The Heart Has Its Reasons (16 page)

Chapter 15

T
he calendar moved through autumn; Halloween went by with its witches, scarecrows, and pumpkins. Then came a period of rain, and in tandem my mood also clouded over.

The cause was no longer a continent and an ocean away, but much closer: in my immediate surroundings and my daily work; in the morass that Professor Fontana's output had become with the passage of time. The texts I was working on dated from the sixties; some were typed, but the majority of them were still in longhand. My problem, however, was not with the writing itself but rather its content: the lack of coherence between the texts; the gaps and absence of a core. As if large chunks of information were missing, as if someone had ripped entire sections right out.

Moreover, the subject matter of the texts was quite different from that of previous decades. Spanish authors, the literature of exile, and so many other recurring themes appeared to have been gradually dropped after Fontana settled in California in the early sixties. Where there once were novelists, poets, and playwrights, I now found the names of explorers and Franciscan monks whose lives and actions I didn't know anything about; old chronicles about the Spaniards in that northern fringe of New Spain; along with the names of prisons and missions.

Trying to find any coherence in all that information had been driving me crazy all week long. Doubts kept piling up until Thursday afternoon, when I finally decided to turn to someone whom I perhaps should have sought out from the start. Before doing so, I stopped at Rebecca's office to be pointed in the right direction.

“Try in Selma's Café, next to the plaza. He usually goes there every afternoon if he's in town.”

On leaving Guevara Hall I found the weather unsettled and the surrounding area agitated. People were revving up, according to what some students told me, to start a demonstration against the construction of the mall in the area of Los Pinitos, that spot of peace and green that I'd discovered weeks earlier after seeing the photos of Andres Fontana in the conference room.

The
Santa Cecilia Chronicle
and the university paper devoted increasing coverage to the issue: feature articles, op-eds both for and against, letters to the editor. The major opposition to the project evidently had originated in the university, and among its visible leaders was my student Joe Super, the professor emeritus from the History Department who on the first day of class had mentioned the Franciscans and their missions. The reasons were convincing: it would be an environmental disaster and possibly even an illegal use of that land, since the legitimacy of its ownership, according to what Rebecca and Daniel had told me, was not altogether clear. It was not private property, nor was it public, despite the fact that the local authorities were in charge of its upkeep. As a result, a medley of interests had created a platform against the project.

I noticed that some of the students were carrying signs or megaphones, and farther afield there was a youth with Rastafarian dreadlocks and an enormous drum. The event had not started yet, but there was already quite a bustle. I came across cars sporting flags and honking their horns as a sign of support. I made my way through a group of elderly ladies, one of whom tried to sell me a bright-orange T-shirt with protest messages emblazoned on it, while another handed me a sticker with simply the word
NO!

I managed to cut through the crowd and reached my destination
zigzagging between the demonstrators; in fact, I wasn't going too far. My objective was a café that looked as if it had been open for a few decades, a place I'd passed by a dozen times but had never entered. And there, next to the window facing the street, I found him.

“I've come looking for you.”

“What a great honor,” he said, standing up to greet me. “I was watching you wend your way through all those nuts but didn't imagine you were coming to see me. Have a seat. What's up?”

On the table, in front of an old leather armchair, he had a laptop, a few books, and a pad full of notes and doodles. I wasn't too sure it was the most appropriate moment; perhaps my invasion had been somewhat abrupt. It was he, though, who'd offered to give me a hand with Fontana the evening we shared an improvised dinner at Rebecca's place.

“Are you sure I'm not interrupting you, Daniel?” I said as I removed my raincoat. “We can talk some other time if this is not a good moment.”

“Of course you're interrupting me. And you have no idea how grateful I am at this hour, after a full day's work, for a good, long interruption.”

The place was comfortable, cozy: wooden floors and walls, armchairs strewn about, and a couple of pool tables. Behind the long empty bar, a waiter dried glasses unhurriedly while he watched a football game on a large silent screen. Almost inaudibly through the loudspeakers came Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's legendary “Teach Your Children.”

“Rebecca told me that you come here almost every afternoon,” I said while attempting to smooth my hair after the windy walk.

“During the morning I usually work out of my apartment and in the afternoons I prefer a change of scenery, to get a breath of fresh air. This is a good place; there's practically no one here at this time of day. And the coffee isn't too bad. Of course, it doesn't compare to a good
café con leche
at a Spanish bar, but it's better than nothing.”

He raised his mug as if to catch the waiter's attention and motioned without words that he bring another one for me.

Among his books I discovered some I'd read by fits and starts when
my sons were small. Back then I used to carry large tote bags in which the most unexpected things would accumulate: Playmobil toys mixed in with packs of Ducados cigarettes, a couple of bananas, pens without their caps, half-eaten ham and cheese sandwiches. And some book or other. Always a book that I'd dip into as best I could while David came down the slide or Pablo kicked his first ball around or we sat in the pediatrician's waiting room. In time I quit smoking and improved my purchasing power, and my kids forgot about firefighters and cowboys, asking instead for video games and the freedom to come and go as they pleased. And those tote bags turned into authentic leather bags, fashionable, the real thing. I was unable, however, to rid myself of the desire that they be large and almost always contain a novel.

The waiter appeared with my coffee and refilled Daniel's mug.

“Spanish writers from the end of the century, that's what I'm up to: the last twenty-five years of your literature. Those who came before and those who appeared during that period. Although I imagine you haven't come to see me to talk about the whole gang, which I'm sure you know as well as I do.”

“That's correct,” I said as I tore open a sugar packet. “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

He looked at me with eyes that had read and lived a great deal before that gray afternoon.

