The Heart Has Its Reasons (44 page)

Death struck him before he could reach definite conclusions in his research, but it was obvious that the effort had been immense. He had visited almost all of California's archives and libraries that could shed any light on the Spanish presence in the area; he'd visited one by one the state's missions, as well as various dioceses and archdioceses. Where he didn't go with his own two feet he did so by mail in hundreds of letters that were answered by their recipients. His work had been thorough and painstaking to the utmost. Now it was our responsibility to rise to the occasion.

We began on Friday morning and completely forgot that in the calendar of normal people's lives there existed something called the weekend. At times we worked seated and at others standing, moving around the large table. Sometimes we kept apart, each concentrating on a specific piece of the legacy. Other times, however, we worked side by side, bent over the same document. Searching, finding, jotting. Shoulder to shoulder, heads touching, my fingers grazing his, his grazing my skin.

The verbal exchanges were scarce and almost telegraphic. By surprise, due to an unexpected setback, or out of admiration for something we had discovered, we'd sometimes let out an exclamation. In English or Spanish, indiscriminately. “Fuck.
Qu
e
t
i
o
. Shit.”

We compared information, we marked places, we identified patterns, until the first surprises started to appear.

“You told me in Sonoma that Father Altimira was the founder of that mission, right?” Daniel asked me at some point on Saturday afternoon from the other end of the table. “The unruly Franciscan who didn't have the permission from his superiors to build it.”

“Have you found something on him?” I asked, surprised. “I've already come across him three times.”

“And so have I, a bunch of times,” he noted. “Here he shows up in a couple of written notes, listen:

December 1820: Father Jose Altimira announces to Colonel Pablo Vicente de Sola, last governor of Alta California, his new destination in these territories. 1821: Altimira thanks Sola for several favors. October 1821: Altimira notifies Sola of the delivery of a shipment of grain to a Russian ship . . .

The information was not truly significant, nor did it highlight any relevant fact, but it attested to the fluid relationship the recently landed Franciscan had with the higher civil authorities.

“In any case, there are more names that appear relatively frequently. I've come across Father Señan in four or five other references, and pretty much the same goes for Father Fortuni.”

As we kept working, indeed, traces of the old Franciscan fathers started to surface regularly among the papers.

“Reserve Altimira just in case. Let's stack all his documents here,” I said, pointing to one end of the table. “Make sure we don't lose sight of him.”

And we didn't. Neither of him nor of anyone else, including Fortuni, Señan, and the dozens of monks, missions, jailhouses, laws, and governors who kept crossing our path.

Saturday came to an end, Sunday flew by, and Monday arrived. At the end of each day we'd go out onto the apartment's little terrace with our coats on and, letting the cold wind clear our minds, we'd stretch our legs against the balustrade and drink a glass of wine. Or two. Or three.

On Monday afternoon, however, we hadn't yet taken a break, when our peace was shattered.

“She's here!”

It was almost seven p.m. and we'd been scrutinizing papers and listening to a bunch of old tape recordings: interviews with priests,
filing clerks, and fellow Spaniards, with Fontana's loud voice in the background. I was moved on hearing him; Daniel, even more so.

Then there was knocking on the door. Daniel called out his usual “Come in!” and, with hardly the time to say hello to her, we heard Fanny scream like someone possessed.

“She's here—I've found her!”

As soon as we realized who she was addressing with such boundless enthusiasm, we exchanged a perplexed glance.

“She's here, Professor Zarate! There's no need to keep on looking! Professor Perea is here, with Professor Carter!”

The slender figure of Luis Zarate appeared at the door without time for us to consider what to do. A loud rebuff flew across my mind. How could I have forgotten to inform the chairman, to disguise my absence with any old excuse?

Too late for regrets, we got up, greeted him, and stood motionless at one corner of the large table. He, meanwhile, stepped inside the apartment without waiting for Daniel to invite him in. Then he carefully let his eyes wander across all the material and equipment strewn about. Bundles, diagrams, maps. Our computers. The scanner. The prehistoric gadgets. And the printer. My printer. The one he'd given me.

The situation became extremely uncomfortable for all three of us and I again cursed myself for not anticipating that this moment might come to pass.

After the tense silence, Luis was the first to intervene.

“What an interesting encounter,” he said ironically, without addressing either of us in particular. Then his gaze settled on me. “We're looking for you, Blanca, because it got into Fanny's head that something might have happened to you. She says that you didn't show up in your office either Friday or today. We've called your apartment several times but without luck. Your cell phone is out of service and Rebecca Cullen is at a seminar in San Francisco, so we were unable to learn of your whereabouts through her.”

“You see, Luis, I—”

“Naturally it's not part of my duties as chairman to be searching the streets for someone who has not shown up for work,” he interrupted
me, “but Fanny was quite alarmed and at her insistence I had no other choice but to help find you.”

“A thousand apologies, really. I should have told you that I'd be out temporarily,” I said.

I was sincere. I regretted not having done so, but everything had happened so quickly that it didn't even cross my mind to clue in the department regarding my intentions—although my forgetfulness, it suddenly dawned on me, might have simply been an unconscious defense mechanism, an excuse to conceal a truth that would have been unacceptable to Luis.

I realized I hadn't seen him since the day he had shown up unexpectedly at my office. The day of that bitter visit to Darla Stern's house, after which I lay cuddled next to Daniel on his couch while he narrated in the darkness the saddest moments of his life. The same day in which Luis Zarate himself, within the fiefdom of his department, offered me his support with implications that were light-years from the merely professional. Any affinity between us, however, seemed to have been blown to smithereens by this new set of circumstances. I thought it safest for me to keep quiet for the moment. Daniel too remained silent.

