The Heart Has Its Reasons (40 page)

Soon after, there was a rapping at the now open door and with it came the second interruption. I raised my head from one of the last texts regarding the secularization of the missions and, just a few yards away, was Luis Zarate.

I tried not to make it too plain that he was the last person in the world I wished to see; I'd even been coming in via the back stairs for the past couple of days instead of using the elevator to avoid having to pass by his office. At first it was due to my suspicions and later to my certainty regarding who was behind my fellowship; not sharing with him something so substantially linked to his own department felt like an overwhelming act of disloyalty on my part. But I still had to think, still needed time to clear my confused head and decide what to do, and so for the time being I'd avoided him. Seeing him at my door unsettled me.

“Did we have such a bad time on Saturday that you're running away from me?”

He spoke in jest, but I stammered before answering. No, we didn't
have a bad time; quite the contrary, I could have said. Or: It was a lovely outing, a delicious dinner, and you're an attractive man. I feel at ease with you and we get along well. But I didn't say that either.

“I'm swamped, as you can see,” I said instead, pointing to my desk covered with papers. I tried to sound credible, courteous, normal, but I was unable to convince him.

“Is that really all that's the matter?”

I noticed he was taking a couple of steps toward my desk and I immediately got up. As a defense, as a fake protection. I couldn't stand the idea of him seeing me fall apart.

“I haven't slept that well. Perhaps I had something for dinner that upset my stomach.”

“You're sure there's no problem?” he insisted, taking a step closer.

“Sure, but I wanted to tell you that my work is coming to an end, and I've decided to go spend Christmas with my sons, so . . .”

“So you're leaving.”

“Next week, along with the students. I was going to stop by your office later to tell you.”

My lie clearly didn't convince him.

He took one last step. In the narrowness of my humble office, that meant he was already next to me.

“What's the matter, Blanca?” he whispered, extending a hand toward me.

I felt the heat of his fingers on my shoulder, but I didn't answer.

“You know you can count on me.”

He came even closer, and I felt his breath. I remained silent: too confused, too tired, too fragile. His lips threatened to alight on mine, and I turned my face slightly, not allowing it yet not moving away from him. I heard his low voice next to my ear.

“Whatever it is, count on me,” he whispered again, with his fingers still on my shoulder.

I could have screamed at the top of my lungs: Yes, I know, help me, get me out of this jam I've gotten myself into, make me forget everything and everyone, hold me tight, get me out of here! But I did not answer. Perhaps out of a sense of self-protection, perhaps not to
further complicate matters. Afterwards, I just simply moved away from him, slowly.

At that very moment Fanny flew in like a whirlwind.

“Excuse me, Dr. Zarate! I didn't realize you were here!” she apologized hastily.

“Come on in, Fanny, come on in,” he answered, resuming his cold department chairman's tone. “I've already finished talking to Professor Perea. I was just leaving. I insist, Blanca” was all he said in the way of a good-bye. “You know where I am.”

“My mother wants to see you this evening, Professor Perea,” Fanny announced the minute Luis was gone. Not giving me time to digest what had just happened between us; not allowing me a second to reflect. “As soon as I told her you were leaving soon,” she went on in a rush, “she told me she wants to speak to you, that she might have something that interests you.”

The idea of capping off that sad day with a courtesy visit to the elderly Darla Stern was about as tempting as taking a swig of turpentine. But it was true that Fanny spoke to me about her constantly, that on more than one occasion she told me how much she'd like for us to get together. And equally true was that I kept putting her off and making excuses, hoping that the encounter would never take place. I could imagine nothing less appealing than a face-to-face with an eccentric who most likely had nothing to offer beyond a rambling conversation and perhaps some dusty memory of Fontana that I no longer cared to hear. At that stage I was not in the least interested in the nature of their relationship, if it had been a strictly professional one or if at some point they took it a step further. But as a last goodwill gesture toward Fanny I felt obliged to accept the invitation.

“Okay, Fanny. Tell me where you live and when you want me to be there.”

The third unexpected interruption, a further turn of the screw, came barely half an hour later. It was a call to my sturdy old office telephone, which unfortunately had no caller ID.

Daniel Carter. Again.

During the long hours of uncertainty after he had left my place
the previous night and until I fell asleep, I'd resolved to get him out of my life for good, to avoid the slightest contact between us in the short period of time that was left before my departure. I wanted to forget that once upon a time I had crossed paths with an American colleague, tall and bearded, who spoke my language almost as well as I did; to rid myself of someone who had betrayed my trust and affection.

On hearing his voice, I thought of immediately hanging up, imagining that he was calling to reiterate his apologies and keep trying to peddle excuses. But I was mistaken. He sounded serious and firm. Not authoritative but almost.

“Don't hang up, Blanca, please. Listen to me just for a moment; this is important. I know Darla Stern wants to see you. She's also sent me a message, summoning me at eight. Just as she did you, I suppose. She says she wants to propose something to the two of us. Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don't even dream of going to her house alone. Wait for me. I'll pick you up at your apartment and we'll go together.”

“There's no need, thanks. I'll be able to get there on my own,” I replied curtly.

A few seconds' pause, then:

“As you wish. But do not go before the appointed time, and don't go in without me. I'll be waiting at the door at eight.”

The map Fanny had scribbled on half a piece of paper with almost childlike lines helped me find her house without any difficulty. From the end of the street I perceived a dark silhouette seated on the porch steps.

“Fanny won't be here,” I announced coldly. “She told me she'd be at church but that she'd leave the door open. It seems her mother fell recently and can't walk.”

At first, Daniel's reaction was evident not in his voice but in his hands. Standing up and facing me, he grabbed me by the shoulders
with conviction and forced me to look him in the eye. Those eyes that, beneath the yellowish light of a streetlamp, didn't display the lightheartedness or irony that they had shown so many other times. Only sobriety and firmness. And perhaps a degree of concern.

