The Heart Has Its Reasons (21 page)

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the anonymous angel who had come to his rescue during his fever. In slippers, in her fifties, and wearing a checkered apron.

“Modesto, are you going to do the night shift today, or is your cousin Fulgencio finally going to show up?”

“Well, I don't know, Catalina; he hasn't said anything to me yet.”

“I need to know if I should start preparing dinner or wait a little longer. I've got noodle soup and marinated mackerel. Would you like
me to bring you a plate up to your room, son?” she said, addressing Daniel, who was still leaning on the counter. “The evening is getting ugly; this way you won't have to go out on the street again. And it'll do you good: you look awfully skinny. Even with that fever you've had, you don't stay still for a minute, and you may end up having a relapse. I'll set some of ours aside for you, because where two eat, three can eat as well.”

“Wait, Catalina, he still has to choose a novel. Which one will it be, my friend?”

Lead in the Chest
was the price he had to pay for dinner.

He had thought he'd spend the following day in search of information that would open his eyes to Sender's sources when writing his novel. Before going to bed he'd gone over his notes regarding places and characters. But suddenly all of that no longer seemed to interest him, and although he had made a firm commitment to his work, he also decided that, if things remained this gloomy, he would return to Madrid the following day.

About to fall asleep, he added one more resolution to his list: not to evoke the memory of the young lady at the pharmacy. Thinking it over carefully, she was not worth all the fuss. Her strides seemed overly energetic, her very presence somewhat overwhelming for a medium-size woman of her age. And that hair of hers, so wild, seemed a bit too flashy in comparison with the well-combed dark hair that Spanish women usually had. Prettier women had crossed his path and would in the future, he told himself; women who were more accessible, less distant. It was settled, and he fell asleep. But half an hour later, he was dreaming that he was sinking his fingers into the curls at her neck and, drawing her close to him, kissing her wide sweet mouth.

The next day dawned with pouring rain and it didn't let up until evening. A dark, sad day, with a leaden sky, empty streets, and shut-down shops. Far from being discouraged, he took to the street carrying an umbrella with two missing ribs that Catalina had lent him and a well-worn copy of
Mister Witt en el Canton
still covered in newspaper to avoid parading the name of the exiled author in plain sight. His vague
objective was to discover some clue to what could have inspired Sender to create the character of the old English engineer that the writer placed in the revolutionary Cartagena of the First Spanish Republic. But there was no one around who could give him any reliable information on that day of gift giving and family gatherings. Moreover, the public library was closed.

The only one who seemed to shed any light on the subject was an elderly customer who looked like he'd had a few too many. In a tavern on the Calle Cuatro Santos, he explained to Daniel that Sender was a rotten Red and that his name was not mentioned in that country of peace and order that the Caudillo had brought about. To round off his discourse, he stood up unsteadily and delivered a resounding “Long live Spain!” The clicking of heels that accompanied so patriotic a salute would have sent him falling backward had Daniel not caught him.

He returned to the pension drenched and in a mood as black as the day itself. He let the afternoon roll by absorbed in another brainy contemplation of the spots on the ceiling and then started to write a letter to Professor Fontana that didn't go beyond the salutation. Toward seven o'clock he went down to the reception desk to take a look at the local paper. A notice announced that that evening
The Prince and the Showgirl
was being released in the Central Cinema in CinemaScope and Technicolor. If he hurried, he'd make it to the seven-thirty showing. It might distract him a little, even if it meant listening to Marilyn Monroe and Laurence Olivier flirting in Spanish.

He started packing as soon as he got back to the hotel, deciding to head back to Madrid the following day even though he hadn't found one single interesting piece of information for his work and still had the image of the pharmacy girl fresh in his mind despite his effort to purge his mind of her. To compensate for the former, he'd have a chance to consult other resources at the National Library. The latter he'd dispel in time.

In order to avoid contingencies similar to those encountered on the outbound trip, at the station he purchased a first-class return ticket. There would be plenty of time to mingle with the true essence of Spain;
as of now, all that mattered to him was getting out of there, the sooner the better.

