The Heart Has Its Reasons (2 page)

“I'm still here,” I finally answered. And without giving him more time to inquire any further, I ended the conversation. “Everything's fine; I'll call you later.”

I sat still on the sofa, gazing into nowhere while trying to digest the news that my husband was going to have a kid with the woman he'd left me for barely two months ago. Alberto's third kid: that third child he never wanted to have with me despite my long insistence. The one who would be born from a belly that wasn't mine and in a house that
was not our own. I felt anguish rising unchecked from my stomach, announcing waves of nausea and distress. With hurried staggering steps, bumping against the doorway to the hall, I managed to reach the bathroom. I flung myself over the toilet and, down on my knees, began vomiting.

I remained kneeling there for a long while, my forehead glued to the wall's cold tiles as I tried to find a shred of coherence in the midst of the confusion. When I was finally able to stand up, I washed my hands slowly, deliberately, allowing the lathery water to run between my fingers. Then I brushed my teeth methodically, giving my brain time to work in a parallel manner, unhurriedly. Finally I returned to the living room with a clean mouth and hands, an empty stomach, a clear mind, and a numb heart. I found my cell phone on the carpet and dialed a number, but no one answered. Once more, I left my message on the answering machine.

“It's Blanca again, Rosalia. Change of plans. I have to go farther away, longer, immediately. Please find out whatever you can about that California fellowship.”

Nine days later I landed at the San Francisco airport.

Chapter 2

T
he abrupt cessation of hammering brought me back to reality. I looked to see what time it was. Noon. Only then was I conscious of the number of hours I had spent rummaging through papers without the slightest idea what to do with them. I rose from the floor with difficulty, noticing that my joints were numb. While dusting off my hands, I stood on tiptoe and peered out the small window close to the ceiling. The only thing I saw was a building under construction and the sturdy boots of a handful of workers bustling about with their lunch pails amid stacks of wooden planks. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach: a mixture of weakness, bewilderment, and hunger.

I had reached California the previous evening after three planes and countless hours of flight. After picking up my luggage and feeling momentarily disoriented, I spotted my name written in thick blue letters on a small piece of cardboard. It was held up by a robust woman with a lost look and of indeterminate age, thirty-seven, forty, forty-something, perhaps, with a vanilla-colored dress and a blunt haircut that ended at the jawline. I went up to her, but not even when I was standing in front of her did she seem to notice my presence.

“I'm Blanca Perea, I think you're looking for me.”

I thought I was mistaken: she was not looking for me. Not for me
nor for anyone else. She simply remained static and absent, apart from the moving mass, immune to the terminal's hectic bustle.

“Blanca Perea,” I repeated. “Professor Blanca Perea, from Spain.”

She finally reacted, opening and closing her eyes quickly, as if she had just returned hastily from an astral voyage. Extending her hand, she shook mine with an abrupt jolt; then, without a word, she took off without waiting for me while I made an effort to follow, juggling two suitcases, a handbag, and a laptop bag dangling from my shoulder.

The white 4x4 vehicle awaiting us in the parking lot had been parked diagonally, brashly invading two adjacent parking spots.
JESUS LOVES YOU
could be read on a sticker in the rear window. With a sudden powerful acceleration that belied the stolid appearance of its driver, we headed into the humid night along San Francisco Bay. Destination: Santa Cecilia.

She drove glued to the wheel and focused. We hardly spoke during the entire journey; she simply answered my questions with monosyllables and brief scraps of information. All the same, I learned a few things. Her name was Fanny Stern, she worked for the university, and her immediate objective was to drop me off at the apartment that, along with a modest stipend, was part of the fellowship granted to me. I still had only a vague idea of what my new assignment entailed, since the suddenness of my departure had prevented me from obtaining more detailed information. That didn't worry me, however, for there would be plenty of time to find out. In any case, I expected my job to be neither stimulating nor rewarding. For the time being, I was just happy to be able to flee my reality like a bat out of hell.

