The Fountains of Silence Read Online Free PDF Page B

parlor of the Madrid villa. Tall glass doors ornamented with flowering wrought iron stand open to the terrace and gardens below. The hands on the marbled clock approach nine. Dinner has yet to be served. Daniel looks through the viewfinder of his camera. His eyes scan the intricate inlay of the wood floor, the nineteenth-century furniture, and the exquisite handwoven carpets. His lens lands on Nicholas Van Dorn, the diplomat’s son who greeted them upon arrival.
    Through the crosshairs of the viewfinder, Daniel sees his parents were right; they’re close in age. Nick Van Dorn has a suntan, slick blond hair, and quick brown eyes. He wears a blazer, pressed slacks, and expensive new loafers. His socks have the diamond pattern his mother loves. She says they’re “argyle.” His dad calls them “sissy socks.” The viewfinder stops on Nick’s hand holding a glass. Scabbed knuckles. A brawl? Interesting. The grated knuckles seem to contradict the rest of his appearance. Daniel snaps a picture.
    “My friend hates being a diplomat’s kid. I enjoy it. I get bored being in one place too long.” Nick’s gaze lands on the lens. “Hey, Dan, I’ll show you a good spot for photos.”
    Nicholas leads Daniel away from the guests onto the tiled back terrace of his parents’ villa. He gestures to Daniel’s camera and then to the landscape. Illuminated fan palms cast fingered shadows that creep toward a glistening fountain. But manicured trees don’t interest Daniel. People do. They are living, breathing landscapes. When captured at the right moment, truth reveals itself to the camera.
    “Your father works for the embassy?”
    Nick nods. “He’s the U.S. public affairs officer. Madrid’s a good post. There’s a lot to do here. Great nightlife and wine is cheaper than water.” Nick sips from his glass.
    A servant with white gloves is suddenly at hand, passing a tray of olives cured in garlic. He disappears in the manner he appeared. Silently.
    “And outside Madrid?” Daniel asks.
    “Still pretty impoverished. That’s why so many have poured into the city. It was brutal after the civil war. But things are looking up now. Spain allowed the Americans to build military bases here. But you probably know that. Your mom’s Spanish, yeah?”
    “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 madrileño, 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