The Heart Has Its Reasons (7 page)

In spite of it all, and with great difficulty, I managed to establish a career. I had no choice, however, other than to put aside my desire of pursuing my PhD and instead find a respectable job in order to help Alberto in his noble effort to become a high-ranking state servant like his father—the father who, like my own, had thought it a dishonor to the family that we married so young and with a more-than-noticeable pregnancy rounding out my silhouette. The father who had never cared about his son, or his son's wife, until the
Official State Gazette
finally published his offspring's appointment. Only then did he seem to have forgotten our dishonor and once again opened the doors to his world. A little too late. But Alberto willingly returned to the fold with the same astonishing ease with which he later left me to start a new life with Eva. As if nothing had happened; as if there had never been a before.

When he passed his public examination, I was finally able to look for a steady full-time job. My experiences giving so many private classes to dozens of teenagers made me dismiss the idea of devoting myself to teaching high school. I was not cut out to explain the passive voice and relative clauses while struggling with the hormonal explosions of my students' awkward stage. So I pinned my hopes on a position at one of the new universities that had begun to flourish at the time, a spot in the lowest echelon of teaching. That is how I started out.

Eventually I finished my dissertation and found a stable job. We changed residences: from a small, poorly laid-out apartment in an old neighborhood, we moved to a much larger apartment, recently built and with two terraces. The kids grew up and started coming and going, and life went on. Until one day someone crossed paths with my husband and suddenly his wife and domestic world must have seemed terribly boring. Toward the beginning of the summer, when the heat
began to beat down ferociously, Alberto finally announced that he was leaving home.

For the first time in my life I was aware of how fragile the things we believe to be permanent really are. When Alberto left that night, he took more than simply a suitcase with summer clothes. My confidence also left with him, my innocent belief that existence is something that can be planned and that my life would follow a unidirectional and preestablished path through the years. When he closed the door behind him, he left not only a woman with a broken heart but a woman irrevocably changed: a being who had thought herself strong had been turned into someone vulnerable, disbelieving, suspicious of the rest of the world.

And now his call once again caught me unawares. I realized that one of my children must have given him my number. His voice seemed alien in the distance. It sounded the same, but no longer transmitted that complicity we'd shared for almost twenty-five years living together. Now it was the voice of a thoughtful, distant man who spoke to me about lawyers, checking accounts, mortgages, and powers of attorney. I accepted his proposals unconditionally like an automaton, raising no objections and offering no alternatives. Deep down, I didn't care.

We'd never established boundaries in our property and our common life beyond those that the force of habit had imposed: which side of the bed we slept on, where we sat at the table, how we ordered the closet and our bathroom shelves. We'd started our life together with so few possessions that everything that came afterwards we ended up sharing: the two cars we'd drive to work, the apartment we lived in, and a little cottage on the beach. Alberto was now offering to put the apartment and cottage up for sale, pay off our outstanding mortgage, and divide the money between us. I wasn't against it or for it. As far as I was concerned, he could torch them.

After hanging up I remained motionless, my right hand still clutching the receiver as I tried to rewind and digest the conversation. A couple of seconds later the phone rang once again, abruptly breaking my solitude. I figured it must be him again; perhaps he'd forgotten to tell me something. The voice on the other end, however, wasn't his.

“Blanca, it's Luis Zarate. Are you free for lunch? I want to propose something to you. Or rather, two things.”

I met the chairman at the entrance of Guevara Hall and together we headed toward the campus cafeteria. Although I tried to feign absolute normalcy, I still had Alberto's words buzzing in my ears. His voice had hit me with such unexpected intensity that, while the chairman spoke I only pretended to be listening, nodding every now and then as we served ourselves, when really my mind was lost in other directions. After we carried our trays over to a table, he brought up his reason for seeing me. I had no other choice than to return to reality and pay attention.

“The department has been invited to participate in a new program of continuing education courses,” he said, attacking his salad conscientiously. “They've proposed that we offer a course that could be of general interest. I thought that your stay here could provide a good opportunity to prepare something related to contemporary Spain. Little is known of your country in these parts: practically all Hispanic influence comes from Mexico. That's why it might be interesting to design a course that shows a different aspect of Spanish, a course aimed at those interested in improving their command of the language while learning about present-day Spain. What do you think?”

In fact, I had no thoughts on the matter, neither that one nor any other he might have proposed. But I tried not to show it too blatantly.

“It seems interesting,” I lied while poking at a sad-looking mushroom on my plate.

“It wouldn't be like an academic seminar; it'd be something more informal,” he resumed. “You could use newspaper articles, fragments of novels, any kind of material that you think might be useful. Even movies: I've got a good collection of videos. It would only take up a couple of afternoons a week and it doesn't pay badly.”

“Who would the students be?”

“Professional adults; graduate students from other departments, perhaps; people connected to the university; Santa Cecilia residents interested in learning more.”

Despite my lack of interest, the offer was tempting. I liked classroom work and to be able to design my own material. Besides, I had nothing special to do in the afternoons and the money would always come in handy. Still, I was unable to commit.

“Can I think about it?”

He looked at me with curious eyes, as if trying to figure out if I really did need time to make a decision or if in fact I didn't quite accept his proposal for some other reason.

“By all means, take your time. In any case, Rebecca has the exact details regarding the course requirements, if you wish further information. Well, and now here comes my second proposition, shorter and simpler.”

I was convinced that no matter what he said, it wasn't going to elicit enthusiasm in me. But I pretended.

“Tell me about it.”

