The Heart Has Its Reasons (12 page)

For a copilot he had a Mexican professor, an expert on San Juan de la Cruz, with whom he chatted in English once in a while. Behind, wearing their coats and smoking like the possessed, were an elderly, unobtrusive Spaniard and another, younger one who got by in a confused linguistic hodgepodge that Daniel was barely able to decipher. It was too late to visit the Carnegie Museums, so Daniel passed by Pitt Stadium on the campus and crossed his fingers, but no luck: the Pittsburgh Panthers weren't practicing that evening. He kept driving to the vicinity of Forbes Field, but the Steelers' stadium was deserted too. He had thirty minutes left by the time they reached Loew's Penn Theater and he suggested they go inside to see Elvis Presley in
Love Me Tender
. None of the three showed any interest. How about a visit to the Atlantic Grill on Liberty Avenue, local temple of German food? The silent elderly professor roared with laughter and proceeded to have a coughing fit. A drink at the bar of the Roosevelt Hotel? No response.
Twenty minutes until clock-in, Daniel figured, looking at his watch again. It kept snowing. That damn scholarship.

“Listen, young man,” the Mexican finally said as they crossed one of the bridges over the Monongahela River for the third time. “We humble professors, whom you have the kindness to accompany this evening, come from New York. I teach at the Hispanic Institute at Columbia University, Professor Montero is professor emeritus at Brooklyn College, and young Professor Godoy has just begun teaching at Wagner College on Staten Island. We are all accustomed to restaurants, movie theaters, and sporting events. What we'd like this evening is something unique, something that can only be done in Pittsburgh, do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Daniel said, taking a sharp turn.

Finally he had an idea. Perhaps it was madness, but he had no other card to play.

The factory reduced its activity during the night, but didn't stop it altogether. The first hurdle was the guard.

“Wait for me here, please.”

He left them smoking in the car with the heater running full blast. Confused and intrigued, they watched through the windows while he headed toward the security booth. What he said next did not reach the ears of the three professors. Fortunately.

“Good evening, Bill,” he greeted the guard, reading the tag that was pinned to his chest. He didn't know them all by name but remembered seeing this one before and knew he wasn't too bright.

“Good evening, kid,” Bill answered back without quite ungluing his eyes from the sports section of the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
.

“My shift begins now,” Daniel said, showing his card, “but you wouldn't believe what happened to me as I drove here.”

“A flat tire?”

“Far from it. I saved three lives.”

“You saved three lives?” Bill asked, setting his paper aside.

“Yes, sir, three lives. And perhaps even the future of this company.”

He pointed to the car, where the three Hispanists sat perplexed, puffing their Lucky Strikes. Daniel continued in a confidential tone.

“I have here with me three European representatives of the food and agriculture industry. They were coming on a business visit to the famous Heinz Company, but their rental car broke down shortly after leaving the airport and had to be left in a ditch. Their motor caught fire; they could have died.”

“My goodness . . .”

“But I happened to come across them by pure chance. And, thank goodness, even after the long delay, I've been able to drive them all the way here.”

The guard scratched his head apprehensively behind his left ear.

“I'm afraid they can't come through now. At this time only employees have access.”

“I know, but they have to see the factory right now.”

“Why don't they come tomorrow?”

“Because tomorrow is Sunday.”

“They can come Monday.”

“Impossible: they're expected in Atlanta to see the Coca-Cola ­Company.”

Daniel himself was astonished by the ease with which the lies were flowing out of his mouth. All because of that damn scholarship.

“Well, I don't know what to tell you, my friend . . .”

“Well, I wonder how you're going to explain to the manager next week that these sales representatives returned to Europe ready to sell millions of gallons of Coca-Cola there and not one single product of ours.”

Once again the guard scratched his head.

“I may get myself into some trouble, right?”

“That's what I think.”

Two minutes later they were all inside.

“Welcome to the heart of America, gentlemen,” Daniel then declared in a screeching Spanish, trying to sound triumphant.

