The Heart Has Its Reasons (15 page)

“Well, the truth is that my main intention is to find influenzas, points of departure, sources, and inspirations.”

“Influences.”

“Excuse me?”

“It's influences, not influenzas. Carry on, please.”

“Influences. I'm sorry, sir. I mean to say . . . I meant to say . . . that my intention is to follow in the authors' vital footsteps to better understand their subsequent production.”

The sentence came out just perfect; he'd studied it well. His satisfaction, however, was short-lived.

“To tread the same paths, feel the landscape's throb, before commencing your intellectual task—is that your intention?”

It had been many years since Daniel had felt that sensation: an excessive heat in his face and the realization that he was blushing.

“I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.”

“What is it you don't understand?”

“Some of those words, Professor, I don't know their meanings.”

“You'll learn them in due time, young man. Let us continue. And now tell me, do you have a particular author in mind?”

Before requesting Cabeza de Vaca as Daniel's advisor, Fontana had considered various options and thought of a handful of classmates who were now part of his old university's faculty. Through contacts with colleagues at other American universities, he'd obtained information on their careers and status, on their relations with the political regime and their level of involvement with the authorities. He didn't want his student to face problems in a Spain loaded with controls and rules: he was looking for someone who would officially accept Daniel within the institution, sign the necessary documents, and let him work at his own pace. Someone to whom that dislocated foreigner would barely matter. A mere bureaucratic link, a simple official procedure. Nothing else. Fontana himself would take care of the academic guidelines that would give shape to Daniel's future dissertation upon his return to the States.

He finally decided on Domingo Cabeza de Vaca despite the fact that his colleague's field of specialty was far from contemporary narrative and, even more so, from those writers exiled by the civil war. Knowing full well that he belonged to the winners' camp and that in his world there was not even a remote shadow of a link with those who for three atrocious years were on the other side, Fontana nonetheless intuited that Cabeza de Vaca could be trusted. However, he preferred not to be too explicit just in case, hoping that his colleague, who was absorbed in a seven-century-old universe of manuscripts, would accept a bureaucratically appropriate operation but remain altogether aloof. Nevertheless, for Cabeza de Vaca, that wasn't enough apparently; it wouldn't do. He needed to know more.

As for Cabeza de Vaca's question regarding his personal interest in some particular author, Daniel knew he could not lie. He was aware that it was not in his interest to speak openly about Sender; that he would be better off sticking to generic writers and abstract themes. But Fontana
and he had considered this scenario and agreed that, in the event that Daniel was corralled, deception was too dangerous an option.

“I must admit that there are some authors in whom I have a particular interest, although they are all worthy of . . .”

Cabeza de Vaca raised an eyebrow, and Daniel knew there was no way out.

“Ramon J. Sender, sir.”

“Frankly interesting . . . In other words, what you intend to do is to follow Sender's footsteps in Spain so as to afterwards research his literary production.”

“That is so, more or less,” Daniel acknowledged in a somewhat quieter tone.

“Then, and correct me if I'm mistaken: you don't contemplate reading the author's works while in Spain?”

He stirred in his chair, crossed his legs, then immediately uncrossed them. This was going further than he and Fontana had foreseen at Pitt.

“It's not possible, sir.”

“Would you be kind enough to explain the reason?”

Daniel again changed posture and readjusted the knot of his tie, which was choking him.

“It's hard to come by his books in Spain,” he finally admitted.

“Hard?”

“Impossible, rather.”

“For some reason in particular?”

Daniel cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

“Censorship, sir. Ramon J. Sender's books are forbidden.”

“And do you think that is correct?”

Daniel noticed that his mouth was dry. His head, however, was boiling.

“Do you find this to be correct or not, Mr. Carter?” the professor repeated.

Daniel knew that he was taking a gamble and that this could be the end of it all: of his stay in Spain, of his scholarship, of his still-incipient professional career. But he took a risk because he felt he had no other alternative.

“No, Professor. I don't think it's correct.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't think voices should be silent.”

“Silenced.”

“Excuse me?”

“We are not talking of personal decisions but rather of external impositions, right or wrong?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

He did not want to show that at that moment the only thing that really mattered to him was not being kicked out of there.

The professor's reaction took a couple of seconds to surface, and in the interim, while they held each other's gaze, Daniel's mind passed in hasty sequence through the worst scenarios. Fontana had been mistaken: trusting this colleague of his had been a terrible decision; he would never work on Sender's oeuvre; the Fulbright Commission would be informed and his scholarship rescinded, and he would have to return to Pittsburgh shortly thereafter. Good-bye to Madrid and his dream of traveling throughout Spain. Perhaps he should have listened to his parents and given up on his absurd dream of specializing in a foreign language. Perhaps his professional destiny was really in law school or in the emergency ward of some hospital. Or in the Heinz factory, loading trucks with ketchup and cans of beans until his weary body gave out.

“Very well, Mr. Carter, very well . . .” the professor finally declared, a faint mocking smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. “In spite of the uncomfortable moment that I have made you go through, I have no doubt that you will end up being a good Hispanist once you've consolidated your command of the language and moved forward with your research. For the time being you seem to be well on track, with firm opinions and an evident determination.”

Daniel was about to gasp in relief, to loosen up and finally feel safe.

“But you still have an arduous road ahead of you,” the professor added. “And for this reason, as a first step and before you embark on your mission, we must fulfill some formal requirements.”

Once again he felt somewhat alarmed but was sure that the worst
was behind him. The professor, meanwhile, continued to elaborate in his well-measured speech.