In spite of my lack of sleep, when the alarm clock surprised me at seven a.m. the next day, I was reasonably awake and clear-minded. I got up and immediately jumped into the shower, preventing the fresh consciousness of morning from revisiting the dark road I'd traveled in recent days. With the sunlight I was able to confirm what I had intuited the previous night: that this nondescript apartment intended for visiting professors would turn out to be a suitable refuge for me. A small living room and basic kitchen were integrated at one end.
A ­bedroom, a  plain bathroom. Bare walls, sparse and neutral furniture. An anonymous shelter, but decent. Livable. Acceptable.

I roamed the streets in search of a place to have breakfast while absorbing what Santa Cecilia had on display. In the apartment I'd found a folder bearing my name with all the necessary information to help orient me: a map, a pamphlet, a writing pad with the university's logo. Nothing else was needed.

I found no trace of the Californian scenery familiar from television series and the collective imagination. No coast, no swaying palm trees or mansions with ten bathrooms. That superwealthy California, a paradise of technology, nonconformity, and showbiz, was clearly elsewhere.

Ravenous, I finally sat down at a nearby coffee shop. While devouring a blueberry muffin and drinking a watery cup of coffee, I slowly took in the scenery. There was a large square clotted with trees and surrounded by renovated buildings with an adobe appearance that gave the whiff of a past halfway between America and Mexico, with a residue of something vaguely Spanish. Lined up on the opposite side of the square were a First National Bank branch, a souvenir shop, the all-important post office, and a CVS pharmacy.

My next goal was to reach Guevara Hall, where I would find the Modern Languages Department. This was to serve as my work environment for a still undetermined number of months. Whether this interval would turn out to be an effective balm or a simple Band-Aid for my wounds remained to be seen, but in any case I would at least stop feeling trapped. Entering the campus, I remained vigilant so as not to get lost in that maze of paths where throngs of students were making their way by bike or on foot to their classrooms.

The noise of the department's photocopying machine masked the sound of my steps and prevented Fanny, who was working there, from noticing my arrival until I was right beside her. She raised her eyes and stared at me again for several seconds with her inexpressive face. Extending her right arm with an automaton's precision and pointing to the open door of an office, she announced: “Someone is waiting for you.” Having nothing further to say, she turned and
went off with that same dull gait as on the previous evening at the airport.

I took a quick glance at the sign on the door as I entered. Rebecca Cullen, the name on almost all e-mails I'd received prior to departure, finally had a tangible place and presence. In addition to all the files and transcripts in her office were paintings saturated with color, family pictures, and a bouquet of white lilies. Her greeting was an affectionate, warm handshake. Her clear eyes lit up a pretty face from which the wrinkles did not detract. A large lock of silvery hair fell over her forehead. I figured she was in her sixties, and I had a feeling that she must be one of those indispensable secretaries who, with a third of their superiors' salaries, are usually three times as competent.

“Well, Blanca, finally . . . It's been a total surprise to learn that we have a visiting researcher this semester. We're delighted . . .”

To my relief, we were able to communicate without a problem. I had laid the groundwork for my English during stays in the U.K. and had strengthened it through years of study and frequent contact with British universities. However, my experience regarding North America had only been sporadic: a few conferences, a family celebration in New York after my son Pablo passed his university entrance exam, and a brief research stint in Maryland. So I was reassured to confirm that I'd be able to cope on the West Coast without any great language barrier.

“I think I told you in one of my last messages that the head of our department, Dr. Luis Zarate, would be at a conference in Philadelphia, so in the meantime I'll be the one in charge of orienting you in your work.”

Rebecca Cullen explained in general terms what I more or less knew I was expected to accomplish: to order and assess the legacy of an old faculty member who had died decades earlier. It was financed by SAPAM, the newly created foundation for Scientific Assessment of Philological Academic Manuscripts.

“His name was Andres Fontana and, as you know, he was a Spaniard. He lived in Santa Cecilia until his death in 1969, and was much
beloved, but the usual thing happened afterwards. Since he didn't have any family in this country, no one came forward to claim his things and, awaiting someone to decide what to do, they've sat here all these years, stacked in a basement.”

“Nothing has been moved since then?”