“Excuse me?” the professor emeritus asked.

“What is the essence of the American way of life?” Daniel asked.

He'd gone back to his native language: he needed it for the operetta that he was about to enact. Hardly giving them time to weigh in with a reply, he automatically answered himself: “The hamburger, naturally!”

They walked along the corridors as Daniel continued talking nonsense, all the while wondering what the hell he was going to say next.

“And what is the key to a good hamburger? You think the meat, perhaps? No way. The roll? Nope. Not the lettuce or onion either. The key is the ketchup! And the ketchup's secret lies right here. In Heinz!”

They'd reached the area where the bottles were filled, dark and deserted at that hour with all the machinery shrouded in a cemetery of silence. He searched for the light switches, flipping them all on until the fluorescent lights revealed the factory room's immensity. Luckily the night manager was elsewhere. Pacing back and forth, he improvised explanations for each of those gigantic machines, since he was largely ignorant of their purpose, having been in that area of the factory only a couple of times. But in a desperate flight of imagination, on coming upon what he vaguely recalled as the labeling machine, he dramatized its task. Afterwards, when they'd reached the area of closing and sealing, he insisted that each of them put a handful of screw tops in their pockets. Working their way backward, they finally reached the vat that initiated the process of filling. Daniel, with a leap, climbed onto the platform and stuck a finger inside. Seconds later, it emerged red.

“Ketchup, gentlemen, the company's prized product! Come and try it for yourselves!”

He held his hand out to the youngest of the professors who, still somewhat disconcerted, didn't dare refuse.

“Go ahead, Professor!” he insisted, forcing him to stick his hand into the tank.

He then helped up the Mexican, who was a little more reticent. His right hand also went straight into the tank. The mature Professor Montero, in spite of their insistence, refused.

While they descended the platform, Daniel again checked his watch. Time was running out and he had no idea as to what to do next. He then took them to the locker room and asked them to wait outside while he put on his sand-colored overalls, which all employees were required to wear. At the back could be heard the noise of the conveyor belts and the mechanical forklifts used to stack boxes on the trucks. Men's voices were shouting out orders and there was an occasional loud
laugh. Meanwhile the professors, incongruous in their long dark coats, ties, and hats, were still wondering what on earth they were doing there.

As Daniel was leaving the men's locker room, three women were coming out of the women's locker room.

“Hello, student,” two of them said in unison in a mocking tone. The third one slightly blushed on seeing him.

They were dressed in casual clothes and had makeup on, having just changed from their uniforms. The first was a tall brunette, the second a plump blonde, and the third, who had blushed, had chestnut-brown hair. The Mexican and young Spanish professor finally showed a spark of interest. The older gentleman coughed.

“What's up, girls? Are you already going home?” Daniel greeted them.

“What else?” the blonde said, feigning annoyance. “Prince Charming's not going to take us out dancing.”

He seized the opportunity at once.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce you to my friends Ruth-Ann, Gina, and Mary-Lou. The prettiest women on the entire North Side, and the manufacturing industry's quickest canned-soup packers of all time. Girls, you have before you three wise men.”

He spoke at top speed, realizing that he had barely a few minutes left before he had to press the Stop button on the mechanical forklift stacking boxes. While they shook hands and exchanged names, he moved close to the blonde's ear.

“Five bucks to each one of you if you show them the town for three hours,” he said in a whisper, surreptitiously handing Gina the keys to Fontana's car. “And Thursday afternoon I'll invite you to the movies.”

“Six bucks apiece,” the one called Mary-Lou quickly corrected him. “And after the movies, dinner.”

“Sirs, these lovely ladies are anxious to continue to show you around the premises of our great company. And afterwards they've offered to take you dancing. You won't find better company in the entire city, I can assure you. Although I'm afraid I'd be a nuisance, so if you'll allow me, now I'll leave you for the night.”

