The Heart Has Its Reasons (39 page)

“So you decided to punish him. To keep his memory buried for more than thirty years in a basement full of dust, without a single human hand coming close to him to unearth him from oblivion.”

He swallowed his emotions before continuing.

“It's a very crude way of expressing it, but perhaps you're right. I intentionally refused to assume responsibility for his legacy, and with this decision I also decided to push aside the memory of the man he was.”

“Until some months ago, in light of this matter of Los Pinitos, you decided to pardon him. You thought that perhaps Fontana had been onto something after all, with his belated passion for those humble
Franciscans and his extravagant notion of the existence of a lost mission. So you decided to act.”

A wistful smile became visible at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back on the sofa. Tense, sad, and tired. Like myself.

“Yes and no. When I found out through Rebecca about the urban aberration that was in the pipelines, I started to turn the matter over in my head. I recalled the walks that Aurora and he would take in the long afternoons of that last spring they were alive. All that fruitless effort came back to my mind, the work they never finished because death swept them away: their conjectures, their hopes, and especially their work's relevance to the present. Then I made some inquiries of my own and learned that Los Pinitos is presently under the town hall's custody, with no legitimate proprietor or recorded history.”

“And you put two and two together.”

“It didn't strike me as totally implausible that, among those lost documents, I might find some missing clue. But most important, I thought that the time had come to make peace with my past, and above all with that man who had meant so much in my life. To compensate for my unjust behavior and to try and pay some kind of tribute, half privately, half publicly, to the person and his work.”

“So that's how it all began.”

“Yes, Blanca. That is how my reconciliation got under way.”

Chapter 34

T
he night advanced and there we were, facing each other, under the tenuous light of a corner lamp, without even a lousy glass of wine or some background music or a simple sip of water to attenuate the sorrow. There were no sounds to disturb us beyond those that occasionally slipped in from the street, muffled by the closed window.

The sadness was palpable. His feelings were no doubt true; in no way did I doubt his sincerity. But it wasn't enough. Beyond his words, which at times sounded both convincing and devastating, I felt once again the bitter sensation of having been betrayed by someone whom I had trusted blindly. As if history had repeated itself.

Coldly contemplated, hardly any of that had to do with the wound caused by my marriage's collapse. Alberto's disloyalty had been a devastating cyclone that turned my universe upside down. Daniel's manipulation was, by comparison, a simple summer storm. Even so, the emotional erosion that I was beginning to recover from had suddenly resumed. No matter how much he endeavored to string a clear and coherent speech regarding the genesis of that obscure plot, no matter how much he convinced me of his honesty, the fact was that I still felt deceived. I wanted to get to the bottom of the matter.

“So then, once you set up your foundation or whatever you wish to call it, why did you select me from among all the candidates?”

“They're your sons, right?” he suddenly asked, pointing to a picture on the shelf.

Next to the only spot of light left, sitting beside my keys, a Chinese restaurant flyer, and the replica of the missionary bell that he himself had given me, was the photograph that David and Pablo had sent me along with a pair of gloves and a Joaquin Sabina CD.
A belated happy birthday, Mother, as usual we're hopeless, forgive us,
they'd written on the enclosed card. The wet hair in their eyes, the laughter after an afternoon at the beach, the carefree breeze of the past.

“They're my sons, but that doesn't matter now.”

As if he hadn't heard me, Daniel went up to the shelf where the photograph was.

“They look a lot like you,” he said with a smile. The first halfway genuine smile that either of us had that night.

“Would you mind leaving it where it is?”

He returned my sons to their shelf and sat down again on the sofa.

“You never had any competition,” he admitted, reclining against the back cushion. “You were the first to answer my call and I immediately knew that it was you I wanted here. I thought you amply fulfilled the requirements I was looking for. Just like that.”

He spoke with earnestness now, his legs crossed and his tone ­natural.

“But my experience was hardly relevant to what was needed here,” I countered. “My field of work, as you yourself know perfectly well, is applied linguistics.”

“That was secondary. What I was looking for was an academic who was capable of doing the fieldwork methodically and accurately. Someone who spoke English and who had experience dealing with foreign universities. Besides, I was in a hurry. It was important to get started as soon as possible, the business of Los Pinitos was moving ahead quickly.”

“Why did you insist on having someone from Spain? Why didn't you try to find someone within your own country?”

“Out of pure, absurd, and pathetic sentimentalism,” he admitted.
“From the very start I felt that a compatriot could engage with Fontana more passionately. And to be completely honest, there was another criterion that to a large degree influenced the reason that I chose you: age. I assumed that someone with maturity would be able to approach the legacy from a wiser perspective.”

He then unglued his back from the sofa and leaned forward, once more resting his elbows on his knees and again shortening the distance between us.

“I was looking for a professional and you for a new place in the world,” he said, regarding me intently. “I needed something, you needed something, and both our paths crossed. Thanks to our contract, you achieved your objective, which I now know was to flee your surroundings as soon as possible. And mine, the urgent processing of my friend's legacy. Quid pro quo, Blanca, nothing else.”

I turned my eyes away from his and focused on the window. Through it only a frame of black night could be discerned.

“Anyway,” he added, “I want you to know that not a single day has gone by since I began to know you that I haven't thought of telling you everything.”

“But you never did!” I yelled, venting the rage I thought I had under control. “That's the worst of it, Daniel! Had you been clear from the very beginning, we would have most likely reached the same place and you would have saved me a lot of pain.”