He chose not to board the train before the appointed time, devoting himself to watching the hustle and bustle of people and belongings as he sat on a platform bench. There was not a trace of the previous day's rain, and he found himself savoring the last feel of the Mediterranean sun on his skin, as he had no intention of returning to that place.

He liked train stations and their routines; it amused him to speculate on the lives of travelers and their destinations, the reasons for their comings and goings. Some of the Spanish customs he found a bit excessive, like that tendency to take several family generations along to say good-bye to or greet some of their members.

He watched with rising spirits before his imminent departure while behind him, from the canteen's open door, amid the early-morning clinking of plates and glasses, the radio was playing. The lilting rhythm penetrated his bones, and without his realizing it his foot was soon tapping out the beat. He realized how in no time this city would be pushed to the far reaches of his memory and the only thing remaining would be the faint images of a literary figure whose face he had never found and a woman whose name he was unable to learn. An elegant middle-aged couple, a distinguished-looking old lady, and three young people hurried onto the platform, loaded with luggage. Instinctively, he opened one of the newspapers he'd just bought and took refuge behind it while beyond its right edge he continued to watch them.

They were all accompanying a young lady with straw-colored hair who was evidently traveling to Madrid after the Christmas holiday. Later he would find out that it was to finish the last year of her pharmaceutical studies. He saw them exchange kisses and hugs, which intensified when it came to the brother, a young air force lieutenant with cropped hair and a tanned face.

He waited until the last second to hop onto the coach. Through the window he could see how the family—huddled together and already feeling her absence as they continued to wave at the train—diminished in the distance.

The girl, meanwhile, made an effort to contain a stubborn tear that
was threatening to fall and concentrated on organizing her luggage. A large suitcase, a traveling bag, her blue coat . . .

“May I help you?” she heard behind her back.

Once more she received him with a glorious smile and those gray eyes that sparkled like the sea before her balcony on winter mornings. He finally learned the six letters of her name.

Chapter 20

I
had always enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen, putting new twists on traditional recipes. Any excuse or minor event had been a good reason to sit family and friends around the table to celebrate. The end of the school year, an anniversary, my sons' smallest successes, or simply a Friday night. Sometimes these were noisy meals with crisscrossing conversations and eternal after-dinner talk. Other times they were small gatherings with wine and candles until the wee hours, bringing the feeling that the world had come to a standstill beneath one's feet.

But everything was different now that my age-old friends were at the other end of the world and my family had disintegrated. The only event I could celebrate was that the calendar had just certified I was a year older.

A sad perspective that, properly looked at, might be a good incentive to settle into my new life, one that I had not chosen, full of absences and uncertainties. Suddenly, from one day to the next, I had had to reinvent myself and begin feebly muddling through, like a child learning to walk, except that I already had four and a half decades behind me. At an age when I should have reached a serene maturity, safe and secure in what I had achieved, I instead felt vulnerable, disillusioned, without expectations, and with my self-esteem in tatters.

Toward noon I went in search of food supplies. I needed eggs, potatoes, garlic, tomatoes for the gazpacho, and peaches for the sangria. The Cantabrian anchovies, a few wedges of aged Manchego cheese, and some other delicacies I'd purchased a few days earlier at the price of gold. What I still lacked were the basics, for which I chose the G&G behind the square rather than the more exclusive Meli's Market.

I went with a clear objective and finished quickly, since I was in a hurry to get back and start cooking. When I was on line waiting my turn, I suddenly remembered that I didn't have any paper napkins. Cursing under my breath, I made a U-turn, wondering where the damn napkins would be. In the middle of the paper goods aisle I saw her. She seemed to be scrutinizing a box of Kleenex, turning it over and over while supporting herself on an orthopedic walker. Her hair was dyed an outrageous shade of blond for her age, and even with her enormous sunglasses her identity was unmistakable: Fanny's mother, Darla Stern, the former department secretary who was unable to elicit in Daniel Carter the same sympathy he always displayed toward other people.

