The Heart Has Its Reasons (42 page)

Leaving the old woman stewing in her armchair, we headed toward the door. I was hardly able to hold back my relief that we would finally breathe the fresh night's air, go out into the real world once more. However, as we were about to open the door, Darla's voice brought us to a halt.

“Carter!”

It was more of a rasping croak than a scream.

We both turned our heads, and in a flash I realized I'd been wrong when I thought Darla had nothing left to hurl at us and we could finally get away.

She was still slumped in her chair, her lipstick smeared and her cheap doll's hair disheveled as she prepared to hurl her last bomb.

“Maybe none of this would've happened had you been capable of giving your wife what she'd wanted more than anything.”

A chilling silence preceded the explosion.

“A child, for example.”

Chapter 37

D
arla Stern burst out laughing one last time. A ghastly, biting laugh. I automatically looked at Daniel's face and saw how he half closed his eyes and slowly drew air through his nose. I anticipated his reaction and gripped his arm firmly, but he freed himself from my grasp and took a step forward, raising a clenched fist into the air. He was blindly going after her. I reacted quickly, knowing that I had to get him out of there right away no matter how. Get him away from Darla, from that skeletal body weighed down by age, arthritis, and sheer bitterness.

I planted myself before him, placing my hands firmly against his chest, halting his advance like a wall. With his fist still in the air and his hair disheveled, he barraged Darla with insults. Suddenly I was able to muster some degree of authority.

“Enough. She's sick and just provoking you. Don't fall for her game; don't let yourself be dragged into it.”

With great difficulty I managed to keep him somewhat immobilized for a few moments that seemed an eternity, until I finally noticed his body relaxing slightly. Once again grabbing him by the arm, I pulled him with all my strength and was able to drag him away from that grotesque scene.

I did not ask him if he'd driven or not. I just listened to the sound
of our footsteps on the wet pavement as we walked aimlessly for a long time. Countless questions assailed me, countless doubts. But I preferred not to talk or force him to do so. Then at one point in our erratic walk he halted and looked at me.

“Aurora was pregnant. She'd already had two miscarriages; this was our third hope, the most advanced of all her pregnancies. She had problems carrying them to term. Her yearning to be a mother was immense but, all in all, she faced adversity with admirable strength of character. She was magnificent, an extraordinary person.”

He said nothing else and I, quite simply, assented, not knowing or judging. We moved on, once more walking in silence along deserted streets and squares. Everything was closed at that hour: the restaurants, the shops, the café. With the exception of a car now and then, we seemed to be the only ones wandering around in the area.

“You must have suspected too at some point, right?”

I surprised myself by asking a question like that, taken aback by my audacity, my insolent invasion of his privacy. But my subconscious knew that I needed to know. And he understood.

“At some point, no; I thought about it hundreds of times, Blanca. Thousands.”

He let a few minutes go by, then cleared his throat with difficulty and continued.

“I spent three atrocious years detached from the world, absent, lost, disconnected from reality. Three years is plenty of time to do a few stupid things and also to think a lot.”

“What conclusion did you reach?”

“That he silently, quietly fell in love with Aurora,” he said in a troubled voice. “And she never realized it.”

He again fell silent, pensive. Then went on:

“He was winding down, disenchanted after tumultuous relationships that never quite bore fruit, getting older and ready to spend his days wrapping up his career and his life without any more headaches.”

“And then you appeared with her . . .”

“Then she appeared, full of life and enchantment. With her joie de vivre and tenderness, with the soul of the old country to which he had
never returned. And he, who in spite of his bull-like body was a man with a fragile heart, was as we all are in the end: when he thought he'd seen it all, he simply fell in love.”

I noticed a slight tremor in his voice and chose not to continue asking questions. I didn't need to know more; all the pieces were in place. Completing the puzzle, however, hadn't come free of charge, not for me and certainly not for him. His pain was visible in his drawn face, the tenseness of his body, and his long silences.