The Hispanists were dumbfounded to see him dash out of there
immediately. But before long those three young women, with all their charm and self-confidence—not to mention cocktails and cha-cha steps—made sure the Hispanists soon forgot him. Those three professors would forever remember that visit to Pittsburgh as an academic get-together like no other.

It was a significantly altered Daniel Carter who, nearly two years later and with an impressive number of classes and lectures under his belt, visited Professor Fontana one afternoon. He was now a seasoned young man, both physically and morally. He poked his head through the open door of the professor's office on one of the top floors of the imposing Cathedral of Learning.

“Come on, Carter, come on in,” Fontana's robust voice greeted him in Spanish. “I was waiting for you. I see you are short of breath as usual. Sit down quietly for a while, please.”

Daniel was more than used to the reigning chaos of crammed shelves, piles of essays and exams, and that office desk always littered with papers. With the passage of time, Andres Fontana had gone from being his academic supervisor to his respected mentor and even his friend who unfolded for the American some of the mysteries and idiosyncrasies of a country that had not yet healed from the wounds and horrors of its long civil war.

The professor maintained his austere Spanish formality in dealings with both colleagues and students. He was quick, resolute, solid in body and spirit, with a broad torso and large hands that seemed to have been created for some purpose less sophisticated than teaching. Although approaching fifty, apart from a few white hairs at his temples and in his beard, he still had a dense head of dark hair, always combed back, and a raspy voice that never spouted gratuitous praise. Despite his years of living in the United States and speaking flawless English, he had not rid himself of his native accent. Nor, after teaching for half a lifetime, did he hide his disapproval of a certain relaxed behavior among the students: untimely laughter, the occasional dash down the hallways, and that involuntary fondness of some for dozing off in his
afternoon classes. He had little patience for frivolity and was stubbornly intolerant of laziness and procrastination. Nonetheless, he was generous and open to dialogue: always ready to talk to students, always capable of listening and debating without prejudice. Always ready to lend a hand.

Using his pen like a rapier, he made a few more energetic cross-outs without raising his eyes from the page, handwritten by some mediocre student whom he was tearing to pieces.

“I take it we're still interested in spending a good period of time in Spain,” he said, holding his cigarette between his lips while his gaze remained fixed on his merciless corrections.

“Yes, sir, that's certainly the case.”

Despite the trust they'd established with the passing of time, in academic settings they maintained an exquisite conventionality.

“Well, there's something I need to tell you. Start by taking a look at this.”

A packet of several pages attached by a paper clip came gliding over the table and Daniel caught it on the fly. “Fulbright Program,” he read aloud.

“It's finally going to make it to Spain, praise be to God.”

As if to underscore his ironic comment, Fontana forcefully made one last horizontal line on the massacred text. Then he screwed the top of his fountain pen back on and concentrated on the issue at hand.

“It's an international academic exchange program financed by the United States Congress. Spain, however, had been kept on the margin until now, as in so many other things. But since our countries seem to be enjoying a sweet understanding at the moment, they've finally decided to open the door and a joint commission will soon be created.”

“What exactly does the program consist of?” Daniel inquired, avidly glancing over the papers.

“Scholarships for graduate studies or research at a university in the chosen country.”

“I just hope you don't ask me to entertain a few professors like last time in order to get it.”

Fontana laughed heartily.

“Don't worry, I guarantee that this time around everything will be done by the book,” he said, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray full of butts.

He still had a hard time recognizing in that young man the impetuous kid who not too long ago had arrived in his classroom with faltering Spanish and an overwhelming desire to learn. He'd toned down, smoothed out his rough edges, increased his command of the language tenfold, and, in spite of this, had not lost an iota of enthusiasm or the intellectual curiosity he'd arrived with on the first day. He'd obtained the scholarship that had finally freed him from his night work at the factory and allowed him to concentrate on his studies with even greater determination. But he still had a long way to go in order to achieve what he had been headed toward from the very start, Fontana thought. He still needed to be guided.