I subtly turned around in case she recognized me or in case Fanny, who no doubt was close by, suddenly appeared by her side, forcing me to stop and chat. To avoid running into them, I grabbed my napkins stealthily and disappeared.

The day went by amid the smell of Spanish omelets and the noise of pureeing tomatoes. As I worked in the kitchen I chased away the errant ghosts that accosted me, wielding the magic that smells have to conjure our pasts and kindle our emotions. Everything was ready at half past seven. Rebecca's folding table looked like an immigrant's dream, and the nostalgic specters peacefully rested in their cages. I wore black, played a new flamenco CD by Ketama, and, to give it the ultimate Spanish touch, placed in my hair a couple of bright red carnations that I'd bought on my way out of G&G.

I had just finished applying a second coat of mascara when the phone rang. I figured it was Rebecca calling to ask if there was any last-minute item I needed, or perhaps someone apologizing at the eleventh hour for not being able to make it to the party. But I was mistaken. The voice at the other end, so many miles away, belonged to someone who
more than twenty years earlier had been literally a part of me. Someone several inches taller than I and out loose in the world despite the fact that I would have liked him to be by my side eternally, never growing beyond the height of my shoulder.

“Heyyyyy! Where the hell have you been hiding, Mom?”

My son Pablo, most likely out on the town in the wee hours. He'd been on the beaches of Cadiz since summer, lured by the surf, his latest great passion until some other obsession took its place. Despite all predictions, he had finished his BA in business administration in June, something unexpected given the fact that he'd had to retake three classes. He was impulsive and unpredictable, and so was his decision to take a year off before thinking of anything useful in terms of his professional future. Unlike his brother, who a year earlier had gotten a scholarship for a master's at the London School of Economics, after graduation Pablo had decided to surf the waves in southern Spain. This weekend, however, he had returned to Madrid and was calling from there in the middle of a night of partying.

“Boy, you're old, Mom, forty-five . . . No . . . I'm just joking . . . you're still a kid . . . The prettiest!”

I couldn't avoid smiling as a pang of melancholy shot through me. Paralyzed inside the bathroom's small perimeter, I sat on the edge of the bathtub to listen to him. My kid. How quickly he'd grown up.

“Hello . . . can you hear me?” He kept talking at the top of his voice, a hard-to-identify din in the background. “We're here . . . and we're talking about you. We've gone out for dinner and then for a couple of drinks, and we've slowly gotten carried away, and . . . and . . . and this one is going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble when he gets—”

A ferocious peal of laughter completed the phrase. I didn't know who he was referring to by “this one”; probably one of his friends. He didn't even give me time to figure it out; he only said, “Wait, let me pass him on to you.”

“Hello, Blancurria. It's me.”

I could feel the smile that Pablo's voice had drawn on my face freeze into a grimace. It was Alberto, my ex-husband, with a nasal voice.
Using my former affectionate nickname, the one that showed concern, companionship, complicity.

“Here I am with Pablito, who's got me a little trashed . . .” he continued without waiting for me to say anything. “The kid has turned into a man, with such long hair that I'm wondering when he'll cut it . . . but he won't listen to me, as usual. Maybe you can tell him something and convince him; you know he ignores everything I say. Well, so . . . so happy birthday. I've got no present for you, since you're so far away. The other day I saw a painting, nothing much, a piece of nonsense, a marina with some boats, not much of anything, but I thought: For Blanca, who always misses the sea in winter. But then I remembered that you were no longer around, that you'd left . . . well, that . . . that I'd left . . .”

Then he fell silent and I was unable to utter a single word. The background noise was still deafening and made the silence between us all the more tense. We remained like this for a couple of seconds that seemed never-ending, both of us speechless, him at his bar and me in my bathroom, each conscious of the presence of the other in the distance. Despite the physical distance and the open abyss between us, for the first time in a long while Alberto and I felt some kind of closeness. He was the first to speak up again.