Our steps took us to his apartment. Perhaps I had instinctively directed them there. I accompanied him inside. Without even turning on the light, he took off his jacket, dropped it on the floor, and collapsed onto a couch.

With the lights turned off, I headed toward the kitchen area. It wasn't too hard: there was hardly any furniture or other obstacles to avoid; just like in my apartment, it was a temporary home without any evidence of the souls who had happened to pass through it year after year. I searched in the half-empty cabinets, the only light being that of a streetlamp coming through the window. Among half a dozen unmatched cups and several soup bowls, I found half a bottle of Four Roses bourbon. I poured two generous glasses and handed him one. He didn't thank me; he didn't even look at me. He just accepted it and took a long sip. I did the same. Our battered brains needed some help to digest the sinister memories dredged up that night and to placate the pain of desolation after the battle.

We didn't exchange a word until, after some time had passed, I got up. Daniel remained seated, ensconced in the darkness, with his legs apart and his hands together, holding the empty glass. I took it from him and put it on the table. I sat on his armrest and passed my hand over his hair, his beard, his still-contorted face.

“I'm going home.”

Before I reached the door, he called me. In a husky voice, dark, as if it came from the bottomless well of the relived horror.

I turned around.

“Don't go. Stay with me tonight.”

I returned to his side without a word and curled up next to him
on the couch to keep him company while each of us wrestled with our own demons. Finally, without turning the light on and without taking his eyes off the wall, he began to talk.

“I've never been able to find a coherent explanation that justifies my senseless behavior during those years; I don't know if it was an act of rebellion or cowardice or a simple animal reaction to the desperation and pain, but after the accident I couldn't bear the idea of remaining alone in Santa Cecilia. I chose to leave without even finishing the semester, without telling anyone anything, and without the slightest clue where I'd end up. After wandering up and down the Pacific coast of Mexico, I ended up staying for almost three years in a fishing village next to Zihuatanejo. Three years in which I did nothing except torture my body and soul: I didn't read a single book, didn't open a single newspaper or write a single line. All I did was cram my body with all the shit I could lay my hands on, to isolate myself in my agony. I dressed like a beggar and hardly spoke to anyone. I'd stare at the ocean and take all kinds of crap; that's all I did.”

“Until Paul Cullen went in search of you,” I added, recalling our conversation on the day I met Rebecca's ex-husband. “On Thanksgiving night you told me that he'd been a witness to your own hell.”

He smiled grimly in the darkness.

“Fortunately I must have had occasional moments of clarity, because after some time I called the Cullens. And then Paul came and, on seeing my state, stayed awhile. He cut my hair and nails, shaved me, and forced me to eat, as if I were a child. He dressed my wounds and the bites I had all over my body and hugged me the way he held his little children when they had fevers or nightmares.”

“But he was unable to make you return . . .”

“I wasn't ready yet, and he understood it; I needed more time to grieve. I don't know why I allowed myself to hit rock bottom,” he added, shrugging. “I swear to you that I haven't the slightest idea. But in the end I was able to snap out of it. For Aurora's sake and for my own: for her memory and for my sanity and dignity. When I finally recovered enough to realize what I'd become, I discovered that, at thirty-seven, I was nothing but a recovering addict, lonely as a mangy dog, poorer
than a rat, and without any immediate prospects for work. Despite all that, I learned to live anew, standing upright, holding my head up high. Ready to fight to be happy again, but perhaps not altogether ready for someone to suddenly kick down the door that I thought had been locked for so long.”

The sun's first rays were inundating the apartment when I woke up. It took me only a couple of seconds to get my bearings and remember the previous night in a flash. I was still lying on the sofa, but the spot Daniel had occupied was empty. From behind a closed door in the rear of the apartment, I could hear the sound of water running in the shower. On the floor there was a pair of running shoes that were not there before: evidence of an early-morning jog, I figured. I didn't know if he'd been able to rest at all, but I imagined not.