“You're totally right, Blanca,” he admitted. “I should have been clear with you from the start; this I know now, but I didn't before. Because I was not counting on you and me having any kind of relationship; I thought you'd simply be some employee who wouldn't know the whole story. And at first I didn't even intend to stay in Santa Cecilia. When Rebecca introduced us in Meli's Market, remember, I'd just come to meet you and make sure my project had gotten off the ground as I was hoping.”

“Why didn't you leave afterwards? If you and I hadn't met, or if we'd let it rest at that first encounter, everything would have been so much easier.”

“Because . . . sometimes things take an unexpected turn. Because . . . life is like this, Blanca. Sometimes plans are derailed . . .”

He got up and paced the room from one end to the other, which he accomplished in four or five strides, since the room was so small. Then he remained standing there as he went over the stages of our common journey from his point of view.

“I learned from you that the approach you were taking was not the one I had expected: you got much more deeply involved with Fontana and his world than I ever thought you would. I began to realize that I'd underestimated the extent of the task, the complexity of the legacy, and your attitude toward it. I decided not to leave. I rented an apartment, fetched from my home in Santa Barbara what I needed for the time being, and came back. For you to have me close whenever you needed me. Not to control you or manipulate you, but rather, simply, to be close to you and to accompany you on your path.”

“Three months on my path is a long time. Three months in which you haven't told me one word—”

“Because I couldn't—because there was always something that held me back,” he insisted. “Zarate was always nearby: I watched the growing closeness between you and him; I'd see you together on campus, in the cafeteria. I was sure that if I told you something . . . inconvenient about your fellowship, you'd feel obliged to inform him. An institutional duty, even a moral one, or am I mistaken?”

“Possibly,” I admitted, much to my regret.

“Whether I like it or not, he's the department chairman; to deceive him is by extension to deceive the university. And that is something quite serious in my circumstances.”

I stood up and massaged my skull, as if trying to relieve my brain or to pluck the murky ideas out of my head.

“You should have thought about that earlier, Professor Carter,” I said, heading toward the door. “Much earlier. Now it's too late for everything. Even for you to stay here.”

His face remained inscrutable as he observed me, as if wishing to transmit something through his clear, keen eyes. But he encountered the hardness of my shell, which I had been growing to protect myself from the rest of the world.

“There is one more reason,” he added. “The last. The most fundamental, perhaps.”

“What?”

“That I got to know you. That the next thing I knew, I was unable to vanish as if nothing had occurred. I was too involved, too close to you.”

An overwhelming weakness took hold of me.

“Please go, once and for all. It's no use for us to continue discussing what could have been and never will be. I leave for Madrid next week; there's nothing left for me to do here. I want to see my sons and return to normalcy. It'll be hard to go back to my old life, but in it, at least, I've got the coordinates clear and I know who's who.”

He said nothing.

“You won't have to worry about my work,” I added, my hand on the doorknob. “Everything that was in the basement is practically processed and organized; I've only got a few things to finish. What's missing, if there really is something missing, I cannot answer for; that's not in my contract. It's a shame that half of your project didn't reach a satisfactory conclusion; I'm afraid it's too late now for any trace of the mission you were looking for to turn up. You and your friends in the coalition against the Los Pinitos project will have to swallow the construction of the shopping mall or whatever other junk they choose to build. The truth is, at this point I don't give a damn: as far as I'm concerned, they could stick a nuclear waste dump there. But at least you will have rescued your friend's soul from oblivion, which is no small feat. After so many years of keeping him in limbo, you can finally ease your conscience.”

I opened the door, inviting him to leave. When he was already on the landing, I remembered something and turned around.

“Wait.”

From the shelf I grabbed the replica of the iron bell and gave it to him.

“I don't want to see it anymore. And I think the same goes for you.”

Then I closed the door with a bang.

“Alone again, Blanca,” I whispered to myself, slumping with my back against the door. “More alone than ever.”

Chapter 35

A
combination of acetaminophen, coffee, and willpower made it possible for my world to get back on track the following day. After a night of restless sleep, I sat down to breakfast at dawn and as I ate my buttered toast I outlined my final tasks in that strange place. Then I set off to work, just as on every other day. Disillusioned and hurt, but back in the thick of things.

Throughout the day I tried to avoid everyone. I didn't even take a lunch break, so as not to bump into any of my colleagues or students in passing. I devoted myself only to the job at hand, shutting myself up and immersing myself in the last documents in the Fontana legacy to try to put them in some kind of order before I left Santa Cecilia. Regardless of who had devised my task—regardless of whether its sponsor was a solvent institution or a single human being with a turbulent past and emotional scores to settle—my responsibility was to carry it out with efficiency and thoroughness. Just as I'd agreed to do when I was hired.

My efforts at keeping isolated, however, failed: a few unforeseen interruptions spoiled everything.

The first was caused by Fanny. Past noon she showed up in my office with an amorphous sandwich in worn-out plastic wrap and a bottle of juice the color of cough medicine.

“I've noticed you haven't gone out for lunch; I imagine you must have lots of work. So I've brought you something,” she announced, thrusting her arms toward me as if they were spring-loaded.

“Thank you very much, Fanny,” I said, accepting her kind gesture.

Despite my feigned cordiality and her limited shrewdness, she must have perceived something in my face that unsettled her.

“Are you okay, Professor Perea? You don't look too good.”

“I'm fine, Fanny, thank you very much,” I lied. “Only a little bit busier than usual because I must finish this urgently. I return home very soon and must leave it all organized.”

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“Next Friday.”

She stood staring at me without blinking, agape, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Then she turned around and stepped out into the hallway, talking to herself.

I hid the sandwich at the bottom of my bag so that she wouldn't suspect later that I'd never eaten it and continued with my work, but without any enthusiasm or energy.