“A very productive absence, from what I gather,” he remarked while browsing through the material.

He lifted an antique map of California and pretended to examine it, then did the same with a letter from the Huntington Library in San Marino. Lastly, he placed his hand on the printer and patted it several times.

Fanny contemplated the scene impassively, radiating satisfaction at having found me and not in the least discerning the possible consequences of what she had unleashed.

Luis continued to address me: “From what I see, it hasn't exactly been a few days of holidays that you've taken, right, Blanca? Evidently you've been working hard and, moreover, without wavering from your commitment.”

“That's right,” I said. “And Professor Carter is helping me.”

“On the other hand, that doesn't seem quite right, given the fact
that he's no longer connected to this university. Nor do I understand what all these documents belonging to the university are doing in his place. In case you don't recall, these papers are restricted and should not be been taken out of the university without authorization.”

Where was the Luis Zarate who had prepared cocktails at my party, who had flirted with me unabashedly at Los Olivos, who had tried to kiss me and offered me what seemed like sincere affection?

“This material does not belong to the university: it's mine,” Daniel corrected him before I could say anything. His tone was bitter and forceful, so that there could be no doubt about his opinion of the department chair.

Taking a few bills out of his pocket, Luis changed his tone as he said, “Fanny, darling, would you mind going for some pizzas? Whichever ones you want, whichever you like best. Thanks, dear. And take your time, there's no rush.”

When Fanny had left, we explained how those documents had come into our hands. We told Luis only about seventy percent of the truth. We mentioned Darla Stern's garage, but not the checks that were paid; we spoke to him about the distant relationship between Fontana and Daniel, but not of the thirty years that the former pupil had decided to cast his mentor into oblivion. In any case, and in spite of our effort to come across as credible, Luis had difficulty accepting our version of the facts.

“All very laudable, no doubt about it. But from the evidence I gather the following,” he said, extending both hands over our cluttered table. “That all this material is part of what Professor Andres Fontana left behind in the department at the time of his death—a department that I now run—and that right now it is in the private home of an individual unaffiliated with the university and who was clearly facilitated illicitly by the researcher assigned to process it.”

“Luis, please . . .” I pleaded.

“So, much to my chagrin, I believe that my official duty is to demand that all this be taken out of here immediately and, afterwards, that you draw up a report explaining this series of irregularities. A report that I'll have to send to the dean, of course.”

Daniel and I exchanged another quick glance, but neither of us said a word.

“And most likely,” he went on, in a tone of superiority that he'd never used in my presence before, “my duty will also entail sending the aforesaid report to your university, Blanca.”

“I don't think they'll be too interested,” I said with a touch of insolence.

He ignored my comment.

“And as far as you're concerned, Carter, rest assured that I'll also find a way for my report to reach Santa Barbara.”

“Stop talking nonsense once and for all, Zarate, please. And make an effort to believe what we're telling you.”

Luis went on as if he hadn't heard him, “I'm sure lots of our colleagues will find it amusing that the eminent Daniel Carter uses, let's say, rather unconventional work methods to carry out his research.”

I noticed that Daniel's patience was reaching its limit.

“You're starting to piss me off with all these threats, Mr. Chairman.”

I was on the verge of bursting out laughing. The situation was tense, yes, but also quite ludicrous. Two seasoned academics tangled up in some absurd dispute like two fighting cocks, neither of them willing to cede an inch of his terrain. Perhaps out of deference toward me, perhaps out of pure inertia, they both spoke in Spanish. They used, however, the formal form of address between them, keeping the boundaries clearly delineated.

“Take it as you wish,” Luis replied with disdain.

“Since when did you develop this grudge against me, Zarate?” Daniel asked, going around the table to approach him without any physical obstacles in between.

“I've got nothing against you . . .”

“This doesn't date from our first meeting in your office, right?” Daniel asked.

I frowned in surprise, suddenly intrigued.

“That was our first face-to-face encounter,” Daniel went on, “and before that we'd spoken over the telephone, remember? But there must
have been something else before that—or am I wrong in assuming that?”

“We'd never had the slightest contact,” Luis replied.

Daniel straightened, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze defiant.

“True, no direct contact,” he said. “But we did meet indirectly. Mountview University, March 1992. Almost eight years ago. Does that ring a bell?”

“It was—”

“It was a negative report I wrote that blocked your promotion. After evaluating your curriculum vitae as an external reviewer, I was of the opinion that you were not the most appropriate candidate for the position. My subsequent mistake was to forget your name and not remember you after so many years and so many similar reports, but it's clear that I remained fresh in your memory.”

The buried connections, the underground conduits through which everything can be ascertained, bewildered me.

“That has nothing to do with the matter at hand,” Luis replied, trying to sound definitive. From his posture, however, I was able to tell that his tension was increasing.

“Are you sure?” Daniel prodded him. “Because, as I understand it, it was my vote that tilted the balance. And with it, you lost the position you were aspiring to.”

Daniel was no longer my research assistant in worn-out jeans and faded checkered shirt. Instead he had returned to being the highly regarded academic Luis Zarate himself had described to me.

“I truly regret the adverse effects of my decision,” Daniel continued implacably, “but I simply carried out my responsibility with the rigor that was expected of me. That was fair play. However, you took it as something personal. And, some years later, when I accidentally crossed your path, you found your chance for revenge.”

Touché. The insolence hadn't disappeared altogether from Luis's face, but it had surely softened. He obviously didn't expect Daniel to air dirty linen. But neither was he ready to throw in the towel. Far from it.

They were still facing each other, barely a few feet apart. The jealous chairman, impeccable in his dark formal attire; Daniel, the old fox,
dressed in the casual clothes of a student, ready to strike where it hurt most.