The Fountains of Silence(6)

The young man stands, holding a camera. He stares at her, then looks nervously about the room. His clothes are different from those Ana sees in magazines. Most Americans are polished and tidy. This boy is handsome but rugged. His hair has a mind of its own.

His low voice breaks the silence. “Lo siento. No era mi intención asustarte.”

“You didn’t scare me,” smiles Ana.

“Oh, you speak English,” he says quietly.

“And you speak Spanish very well, se?or, but not Spanish from Spain. Perhaps you speak Spanish”—she pauses—“from Mexico?”

The side of his mouth lifts, almost reaching a smile. “Texas. Must be my accent. But my mother is from Spain.” He points to the door. “My parents are in the suite down the hall.” He attempts to smooth his tousled hair and that’s when Ana notices. His sleeve is torn.

He sets down the camera and moves to retrieve the magazine. Ana reaches it first.

She feels his eyes upon her as she swaps the magazine for the towels.

“Ah, yes. Your parents are the Mathesons of Dallas. You arrived yesterday. Welcome to the Castellana Hilton, se?or. I hope you are enjoying your stay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods.

Unlike “sugar” or “doll,” Ana has been told, “ma’am” is a term of respect, not endearment. She looks at the young man. At most, she is two years older.

“My parents,” he says quietly. “Have they stopped by my room?”

“No, se?or.”

His shoulders retreat with relief.

A knock sounds at the door. His blue eyes flash wide and a finger flies to his lips, requesting silence. Ana stands facing him, clutching the towels.

The knocking continues, followed by a woman’s voice behind the door.

“Daniel, are you back?”

He looks to Ana and shakes his head quickly. His lips form the word no, followed by a sheepish grin.

Ana stifles a laugh, trying to contain her wide smile. She hates the spot of gold that tops her lower side tooth.

“Maybe he left the radio on and that’s what you heard,” says a man’s voice.

Radio? Daniel mouths the word.

Ana points nearby. He leans across her and snaps it on low. He smells . . . nice.

After a few moments, Daniel cocks his ear toward the door. “I think they’re gone,” he whispers. He exhales deeply, as if trying to calm himself. “Sorry about that. I’m trying to avoid my parents.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she says with a laugh. She turns and takes the towels to the bathroom.

The telephone rings.

“Aw geez, now they’re calling from their room,” says Daniel.

She wants so desperately to be conversational, to discover why he’s avoiding his parents, but heeds her sister’s warning. “Is there anything you need, se?or? If not, I’ll be going,” says Ana.

“No. Thanks a lot for your help.” He pauses, looking at her. “Say, your English is better than my Spanish. Are you from Madrid?”

Ana looks him straight in the eye. She smiles and lies.

“Sí, se?or, from Madrid.”





When I first went there, to Spain in ’55, you had the feeling of depression when you got into Spain, repression. It was true. Everybody was careful what they said, what they did, how they disported themselves.


—WILLIAM W. LEHFELDT, U.S. vice consul, Bilbao (1955–1957) Oral History Interview Excerpt, April 1994

Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection

Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training Arlington, VA www.adst.org





6



“‘Rebellious, bohemian, vulgar. These are the words used to describe Miguelín, the new bullfighter.’”

Rafael looks up from the newspaper. His friend Fuga sits on a crate in the cemetery shed and nods, urging Rafa to continue.

“‘Following his presentation at Las Ventas in Madrid,’” reads Rafa, “‘this torero assures audiences that he is one to watch.’”

Fuga points to the image of a matador in the newspaper.

“Sí, that’s him, Miguelín,” says Rafa. “Shall I show you how to write his name? I’ve told you, if you’re going to be a famous bullfighter, you have to learn your letters.”

The offer is ignored. Fuga teeters back on the arthritic box, stabbing the dirt with a shovel. His mane of black hair, wild and unkempt, cannot conceal his feral eyes. Those who pass him look twice. They not only see him, they feel him. He is a gathering storm.

Fuga’s gaze ticktocks between Rafa and a miniature plywood casket, the size of a large shoebox, that sits near his feet.

“Ay, another baby?” says Rafa.

Fuga says nothing, just stares at the little coffin.

Some friendships are born of commonality. Others of proximity. And some friendships, often the unlikely ones, are born of survival. Rafa and his friend are comrades of hardship. They refuse to speak of the boys’ home in Barcelona. It was not a “home.” It was a hellhole, a slaughterhouse of souls. The “brothers” and “matrons” who ran the institution took pleasure in the humiliation of children. The mere memory is poison.

The torments, like mental cockroaches, still crawl through Rafa’s mind: holding a coin against the wall with his nose; kneeling on chickpeas; being held down and burned with cigarettes. He remembers pure fear causing him to wet the bed, then the brothers tying the soiled sheet around his neck, insisting he wear his cowardice like a cape for all to see. He remembers losing weight, losing his hair, losing his courage.