“So that we cover all the academic requirements, we're going to enroll you in two courses. The first will be Visigothic Paleography, with a special emphasis on
Commentary on the Apocalypse
by Beatus of Liebana. I teach it on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays at eight o'clock in the morning. The second, Comparative Analysis of the Silos Glosses and Saint Emilianus Glosses, Thursdays and Fridays from seven thirty to nine in the evening.”

The young American began searching for phrases in his half-baked Spanish that would exempt him from having to study something so absurdly alien to his interests.

“Excuse me, sir, but I . . . well, my intention—”

“Although, you will be exempt from attending the courses of either of these subject matters without being prevented from obtaining an A if I have you back here next month to inform me how your sojourn in Upper Aragon went, following in Sender's footsteps.”

Daniel's face must have shown something like stupor. Cabeza de Vaca, breaking with his exquisite iciness, burst out laughing.

He continued. “Your words are convincing, as well as the letters of recommendation that I have received from the University of Pittsburgh and the report from the Fulbright Foundation. Although, naturally, I was not ready to accept a student from my dear Andres Fontana without first reestablishing contact with him. Not out of distrust. Please understand me: I would have accepted any request of his without any hesitation whatsoever. But I didn't want to pass up the opportunity to learn how my old colleague was doing and to find out how he has fared all these years.”

Despite being overcome by a wave of relief, Daniel suddenly realized that he didn't know much about his professor's past either. Their conversations had almost always centered on the present and, especially, the future: plans, projects, and objectives. The little he knew about Fontana was confined to classrooms and lectures, to the historic and literary past of his country.

“It was moving, believe me. I never learned of his whereabouts since
we finished our studies in 1935. I knew that he intended to spend a semester as a lecturer at some American university, but I was unaware if he'd ever returned, if he'd fought in the war or not, if he'd been killed, or if he'd survived.”

“He never returned to Spain,” Daniel stated.

“I know, I know. Now I know everything. I've found out what that miner's son's perseverance and drive ended up forging. He was never intimidated by us, all the young gentlemen teeming about the place. I always admired that in him: the self-confidence, his ability to adapt to everything without ever losing the perspective of who he was or where he came from. It's been a great pleasure to be in touch with him again. And he's sent me a message for you. Here, transcribed word for word.”

He handed Daniel a folded sheet of paper containing a handful of simple words in English.
Let him have his way
, Daniel read to himself. So that was what his teacher advised.

“Contrary to what you two schemed in the very beginning, I pledged to Andres Fontana not only to act as your nominal supervisor to fulfill the formal requirements of your scholarship, Mr. Carter, but to truly help you in any way within my power.”

“I'm most grateful, sir.”

Cabeza de Vaca continued talking as if he hadn't heard him.

“Unlike what you thought at the beginning, deep down your project pleases me. Or I'm going to make an effort for it to please me, to be more precise. You will soon find out why.”

He then leaned sideways, grabbing something that was not visible from behind the walnut desk. It turned out to be a crutch that the professor skillfully adjusted beneath his right arm while making an energetic effort to stand up. Only then was Daniel able to see his injured body.

“The war took my girlfriend, two brothers, and a leg. One needs to be very strong to overcome something like that and look at the future without anxiety. I wasn't able. I lacked the courage and, because of this, took refuge in the past. I withdrew all the way back to the Middle Ages,” he said, collapsing into the chair once more and dropping the crutch on the floor. The resounding noise of the wood against the tiles
didn't seem to faze him. “Between codices, the chronicles, and cantigas I found the peace that memories and nightmares deprived me of.”

“I understand . . .” Daniel whispered, although he didn't understand at all.

“But my coping mechanism is by no means the most sensible. That is why I think I must make an effort to understand and help whoever insists on moving forward. You know, I've been considering this matter since I reestablished contact with Fontana. And although I never pictured myself defending this position, I've reached the conclusion that this country would be heading in the wrong direction if all intellectuals hid as I did in the distant past. I think we need to move toward the future and to listen to the voices of those who survived the atrocity of our civil war: those who stayed and those who left; those who are still here and those who are in exile.”

“Are you referring to exiles like Sender, sir?” Daniel asked doubtfully.

“Exactly. The only ones who have been silenced forever are the dead. The rest, even in the distance, still remain sons of the fatherland, keeping its memory alive and ennobling our language with their words. To ignore them and to perpetuate the painful division that separates those outside from those inside will only stunt our country's intellectual development even more.”

“That is also how Dr. Fontana sees it, Professor,” Daniel ventured to say.

“And that is how I believe we should all start thinking around here. To consider those who can't or don't want to come back as an essential part of our culture is, like it or not, a moral responsibility. So count on me in your efforts. I've got a feeling there won't be much I can do for you, but here I am, just in case. I only ask you in exchange to keep me abreast of your progress.”

“I will do as you ask. Thank you very much, Professor” was all Daniel managed to reply.

“I'll be waiting for you,” Cabeza de Vaca concluded, extending his hand but not getting up again. “You have before you a heroic monarchist soldier and a ‘Knight Wounded in the Noble Service of God, the
Fatherland and the Charters.' A dreamer who didn't have the luck of his mentor, swallowed a tall tale of the great crusade, and didn't know how to get out of the way at the right moment.”

Daniel firmly shook his hand, transmitting a mixture of admiration and bewilderment.

“I will return in a month's time, sir, I promise.”

“I hope so. And one last thing before you leave. You probably don't know the film
Welcome, Mr. Marshall!
, right?”

“No, I don't know it.”

“It was released several years back, in 1953, if I'm not mistaken. It is both amusing and distressing. See it if you get the chance, and then you can reflect upon it. Try not to do the same thing your compatriots do in the film. Respect this nation, young man. Don't pass before us without stopping to try and understand who we are. Don't rely on the anecdotal; don't judge us simplistically. We trust you, Daniel Carter. Don't let us down.”