The Heart Has Its Reasons (35 page)

“Unfortunately, yes. And the rest of what happened around here you know better than I, because it's the story of this country of yours.”

“The brief California Republic, and afterwards the Mexican-­American War. And, at its end, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which reconfigured our map and gave us all of northern Mexico, including California.”

“The missions, from then on, would fall into complete oblivion until the 1920s, when they started being physically rehabilitated, and from the fifties onwards the historical investigation takes off.”

“Ensnaring a few romantics like Andres Fontana during the last years of his career,” he added.

“That's why you and I are here today, at the end of the fabled Camino Real, at the last mission of this chain of relics of Spain's
colonial past. But hardly anyone remembers much about this anymore.”

“Especially in Spain.”

“Certainly. Except for me,” I joked, “who's saved from ignorance thanks to an unknown foundation that gave me a fellowship I'd applied for without even knowing what it was.”

He changed posture again, now staring blankly at some diffused point in the square. Perhaps the bronze heroic figure of the soldier of the Bear Flag Republic, or the empty swings.

“I was very lucky I got the fellowship,” I went on. “It's turning out to be very comfortable to work without deadlines or pressure. They send me a check every month and I work at my own pace until, on completion, everything is organized and I provide them with a final report.”

He kept silent, listening to me with a mixture of aloofness and interest.

“Let's go, then,” was all he ended up saying. “Should we return to Santa Cecilia or should we take a walk around here?”

We strolled in the surrounding area, coming across pedestrian side streets with shops, art galleries, and cafés. Finally we reached an Irish pub that looked altogether incongruous there. At the door a concert was announced and we felt like having something, so we decided to go in.

It was long past lunch hour and dinnertime hadn't yet begun, but the place seemed willing to offer us whatever we might want. We sat at the bar. A trio of veteran musicians, all on the far side of sixty, prepared their instruments in a corner. One of them had a gray ponytail halfway down his back; another had on a black T-shirt covering his prominent belly and emblazoned with a marijuana leaf; a third was riffling through the contents of a large bag on the floor.

We ordered a couple of beers and kept talking amid green clover decorations and Gaelic captions. We spoke of Fontana once again, an almost unconscious tribute to the mission we'd just visited, prompted by him.

“During that last period, when he began to be interested in the his
tory of Spanish California and the missions,” Daniel said after his first gulp of stout, “I remember that he also took to buying documents on colonial history. Chronicles, maps, and bundles belonging, I imagine, to the missions or other related institutions.”

“There is very little of that among what was given to me; everything is much more documentary. Where did he come up with all this?”

He shrugged.

“He'd find things any old place and would pay just a couple of dollars for something. Apparently very few people appreciated those documents' worth, since they were written in Spanish.”

“Perhaps he was looking for Mission Olvido.”

A basket of french fries was placed before us and we started to nibble at them.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I remember once he suggested that it could even have been situated near Santa Cecilia. Probably that's why he was interested in getting ahold of old documents from the area, in case he might come across any information. But are you sure there is nothing about that in the papers you're working on?”

“Nothing at all, as I told you. Although I still have the impression that there are things missing in his legacy, something more that would shed light on his last batch of work.”

“It's strange,” he added thoughtfully as he grabbed a few more fries. “Ever since you told me that you felt there were missing documents, I can't stop wondering what could have happened to them. Perhaps part of the material was misplaced in some move. Or perhaps he got rid of it himself, although I doubt it, because he wasn't in the habit of throwing anything out. You cannot imagine what his office looked like. The cave of Ali Baba.”

The pub had slowly filled up and the atmosphere was becoming livelier by the minute as the elderly musicians got ready to play.

“I found lots of notes pertaining to a library at the University of California where most of the records regarding the missions are located. That is another visit I'd like to make.”

“The Bancroft Library, in Berkeley. That's where he was returning
from when he was killed. He'd been consulting documents and data. Night was falling; it was the seventeenth of May 1969. It was raining, one of those heavy spring showers. A truck crossed his path, he skidded . . .”

“How sad, right?” I sighed. “To dedicate so much time to rescuing what has been forgotten and end up dead, lying alone in a ditch on a rainy night.”

Daniel took a few seconds to respond. The conversations of those around us filled the silence in ours. When he finally did speak, he did so with his eyes fixed on the glass he held in his hands. Turning it as if he were trying to find in it the inspiration to say what he intended.

“He was not alone in the car. Somebody else died in that accident.”

“Who?”

The musicians broke into the first chords of Celtic music and the noise of the conversations died down.

“Who, Daniel?”

He looked up from his beer and finally answered.

“A woman.”

“What woman?”

“What difference does her name make now, after so long? Are you still hungry? Should we order something else?”

Chapter 31

W
e went on to talk about many other things, ordering more beers and some hamburgers, of which Daniel ate one and a half and I only half. Between the Celtic music and recollections of our visit to the mission, we let the rest of the evening roll by.

By the time we decided to start on our way back to Santa Cecilia, it was already pitch-dark. As we headed toward the parking lot, he saw something in a shopwindow, and after a simple “Wait a moment” he dashed inside the store, reemerging a minute later with a small iron bell, a replica of the missionary symbol. “A souvenir from this day,” he said, handing it to me.

“You still have time to run away with me and forget about your chairman tomorrow,” he warned me with his usual irony on pulling up in front of my apartment. “How about we go to Napa and visit a couple of cellars?”

“Negative.”

“Okay, you win, even if afterwards you regret it. And what are you doing next week?”

