The Fountains of Silence(10)

“Born here, but she’s spent her life in the States.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the appearance of Nick’s father. White linen summer suit, pale blue tie, clean shave. He looks as if he’s stepped out of a men’s clothing catalog. “And you must be Daniel Matheson,” he says, releasing a rehearsed smile full of warmth. Balancing a cigarette and cocktail in one hand, he extends the other for a handshake. “Shep Van Dorn. Welcome to Madrid.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Shep inhales deeply on his cigarette, looking at Daniel. Daniel notes the subtle appraisal, the perfect smile, the glow of a politician.

“That’s a serious camera you have there, Dan. Is that the new Nikon? You must take some interesting shots. Your father tells me you’ve already had a run-in with the authorities.”

As public affairs officer, Shephard Van Dorn works with the press. He is familiar with every camera, every news cycle, every reporter. He speaks the language Daniel is so desperate to learn. Why did his father have to say anything?

“I had a badge on my camera from our local paper. It caught the guards’ eye,” says Daniel, withholding the detail of surrendering his film. “The camera was my graduation present. I’m hoping to capture some good images in Madrid over the summer.”

Van Dorn nods slowly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “There are a lot of stories here. Important ones. Just keep in mind that the geography itself holds a story. The differences between a Catalonian, a madrile?o, and someone from Basque Country are more pronounced than the difference between a New Yorker and a Texan. Be sensitive to that.”

“I will, sir.”

Van Dorn steps to the door, calling out to a man in the parlor. The guest sits alone, smoking, while wreaths of sweat bleed through the armpits of his dress shirt. His dark hair, frosty at the temples, is parted on the side and tamed with Brylcreem. From the shoulders up, the gentleman is “photo ready.” But the middle of the man seems to have collapsed like a gusty exhale. His dress shirt flaps, untucked over his bulbous waistline. His slacks are wrinkled, as if they live in a ball, not on a hanger. Daniel sees two different portraits.

“Stahl, come join us,” says Nick’s father. The man picks up his drink and steps out to the terrace.

Mr. Van Dorn puts his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Ben, this is Martin’s son, Daniel Matheson. I’ve just learned that he’s an aspiring newsman, in search of a story.”

“Photojournalist,” corrects Daniel.

“Ah, photojournalist, my apologies. This is Benjamin Stahl. Ben’s in the Madrid Bureau of the New York Herald Tribune.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” says Daniel.

“And, Ben, of course you know my son, Nick.”

Ben adjusts his tie, bull’s-eyed with a cigarette burn. “Oh yeah, Nick and I are pals,” he says, grinning. Ben Stahl speaks as if he’s chewing his words. He turns to Daniel. “I appreciate the civility, kid. I probably do look like an old bastard, but you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ I know ‘sir’ is mandatory in states like Texas, but you can save the tuxedo language for your oil parties.”

Ben doesn’t appear old to Daniel. Certainly less polished than Shep Van Dorn, Ben looks offbeat, like a stout philosophy professor who sleeps in his clothes.

“So, the spiffy son of an oil baron with an expensive camera and dreams of a Pulitzer, no doubt. Why should I care?” says Ben.

Nick laughs.

Silence hangs until Daniel accepts the challenge. “The rich kid with expensive toys. Yeah, I’ve heard that. Actually, I hate tuxedos and fancy parties. I’m a finalist for the Magnum prize.”

“Whoa, Dallas has a side of pride,” says Nick. “I like this guy.”

Ben Stahl whistles through his teeth. “Finalist for the Magnum at your age? That must have been some entry.”

Daniel smiles, grateful.

“Well, I’ll leave you newsmen to it,” says Shep. “Ben, do his father and me a favor. Teach him about the press game in Spain so he doesn’t get tossed in jail. And, Daniel, while you’re here in Madrid, teach my son some of your Texas manners.” He laughs and looks at Nick. “‘Yes, sir. No, ma’am.’ Maybe going to Dallas would do you some good.”

Nick’s eyes narrow. “Dallas? What, Switzerland isn’t far enough for you, Shep?”

Van Dorn ignores the pinch and enters the villa.

Nick paces the terrace.

Ben leans on the corner railing, framed by shadows of three towering palm trees. “He’s your father, Nicky. Let it go,” says Ben.

Nick’s fingers slowly tighten around the glass. “Let it go. Just let it go, Nick. I’m so tired of hearing that.” He drains his glass and hurls it off the terrace. Daniel stares, listening for a crash that never comes.

Ben laughs and points to Daniel. “And there’s the title for your next photo-essay.

“The silent scream in Spain.”





The [military] base agreement had been negotiated in 1952 and I was helping implement it. Spain’s objectives, unexpressed so far as I know, included some assistance from the U.S. in its political rehabilitation. Spain was run by Franco and was a bit of a pariah state. The U.S. in partial exchange for the base rights was willing, in effect, to help burnish Franco’s image. This was a tough sell, because many in the U.S. simply were so anti-Franco that they blocked any opening to Spain.