When I stood up my head was throbbing, my mouth felt furry, my joints were stiff and my neck sore. Barefoot and sleepy, I prepared a pot of coffee. The two glasses we'd been drinking from were in the sink, the bottle of bourbon in the garbage, empty.

He appeared a few minutes later. With wet hair, clean clothes, and glassy eyes, he walked into the kitchen area, rolling up the sleeves of the black shirt he was wearing. Black as his mood, dark as his soul. We didn't exchange a word; I simply handed him a cup of coffee. He brought his two hands toward mine. With his left he grabbed the cup, removed it from my fingers, and placed it on the counter. With his right hand he drew me toward him.

“Come here.” He hugged me. “Thanks for staying. It's been an awfully long night. And very sad—a night of sharp knives. I never thought ghosts could come back with such force.”

I leaned against him with my face on his chest and closed my eyes, still half-asleep. We remained like that for a long time.

Chapter 38

W
hen we finally returned to the present, Daniel shared with me the decisions he had made.

“Are you really going to give her the money for an apartment in exchange for some boxes full of papers that you don't even know the contents of?” I asked in disbelief.

“I'd rather run that risk than have her burn them or shred them. Besides, it's Fontana's own money that will pay for it, the inheritance he decided to leave Aurora, not imagining that their lives would both end together. I've never touched it except, as I told you, to pay for your work here. But there's plenty more; at first it was his savings and a not-­inconsiderable insurance policy, and in time all of it has accrued into a considerable sum. I always believed that I'd end up donating it to the university or to some humanitarian cause. I never would have spent it on myself.”

“I still don't understand.”

“I've got no interest whatsoever in providing Darla with the slightest quality of life in her declining years; as far as I'm concerned, I couldn't care less if the worms eat her. But at least I'm comforted by the thought that in the long run this will benefit poor Fanny by getting her out of that house and providing her with a respectable home
that someday will be hers. And from that perspective I don't think it's the worst solution. There's no doubt in my mind that he would have approved of my allocating his money for that purpose.”

I did not insist, since it was none of my business, but I kept turning it over in my head while he spoke to his bank on the telephone and made arrangements.

At ten o'clock on the dot, we ended up back at Darla Stern's place. The morning light did not diminish the gut-wrenching atmosphere. Everything remained as sordid as on the previous night: scattered junk, the overturned chair, the mute television, and the nauseating deathlike smell floating in the air. The old lady was still seated in her chair, probably not having gone to bed the entire night. The only difference was that she remained silent, half-lethargic, with eyes closed. Perhaps sedated, perhaps exhausted. Or, quite simply, pretending.

A heavyset man with metal-framed glasses and a large gold ring on his pinky finger introduced himself as her legal representative, ready to take care of the transaction.

“Follow me, please.”

Through a side door in the kitchen he led us to the garage that was dirty and in shambles. Then he opened another door using great effort, pushing it with his shoulder until it gave. Moving to one side, he invited us to step into a combination toolshed and garbage dump with hardly any space to move about inside, filled as it was with mountains of trash bags and piles of decades-old newspapers. Beneath the light of a weak bulb covered in grime and dead insects, the lawyer pointed to a bunch of boxes stacked against the wall.

While Daniel negotiated with him without bothering to hide his animosity, I opened one of the boxes to examine the object of the blackmail. In the midst of such squalid surroundings, I was unable to hold back a sigh of relief. I did not need to rummage too much to realize that it all seemed to match the rest of Fontana's papers. There, most likely, was what I'd been missing for weeks, almost months, in which the common thread of my compatriot's work had slipped through my hands like a slithery reptile. Yellowish, crumpled, and disorderly, those papers nonetheless would fill in some of the holes in the last period of the legacy.

Daniel's voice brought me out of my reverie; all he had to do was pronounce my name in an interrogative tone. I answered with a brief nod. He then took a checkbook out of his inside jacket pocket and signed several checks that went straight into the lawyer's ringed hand. Darla, seemingly ignorant of it all, continued to drowse back in the drawing room.