to the cemetery and tell Fuga of the transport.
“But what’s his name? You can’t call a torero Fuga.”
Rafa pauses to think. His name? For years he’s answered only to “Fuga.”
His supervisor shakes his head. “If you want word to spread, start with his name. I’ll know something about the transport in a couple days. Now get to the floor.”
Rafa ties his apron and heads to work. An offal transport to a cosmetics factory. That means they’ll be sitting in the bed of a truck with heaps of animal brains, skin, hair, bones, hooves and whatever else is used to make cosmetics. Bad death, but better than walking.
His boss is right. Promotion for the bullfight is essential. Why didn’t he think of that? Word must spread about Fuga, the dark storm. He struggles, reaching into his memory for his friend’s birth name. The name does not return to him.
But the voices of the past do.
Do others in Spain have ghosts in the attic of their mind? Do they try to face them as he does? The door to the attic creaks constantly, beckoning Rafa with a long, crooked finger back to his childhood. Back to the war. On the dark attic stairs he passes buildings exploding with bombs, a man with a crater for a nose, bellies swollen with hunger, and the “brothers” from the boys’ home, rubbing their fat palms together.
Come closer, Rafa .
They’re not real, he tells himself. You can beat them. At the top of the stairs is a whispering graveyard, full of unquiet bones and unmarked graves. His heart hammers. His body vibrates with sweat. None of this is real. It’s not real.
Come closer, Rafa. We have something to show you. Closer.
The crooked finger points to a small, wiggly mass on the ground. Sprouting from his father’s brains . . . is the flag of the Falange.
Boo.
I had a conversation with Ambassador Griffis before he left here and informed him that Franco’s attitude in these matters is exceedingly obnoxious to me. There was a time, and I think it still exists, when Protestants couldn’t have public funerals. They are forced to be buried at night and are allowed no markers for their graves. They are buried in plowed fields like potter’s fields. I think in these modern times when we are doing everything we possibly can for religious freedom that it is a very bad example to be set before the world.
—H ARRY S. T RUMAN , 33rd president of the United States
August 2, 1951, Memorandum from President Harry S. Truman to Secretary of State Dean Acheson
Acheson Papers—Secretary of State File
Truman Library Archives
27
Daniel walks back to the lobby, his mind tangled in the telegram he forwarded to his mother. The words in the message belong to their priest in Dallas. Father Brodd has been part of the family for decades.
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
—VIA CABLE
SENDER: CATHOLIC DIOCESE OF DALLAS
MRS. MARIA MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON MADRID
WILL FORWARD DOCUMENTATION REQUESTED. WITH RECENT MISFORTUNE URGE REFLECTION AND PRAYER.
IN DOMINO, FR BRODD
“Recent misfortune”? Has something happened with his father’s business? What sort of documentation would his mother need from the Catholic Church?
He wishes he’d never opened it. If his father’s business is struggling, there may be more pressure to join the company.
“ Hola , Texano!”
Carlitos, the bellboy, sprints to Daniel’s side. He plants his right foot and stands at attention. “I have a message for you! Señor Mendoza called. Your photographs are ready.”
Daniel perks up. “That’s great. Thanks, Buttons.” He fishes in his pocket and tips the boy before heading upstairs.
In his short absence, the suite has been cleaned. The flowing drapes are corded back. The twisted sheets are now taut; the bed dressed and respectable. On the bench at the foot of the bed sits his belt, carefully coiled around the large buckle. He lifts the belt and something flutters beneath. It’s a newspaper clipping.
Madrid today has more Texans than Spaniards. The
“But what’s his name? You can’t call a torero Fuga.”
Rafa pauses to think. His name? For years he’s answered only to “Fuga.”
His supervisor shakes his head. “If you want word to spread, start with his name. I’ll know something about the transport in a couple days. Now get to the floor.”
Rafa ties his apron and heads to work. An offal transport to a cosmetics factory. That means they’ll be sitting in the bed of a truck with heaps of animal brains, skin, hair, bones, hooves and whatever else is used to make cosmetics. Bad death, but better than walking.
His boss is right. Promotion for the bullfight is essential. Why didn’t he think of that? Word must spread about Fuga, the dark storm. He struggles, reaching into his memory for his friend’s birth name. The name does not return to him.
But the voices of the past do.
Do others in Spain have ghosts in the attic of their mind? Do they try to face them as he does? The door to the attic creaks constantly, beckoning Rafa with a long, crooked finger back to his childhood. Back to the war. On the dark attic stairs he passes buildings exploding with bombs, a man with a crater for a nose, bellies swollen with hunger, and the “brothers” from the boys’ home, rubbing their fat palms together.
Come closer, Rafa .
They’re not real, he tells himself. You can beat them. At the top of the stairs is a whispering graveyard, full of unquiet bones and unmarked graves. His heart hammers. His body vibrates with sweat. None of this is real. It’s not real.
Come closer, Rafa. We have something to show you. Closer.
The crooked finger points to a small, wiggly mass on the ground. Sprouting from his father’s brains . . . is the flag of the Falange.
Boo.
I had a conversation with Ambassador Griffis before he left here and informed him that Franco’s attitude in these matters is exceedingly obnoxious to me. There was a time, and I think it still exists, when Protestants couldn’t have public funerals. They are forced to be buried at night and are allowed no markers for their graves. They are buried in plowed fields like potter’s fields. I think in these modern times when we are doing everything we possibly can for religious freedom that it is a very bad example to be set before the world.
—H ARRY S. T RUMAN , 33rd president of the United States
August 2, 1951, Memorandum from President Harry S. Truman to Secretary of State Dean Acheson
Acheson Papers—Secretary of State File
Truman Library Archives
27
Daniel walks back to the lobby, his mind tangled in the telegram he forwarded to his mother. The words in the message belong to their priest in Dallas. Father Brodd has been part of the family for decades.
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
—VIA CABLE
SENDER: CATHOLIC DIOCESE OF DALLAS
MRS. MARIA MATHESON, CASTELLANA HILTON MADRID
WILL FORWARD DOCUMENTATION REQUESTED. WITH RECENT MISFORTUNE URGE REFLECTION AND PRAYER.
IN DOMINO, FR BRODD
“Recent misfortune”? Has something happened with his father’s business? What sort of documentation would his mother need from the Catholic Church?
He wishes he’d never opened it. If his father’s business is struggling, there may be more pressure to join the company.
“ Hola , Texano!”
Carlitos, the bellboy, sprints to Daniel’s side. He plants his right foot and stands at attention. “I have a message for you! Señor Mendoza called. Your photographs are ready.”
Daniel perks up. “That’s great. Thanks, Buttons.” He fishes in his pocket and tips the boy before heading upstairs.
In his short absence, the suite has been cleaned. The flowing drapes are corded back. The twisted sheets are now taut; the bed dressed and respectable. On the bench at the foot of the bed sits his belt, carefully coiled around the large buckle. He lifts the belt and something flutters beneath. It’s a newspaper clipping.
Madrid today has more Texans than Spaniards. The
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