“Nothing, until SAPAM finally endowed a grant to carry out this project. To be perfectly honest,” she added in a knowing tone, “I think it's rather shameful that three decades have already gone by, but that's how things are: everyone's always busy, the faculty comes and goes. And of all the people who were familiar with and esteemed Andres Fontana in his day, hardly anyone is left here except a few veterans like myself.”

I made an effort to disguise the fact that, if his own colleagues weren't interested in that expatriate who had fallen into oblivion, I was even less so.

“And now, if it's okay with you,” she continued, getting back to practical matters, “first I'm going to show you your office and then the storeroom where all the material is kept. You'll have to forgive us: the news of your arrival has been rather sudden and we haven't had a chance to find you a better spot.”

I pretended to look in my bag for a tissue to blow my nose, waiting for Rebecca Cullen to change subjects, hoping she'd move on to another matter quickly and not delve into the reasons why a Spanish professor with a secure professional career, an impressive CV, a good salary, family, and contacts had decided so swiftly to pack a couple of suitcases and move to the other end of the world like someone fleeing the plague.

My new office turned out to be a remote cubbyhole, with no comforts and a single window—narrow, off to one side, and not too clean—overlooking the campus. There was a desk with an old computer and a heavy telephone supported by two sturdy outdated telephone books. Relics from other times and other hands; decrepit surplus that no one wanted any longer. We'd get along well, I thought. After all, we were both in a state of depreciation.

“It's important that you know how to find Fanny Stern: she'll be
in charge of supplying you with any materials you may need,” Rebecca announced, making way for me to navigate the turn that led into Fanny's working space.

On sticking my head in Fanny's cubicle, I was overcome by a feeling of confusion but one that existed somewhere between tenderness and hilarity. There was not an inch of empty space on the walls, which were covered with playbills, calendars, posters of sunsets among snowy mountaintops, and sugary, optimistic messages like
Don't lose heart, you can make it;
The sun always shines after a storm;
and
There's always a helping hand nearby.
In the middle of all this, beatific and absent, sat Fanny, gobbling up a white chocolate bar as greedily as a five-year-old.

Before Fanny managed to finish swallowing and greet us, Rebecca went over to her and stood behind her. Holding Fanny by the shoulders, she gave her an affectionate squeeze.

“Fanny, you already know Professor Perea, our visiting researcher, and you know what office we've assigned her, right? Remember that you must help her with everything she asks for, okay?”

“Sure, Mrs. Cullen,” she answered with a full mouth. To emphasize her willingness, she nodded several times vigorously.

“Fanny is very eager and a hard worker. Her mother was also part of this department for decades.” Rebecca spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “Darla Stern worked here many years, and for a while she held the position that I later took over. How is your mother, Fanny?” she asked.

“Mother is very well, Mrs. Cullen, thank you,” Fanny replied, nodding once more as she swallowed.

“Give her my regards. And now we're off: I must show Professor Perea the storeroom,” she concluded.

When we left, Fanny was again sinking her teeth into the chocolate bar, surrounded by her blissful posters and perhaps even some devil lurking somewhere in a drawer.

“Before retiring from the dean's office about four years ago, her mother saw to it that Fanny remained in the department as a kind of inheritance,” Rebecca explained with no trace of irony. “She doesn't have a great many tasks, because, as you may have noticed, her abilities
are somewhat limited. But her responsibilities are well-defined and she manages reasonably well: she hands out the mail, is in charge of making photocopies, organizes supplies, and carries out small errands. She's an essential part of this house. And she can be counted on whenever you need her.”

A labyrinth of hallways and stairs took us to a remote section of the basement. Rebecca, in front, moved about with the familiarity of someone who had trod these floors for ages. I, behind, tried in vain to commit to memory all the twists and turns, anticipating how often I'd get lost before finding my way around. Meanwhile, Rebecca reeled off some facts about the university. More than fourteen thousand students, she said, almost all from out of town. Initially it was a college and eventually evolved into its present-day status of small, somewhat prestigious university. She mentioned that it currently created the most jobs and the greatest revenue of any institution in the community.