The Fountains of Silence(8)

His father snaps open his briefcase.

“I’m not here to bail you out of trouble, Dan. This isn’t a vacation for me. Franco will only grant drilling rights to a few American companies. I’ll tour the sites and close a deal before summer’s end. That’s the plan,” says his father. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” replies Daniel.

Daniel is freshly graduated from St. Mark’s School of Texas. In the fall he’ll enter Texas A&M University and following graduation he’ll join the family oil operation—his college tuition is contingent upon it.

Daniel’s thoughts return to the image of the dead baby; the photograph could anchor his portfolio submission. The cash award from the Magnum prize could easily pay for a year of journalism school instead of Texas A&M.

“We’re invited to a dinner reception at the Van Dorns’,” says his father. “They have a son your age and he’s back from boarding school in Switzerland.”

“The Van Dorns. Diplomats from Oyster Bay, the Long Island set,” says his mother. “Several of these prestigious families have posts in the U.S. Embassy. Daniel, mi amor, please wear slacks and a tie. I wish you wouldn’t wear those denims all the time. You look like a ranch hand.” She grimaces. “Is your sleeve torn?”

Daniel quickly examines his shirt. “Oh, must have caught it on something.”

The guards took his film and tore his sleeve? If that’s how they treat tourists, how do they treat locals? He heads toward the door.

His mother gently takes his arm. “I saw they have postcards in the lobby. Make sure to mail a card to Laura Beth each day. Her family will expect that.”

He exits the room with his camera, unwilling to cause a scene.

No need to worry his mother with the truth about Laura Beth.





8



Puerta del Sol. The heartbeat of Madrid.

Evening gathers tourists and locals who linger near the fountains and stairs to the Metro. The words GONZáLEZ BYASS glow green from the TíO PEPE sign atop a building, throwing an eerie radiance into the paling sky.

Ana walks down the narrow cobblestone street. The swallowed note is gone, but a taste remains.

    I know what you’ve done.



She looks over her shoulder before slipping through the unmarked door. At the bottom of the darkened stairway, a soft light pulses beneath the entry. She pauses to listen, then pushes through the door.

A rainbow of color bursts with greeting. Glistening bolts of silk and satin climb from the floor to the ceiling. Shimmering fabrics in sea blue, deep amethyst, and gleaming gold cascade across worn countertops. Sketches and patterns are pinned across the walls. Three women sit at tables while two others work heavy material through machines.

Ana bends to retrieve a small pearl from the floor. In this snug space, ceremony is created. The beautiful fabrics and jewels are not for party dresses or wedding gowns. They are created and used for one person only.

El torero. The matador.

Traje de luces. Suit of lights. Named because the gemstones and beads sewn onto the fabric reflect and sparkle as if operated by a hidden switch. One suit is composed of countless pieces, taking months to construct, each detail completed by a different person. One woman specializes in pants, another in capes, and yet others in complicated threadwork. Her sister’s specialty—beading and gemstones.

Like her brother, Rafa, Ana’s cousin Puri loves the bullfighters. But Ana loves the bulls. She detests bullfights. Divided family loyalties are common, yet unspoken.

The workshop, generally full of chatter, is now devoid of voices. This means that Luis, the master tailor and owner of the shop, fits a matador in the next room.

Ana’s sister, Julia, sits on a wooden chair in the corner. A lamp rings a halo of quiet light into her lap. She pushes a needle through the rigid seven-layer fabric, sewing one of hundreds of sapphire gemstones onto a cropped jacket.

Julia’s fingers are silent narrators, embroidered with scars. Ana pulls an empty chair to her sister’s side. She retrieves a small pair of pliers from a nearby table and sets a hand on her shoulder.

“Finish with these,” whispers Ana. “Your hands, they’ll bleed soon.”

Julia nods gratefully, accepting the pliers to grip the needle.

Ana motions with her head toward the fitting room. Which bullfighter stands behind the door?

“Ordó?ez,” Julia whispers.

Ana looks to her sister. Julia’s face, thirsty of color, needs rest and sun. Julia has a new baby girl, just four months old. The baby is not yet strong. Neither is Julia. She clings desperately to the child, and together they cry through the nights.

Fascist doctrine states that a woman’s ultimate destiny is marriage, motherhood, and domesticity. For poor families, like theirs, hunger turns a blind eye to mandates. Many women from impoverished families take positions of manual labor.

But Julia is special. Her talent as a seamstress affords her the opportunity to work in a shop. Luis needs Julia’s skills to please his matadors. Julia needs the wages to feed her family and pay their debts.

“We must pool our earnings,” reminds Julia’s husband, Antonio. “All wages and coins shall be deposited into this old cigar box.”

To move from impoverished Vallecas to a small flat in Lavapiés—this is the plan. Julia rations and counts everything, pinching every last peseta. For now, four adults and a newborn baby share a dark, single room. But they are together. Which is what their mother wanted.