Then he spoke without letting go of me.

“Listen well, Blanca. Although I stand by everything I said to you yesterday, I've been thinking hard about it and I understand your reaction perfectly well. I understand that you feel let down, that you no longer trust me and have decided to purge me from your life. If I had been in your shoes, I would have reacted the same way. Or worse. But what I now want to warn you about is something totally different. Something much more immediate.”

I didn't answer. Or move.

“I'm completely ignorant of whatever it is we're going to encounter in there, but I have a feeling that it won't be good. I know how the woman we are going to see now used to be, and I very much doubt that the years have changed her. She always had a sharp tongue and I imagine still has. This is why I'm afraid that we haven't been invited here out of mere courtesy. I may be mistaken, and hope I am, but I have a suspicion that the only thing Darla wants to do is to stir up mischief and draw blood if the occasion presents itself. And if this is the case, I know beforehand that I won't be able to stand by and do nothing.

“What we're about to hear tonight perhaps will bring out the vilest side of me, the most despicable,” he continued. “But I don't want you to misinterpret whatever happens in there. The fact that Darla and I may bring up certain affairs from the past doesn't mean that I'm anchored to them. I already told you yesterday that it's been a long time since I stopped clinging to what is lost; my boundaries between yesterday and today are clearly delineated. My dead have long been buried, and although I pour my soul into defending their memory, I am no longer with them. I am among the living. Here, now, with you. Do you understand, Blanca Perea? Do you understand me clearly?”

He waited for my reply without taking his gaze off mine. With his large hands clutching my shoulders firmly and his eyes staring straight at me, I finally assented with a slight nod. It was an impulsive move
ment, instinctive, one that I immediately regretted. I should have asked him to explain further. Or perhaps I should have left that very instant, fled from that dark past that had nothing to do with me.

But he gave me no choice. A strong squeeze of his hands on my shoulders conveyed his firm trust. And I was no longer able to turn back.

“Let's go. The sooner we're done, the better.”

Chapter 36

W
ith a couple of strides he climbed the four porch steps, knocked with his fist, and pushed open the door without waiting for a reply. I followed, going straight into a dark and gloomy living room crammed with furniture and junk.

A raspy voice emerged from the back amid the dense smell of decay and a lack of ventilation.

“For weeks I've been meaning to have you both over for dinner, but the news that Professor Perea is about to leave for good has caught me by surprise. I hope you can forgive me for not having had the time for preparations.”

A lamp lit the room with a deathlike glow. In front of the old woman's armchair was a television with its volume turned off, projecting chaotic reflections on the nearby surroundings. Just as I remembered her, she had a thick mane of hair dyed a Nordic blond. Her face was creased by a thousand wrinkles and her lips were painted an intense red as if ready for a big party. However, her clothes, a tracksuit of uncertain color, indicated that she didn't expect to go anywhere.

“But if you're hungry, serve yourselves something; there must a leftover chicken leg from the other day, and I think there's also half a bag of bread and a cabbage salad from last week.”

The mere thought of eating there was nauseating, but Daniel responded politely.

“We're fine like this, thanks, Darla.”

“Take a seat at least. Make yourselves at home.”

“We're in a bit of a hurry,” he lied again. “So it's best you tell us why you have called us and then we'll let you watch TV in peace.”

The old woman clicked her tongue.

“Ah, Carter, Carter, you're always in a rush . . . It's as if I were seeing you in the old days all over again . . . Either you were off to your classes or to one of those political assemblies or to demand something from the chairman; always hurrying like a madman.”

He remained unperturbed. She clicked her tongue again.

“Those were good times, right, kid?”

Not a word for an answer.

“Oh, well,” she added before his persistent silence. “I see you don't have time for a nostalgic romp. Too bad, because we could've had a wonderful evening, you and me, sharing reminiscences. Do you remember when—”

“Professor Perea and I would like to know once and for all why you have called us.”

His tone was starting to shed the layer of false courtesy with which he'd started the conversation. Darla sighed theatrically.

“Well, if you insist on not wasting your valuable time on a chat between old friends, then let's move on to what's important.”

“And what
is
so important? Can you please tell me?”

“Business, my friend. At the end of the day, no matter how intellectual or spiritual we pretend to be, we always wind up tangled up in money matters.”

“You don't say . . .” Daniel said with obvious uninterest.

“Business, money: I sell, you buy—if you want what I have to offer, of course.”

“I doubt it, but clue us in, just in case.”

“Let me first greet our guest. How do you do, Professor Perea?”

“Fine, thank you,” I answered sullenly.

I did not like the tone that the visit was taking on. I didn't like
Darla Stern, I didn't like the way she addressed Daniel, and above all I didn't like the way that I anticipated she'd treat me. She took a good look at me, squinting as she tilted her head to one side.

“Height-wise they're both the same size, wouldn't you say? And equally skinny, but this one looks a little more serious, right, Carter? The other one laughed more; she was more, more . . . And the hair color isn't—”

“Stop, Darla,” he ordered sharply.

“Forgive me, dear, it was a mere observation,” she replied, undaunted. “Well, let's get down to what brings us together. From what I understand, Professor Perea has been rummaging through the papers of our dear departed Andres Fontana.”

Before I was able to answer, Daniel spoke on my behalf.

“Professor Perea, as we told you previously, has simply been working for the university, classifying his legacy.”

“Pardon me while I laugh! The university doesn't give a shit about Fontana's legacy; his things had been living with the rats for years. Until suddenly—surprise, surprise!—a little Spaniard comes to stick her nose in them. And just then the illustrious professor shows up again, to stroll around the campus like in the good old days.”