Ben grabs the stack of pictures, pulls two from the pile, and sets them side by side. It’s the shy picture of Daniel at La Violeta and the picture of Ana, sweetly holding up her knife and fork. “Look at you two. That—is the truth.”
* * *
Daniel stares at the empty chair across from him. The waiters refill his water glass. He replays the room-service dinner with Ana in his head. They’re sitting on the floor, talking, laughing, so comfortable together. He can feel her fingers in his hair, grazing the back of his neck.
No. It’s not over.
An hour passes. Two. Three. The restaurant empties and quiet descends. Daniel sits alone amidst a room of vacant tables. The candle is nothing but a flicker of wick in a tiny well of wax. And suddenly, a figure appears, walking toward the table.
Declining offers from the waiters, Nick takes a seat.
They remain silent, one across from the other.
“You spoke to her?” Daniel finally says.
“In person. I went out to Vallecas.”
The hush of quiet speaks loudly. The pained look on Nick’s face is genuine.
“Her niece is sick. Rafa’s in jail. I told her she’s not thinking straight and—”
“Just tell me what she said.”
Nick takes a breath. “Dan, she says that if you truly do care about her . . . you won’t contact her.”
Daniel remains motionless, absorbing the painful remark while trying to fight the heartache rising quickly to his throat. He thinks of Fuga. Don’t hurt her. He vowed he wouldn’t. If he truly cares about her, he won’t contact her. That’s what she said.
“I’m sorry. Maybe—”
Daniel raises a hand to stop Nick, barely managing a whisper. “Got it.”
128
The plane ascends. Daniel stares out the window. The landscape, baked brown, fans out beneath him. He sees downtown Madrid, the cemetery, the hotel, Vallecas, and the road to Talavera de la Reina. He watches as Spain shrinks smaller and smaller. He watches until Ana vanishes beneath layers of cloud.
Has Carlitos discovered the box yet? He left it at the front desk. A letter to deliver to the ambassador. A letter to mail to Washington. Five silver dollars and his belt buckle.
Tex-has. Pow. Pow.
His eyes close, defending his masculinity against the rising tears. He is angry, gutted hollow, and so impossibly sad.
* * *
He wakes to the sound of a meal being served. He has no appetite.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” says his mother. “Hold your sister please while I use the restroom.” His mother hands the baby to Daniel.
His sister.
They came to Madrid for oil business. He’s leaving with a shattered heart and his parents are leaving with another child. Had they planned this all along? Did they adopt the child from the Inclusa? Daniel looks down at the infant.
She smiles at him, her face alive with joy and wonder. She quiets his pain.
“You’re happy,” he says. “Did your ears finally pop?”
She bats her tiny feet and in the process one of her socks falls off. Daniel takes her foot in his hand. The baby’s smallest toe is nearly nonexistent. “You barely have a fifth toe,” he whispers. “Your foot looks like a four-leaf clover.”
The baby smiles and a dimple appears on her left cheek. Her eyes bind to his. They stare at each other.
“Thank you, dear,” says his mother upon her return.
“I’ll hold her for a while. She’s so happy. I like her,” says Daniel.
“Well, I hope so. She’s your sister now.”
“Did you see her foot?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her foot. She just has small toes. Don’t let your father hear you. He’s already groused about the cost of the adoption. She’s perfect.” His mother kisses the baby’s downy hair. “Aren’t you just the sweetest girl, Cristina? Isn’t everything just perfect?”
He hopes his mother feels that way when she returns to Dallas. She’ll have to cope with the questions. Adopting a child from a foreign country will set her even further apart from society. And Daniel has questions of his own. How much does it cost to adopt a child? Where did the empty coffins really come from? Who are the baby’s birth parents? As the girl grows up, will she wonder about them? And—
Will she long for Spain as he already does?
129
Rafa walks alone down the two-lane road that winds away from Madrid. As expected, the Crows follow him for a few miles until they’re convinced he truly is departing. Once they’re gone, Rafa slows his pace.
“Don’t worry. Someone from Vallecas will come for you. They always do,” whispered the man in jail.