“About Andres Fontana, I imagine.”

“You imagine correctly.”

“Is his legacy getting a bit complicated?”

“You can't imagine how much.”

I answered with my eyes concentrated on the coffee's blackness. Unaware I was speaking in a hush. As if I were discussing the intimate problems of someone close instead of discussing a work-related matter. As if my entire assignment had suddenly turned into something personal.

“I'm here to help you with whatever you may need, Blanca, as I said.”

“This is why I've come. By the way, do you know that I found a postcard of yours the other day among his things?”

“I can't believe it!” he said, laughing out loud.

“New Year's Eve, 1958. You were announcing your departure from Madrid to someplace or other in search of Mr. Witt.”

“Oh my God . . .” he whispered while smiling with a trace of nostalgia. “That was my first Christmas in Spain, when I was still researching my dissertation. It was he who suggested that I work on Sender. Who would have guessed: that changed my life for good. Anyhow, I don't wish to entertain you with melancholy stories from way back when. Tell me, what kind of difficulties is my dear old professor getting you into now?”

I demurred before choosing the appropriate words, taking my time while stirring in the sugar. It wasn't altogether clear to me how best to express what I wanted from him.

“I'm done classifying by decades until the fifties and now I'm beginning with the texts of the California period, the sixties,” I finally said. “They're interesting but very different from the previous.”

“Less literary, I take it.”

“That's right. They no longer focus mainly on authors or on literary criticism, as had been the case up to then, although there are always notes on the subject. In general they're more historical, more Californian, less familiar; that's why I'm having a harder time classifying them. Besides, the dates are mixed up, and occasionally I'm at a loss because I have the feeling that information is missing.”

“And what you want to know is if I know whether something is actually missing.”

“That's correct. And since we're at it, out of mere personal curiosity, I'd also like you to explain, if you have any idea, that sudden turn in his career. Why did literature all but cease to interest him, and why did he instead plunge into the history of California, something that was basically alien to him and his academic interests?”

He took his time to reply, pondering the question with his big hands wrapped around the mug.

“Question number one, whether there is information missing or if I know what could have happened to whatever you believe to be missing, has a simple answer: I haven't got the foggiest clue. I left Santa
Cecilia shortly after his death, and as far as I'm aware, all his documents remained in the university without anyone touching them until your arrival. In fact, even I didn't get to see them outside his office.”

“How long did you live here?” I asked point-blank, perhaps a little indiscreetly. Daniel Carter's private life had nothing to do with my work on Fontana or his affairs, but I suddenly felt an urge to know.

“About two and half years: less than six semesters.”

“How long ago?”

“I left in '69, so that . . .” He performed a quick mental operation and added, “God, thirty years ago! Unbelievable!”

Reclining in his leather chair in his navy-blue sweater, with his long legs crossed and his left elbow on the armrest, he seemed completely comfortable, like someone who after so much coming and going in life is capable of being at ease anywhere.

“As for your second question, regarding the sudden turn in his research interests, the truth is that my answer is only a tentative one, because after so long my memories are somewhat vague. But I think he fell in love with the history of California from the very moment he settled here and that's probably why you noticed a change in his output. He discovered a connection between this land and Spain, and that—don't ask me why—fascinated him.”

“And why did he come here? Why did he leave Pittsburgh?”

I too had made myself comfortable, thanks to the coziness of the café or the revitalizing coffee. Or Daniel's natural ability to make me feel at ease around him.

“All of us who knew him were surprised that, after spending so many years in a big urban campus such as Pitt's, he would decide to move to this small city at the other end of the country. But he had his reasons. First, he was offered the quite tempting position of department chairman. Secondly, he'd just gotten divorced, ending a relationship that had left a bitter taste in his mouth, so I imagine he wanted to get away from there.”

I was surprised, not having seen any reference to marriage or divorce among his papers. And I told him so.

“It was a short marriage to a Hungarian biology professor. I hardly
met her, but I know they were together on and off for a few years, mutually torturing each other, until they decided to get married. By then I was no longer at Pitt, but according to what he told me sometime later and without going into detail, a few months into the marriage they both realized it had been a mistake.”

I would have liked to learn a little more about that, but he didn't seem to have any additional information.

“And although he didn't tell anyone,” Daniel continued, “perhaps the main reason he decided on a change of scenery was because his health was starting to decline. In appearance he was strong and robust; his students often called him the Spanish bull. But his lungs were damaged. He was a chain-smoker, and the relentless winters and smoke from the Pittsburgh factories further ruined his health. So he decided to move, settle somewhere quiet with a moderate climate and less pollution. That's how he ended up in Santa Cecilia.”

“And you followed him . . .”

Once again I realized my indiscretion too late, although it didn't seem to bother him in the least.

“No, no, not at all,” he said, changing his posture. “I came years later; before that I was in a few other places. In time an interesting position opened in this department, he offered it to me, and that's how I landed here—although where I really wanted to go was to Berkeley. I thought this would only be a nearby, transitory stop.”

“Did you manage to make it to Berkeley in the end?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, everything took a turn that no one had anticipated . . . To make a long story short, the result is that I never did become a professor at Berkeley, and Andres Fontana died a little over two years after my arrival in Santa Cecilia.”

“Was he that sick?”

“Not at all. In fact, he felt much better here.”

“Then . . .”

“He died in an accident.” He took a sip of coffee before resuming his narrative. “Driving his own car, the old Oldsmobile that he had had for the longest time.”

That end had never crossed my mind; unconsciously, I'd thought
his life had extinguished itself from natural causes, the wear and tear of age.