“I don't know if you're aware that in this country between the fifteenth of September and the fifteenth of October we celebrate National Hispanic Heritage Month. I think it's something that goes back to the sixties, a tribute to the richness of the Hispanic contribution to our culture.”

“What does it involve?”

“A bunch of different projects, from folklore festivities to political rallies. The university's committee on international relations, for its part, hosts a debate in which our department usually participates by contributing a representative to the panel. And it occurred to me that this year you could be that panel member.”

“To speak on what?”

“Usually on anything and everything. It's quite a large panel, with seven or eight participants from different areas and fields related to the Hispanic world. Professors of Latin American history, international relations, political science; some visiting professor, a doctoral student—”

I didn't even let him finish.

“Would I put you in a tight spot if I said no?”

“Not at all; it was only an idea. I can propose it to some other colleague. Or even I could participate.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not at my best right now, if you know what I mean.”

“Don't worry, it happens to all of us once in a while . . .”

We began to gather up our trays and left them on the trolleys, since it was time to get back. Luis kept talking the whole way, monopolizing the conversation without asking me anything or waiting for me to speak, aware that I had little desire for conversation.

“So you're in Rebecca's hands now; she'll give you all the details regarding the continuing-education course if in the end you're up for it. Do let me know, okay?” he said as we exited the elevator.

I forced a smile, muttered another okay in response to his, and turned to head back to my office. A hand on my wrist, however, stopped me before I began to walk. “If at some point you feel like talking, you know where to find me.”

He turned down the hall toward the conference room and I went in search of Rebecca, still a little confused by that unexpected gesture. Perhaps I wasn't as alone as I thought. Perhaps the solution lay in filling my life with new affections instead of continuing to lament the lost ones.

I found her door closed, with a yellow Post-it reading:
I'm off to lunch,
so I returned to my office to continue working. Mulling over the course proposal, I still felt the unexpected hand of Luis Zarate on my skin. Then I remembered Alberto's call.

But I resisted once more. I forbade myself to think about his settlement proposal, forbade myself to ask how this could be happening to us.

Fontana's papers became my refuge once again. I plunged into them for a long time, using them as a painkiller, until the rapping on the door brought me out of my absorption. On looking up, I found Rebecca's ever-pleasing face.

“I know you wanted to see me, and I know what it's about. Here's all the information.”

I asked her to sit down while I removed a bunch of documents from the only other seat in the small office apart from my old armchair.

“Have you ever been to Spain, Rebecca?” I asked without even knowing why. Perhaps because, despite our current friendliness, I'd
never considered how much she actually knew of my country, or perhaps because at that moment I needed to have recourse to something that would give me a sense of warmth.

She was slow to answer my simple question, taking off her glasses first and then wiping the lens with the end of her shirttail.

“Once I was about to go, many years ago. I had a Spanish friend, you know? A great friend. She lived here in Santa Cecilia and we'd organized a trip to spend the entire summer in Spain. But something unexpected happened that spring and we were never able to go.” She raised her eyes. “One of these days I just might try again.”

We returned to the subject of the course project. I was practically convinced that I was going to accept, and we spoke of dates, time slots, and possible participants until we realized that it was almost five: time to start wrapping up the day. Rebecca gathered her papers and began to leave. Standing at the doorway, she paused, regarding me with a half smile, her eyes tinged with nostalgia.

“She was a wonderful woman. Her memory still lingers here.”

Chapter 8

T
he following week the department was covered with signs announcing the National Hispanic Heritage Month debate, so we all saved the date.

“You'll be there, right?” Rebecca asked on the day of the event, popping her head briefly into my office at noon.

“I suppose so. And you?”

“Of course, I never miss it. I'll come pick you up.”

The lecture hall was practically full, and everyone was still settling in. The stage, however, remained empty except for a couple of technicians busy installing microphones in front of nine empty chairs. I was relieved that none of them would be mine.

We bumped into Luis Zarate, who was chatting in the hall with colleagues and students. On seeing us, he broke away from the group and came over.

“I trust you'll find it interesting, maybe even fun. I would have loved you to participate, Blanca. Perhaps some other time.”

“Some other time, for sure,” I said, knowing full well that such a time would never come. “Are you on the panel?”

“I'm afraid so; I have no other option. I hope I won't bore you . . .”

I was convinced that he wouldn't. He had the gift of gab, was
quick and clever in his conversations, and had a considerable amount of knowledge. I had growing proof of this because we saw each other often: meeting in offices and hallways, or at lunch in the cafeteria.

Rebecca and I sat at the end of one of the first few rows. Soon the lights dimmed and the panelists took the stage while the room slowly fell silent.

Luis Zarate, dressed in black as usual, sat in the third chair from the right, where I would have no doubt been sitting had I accepted his invitation. The last panelist to cross the stage in a few long strides was Daniel Carter, the university's former professor whom I'd met in Meli's Market. Wearing a jacket but no tie, he looked self-assured, with that contagious energy of someone recently arrived. Before taking a seat he went around giving the other speakers handshakes, affectionate gestures, and a quick hug or two. But he was unable to exchange a word with our chairman: when he passed by Luis Zarate, the latter seemed absorbed with writing something in his agenda.

“Why is your friend there?” I asked Rebecca in a murmur as Daniel finally sat down next to the moderator.

“They always invite a visiting professor who has something to do with the Hispanic world, just like Zarate invited you.”

“Wasn't he only passing through?”

Although it was impossible for him to have heard me, just then he spotted us and gave us a quick wave.

“He's thinking of staying longer than he initially intended,” Rebecca explained in a quick whisper.