“Work: tying up loose ends, settling matters pertaining to the legacy. Time has flown: we're already in December and, as I told you, I have less and less to do.”

“And then you'll leave us,” he added.

I delayed my answer a couple of seconds.

“I guess I have no other choice.”

I could have not said anything else, keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself. But, since I'd revealed my feelings in the morning, I had the urge to continue. “I don't want to go, you know? I don't want to return to Spain.”

“What you don't want to do is to come face-to-face with your reality.”

“You're probably right.”

“But you must.”

“I know.”

We were still sitting inside the parked car, in front of my place.

“Unless SAPAM could offer me another fellowship,” I went on. “Perhaps, even though it's late, I should get in touch with them.”

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because things need their closure, Blanca, even though it may be painful. It's not wise to leave open wounds. Time cures everything, but before that, it's best to reconcile yourself with whatever you've left behind.”

“We'll see . . .” I said, not too convinced.

“Take care, then.”

He put his hand on top of mine and squeezed it. I didn't budge.

Suddenly my Taiwanese neighbor, a mathematics professor, appeared carrying an enormous box that, from its size, seemed to contain a television. His balancing act trying to get it inside the building distracted us.

I pulled my hand from under Daniel's, opened the door, and got out.

“See you soon,” I said, bending down to speak to him through the open passenger's-side door.

“Whenever you want.”

As soon as he saw me go in, he left.

The next day, Saturday, I took a walk past Rebecca's house around noon. I would have liked to talk to her about Daniel, Fontana, and the tangle of emotions they were weaving within me, as well as those earlier times when Rebecca herself had dealt with them, and perhaps even about the woman who died with the professor on that rainy night. Even though I knew Rebecca was in Portland celebrating one of her granddaughters' birthdays, I needed somehow to confirm it by seeing the closed windows, the garage door down, and not a trace of her good old dog, Macan.

Later that day, Luis Zarate showed up in his car in the very same spot where Daniel had dropped me off the previous night. How strange it was for me who'd been driving everywhere all my life to suddenly find myself without a car, waiting for someone to pick me up.

Los Olivos was our dinner destination; I was finally going to discover the city's most famous restaurant. Packed, with a good table reserved for us, it had class without fanfare, tall exposed-brick walls covered with large paintings, and bottle racks loaded with wines.

“Cabernet? Shiraz? Or would you prefer to try a petit verdot? I like your earrings; they look very good on you,” Luis said.

They were the same I'd worn to Rebecca's Thanksgiving dinner. When I bought them at Istanbul's Grand Bazaar on that trip with my husband, I never could have imagined that less than a year later I'd be dining at the other end of the world with a different man, somewhat younger than me, who just happened to be my boss and promised, moreover, to be good company.

“Thanks, they're from Turkey. As for the wine, it's best you choose.”

“There's something special you Spanish women have when it comes to dressing up. Spanish and Argentinians, and Italians too. Do you like pasta? I recommend the linguine
alle vongole
.”

“I think I'm going to go for the mushroom risotto,” I declared, closing the menu. “It's been ages since I've had rice.”

“Excellent choice.”

“I'll let you try it. Well, and how is everything going?”

“Good, good, good . . .”

The department, his classes, my classes, some books, some places,
this or that colleague—a thousand different matters filled our conversation in the faint candlelight and over glasses of wine.

Without even being aware of it, as we moved from the hummus-and-tapenade appetizer to a salad and then to the main dish, we glided from the professional terrain into a more human sphere of things. Neither of us went into detail or openly expressed emotions or feelings as I had the previous day. But we did drop a few facts that until then we'd never talked about before. Nothing intimate: objective matters, general subjects, except that they nevertheless crossed the line of the purely professional. That he had a little daughter in Massachusetts, although he had never married the mother. That I'd just separated somewhat abruptly. That his transfer to California had resulted in their relationship cooling down. That my children hardly needed me anymore. He did not mention Lisa Gersen, the young German professor I'd seen him with the night of the debate and on one other occasion, whom everyone in the department thought was special to him. Nor did I ask.

Someone came up to our table unexpectedly in the middle of our dinner. One of my students, Joe Super, the adorable historian in my conversation course. I hadn't noticed him earlier because he was seated behind me.

I was happy to see him. So was Luis, with whom he shook hands.

“I only came to tell my dear and admired professor,” he said with great charm in more than passable Spanish, “that I will be unable to attend your class next Tuesday.”

“Well, we'll miss you, Joe.”

And it was true. He was, without a doubt, one of the most participatory students, with a friendly manner and intelligent point of view.

“It's likely that others won't attend either,” he added.

“Again because of the Los Pinitos matter, I take it,” Luis stated before I had a chance to ask.

Joe Super was still actively involved in the platform opposed to the project. I remembered seeing him on television, and in our classes he occasionally alluded to the matter.

“That's right. Another meeting this Tuesday in the auditorium.
There's very little time left for the deadline to legally appeal against the mall project, and we're all a little nervous.”

“In that case you're excused.”

“And if you care to know how things are coming along, you can attend too.”

“Thank you, Joe, but I think I'd better not. I'm only in Santa Cecilia in passing, as you are aware. In any case, you can tell me all about it afterwards.”

“I presume our mutual friend Dan Carter will also be there,” he said by way of good-bye. “I'm sure he'll chew me out for missing the pretty visiting Spanish professor's class.”

With a friendly wink he returned to his table, again leaving Luis and me alone. The tone and content of our previous conversation, however, had been altered.

“Your mutual friend Dan Carter,” he repeated, ironically raising his glass in the manner of a toast. “Once again the great intellectual rears his head.”