by Maria Duenas
“Perhaps Professor Zarate ignores that essence,” Rebecca intervened, ever loyal to her boss. “Even though his father is Spanish, perhaps he has not lived there long enough to know the country in depth. Besides, he shares his Hispanic roots with Chile, his mother’s land; maybe he leans more toward that culture—”
“That doesn’t justify his behavior,” Daniel interrupted. “Our professional worth is not measured in proportion to the passion we may feel toward one country or another but rather in terms of the works we publish, the conferences we attend, the dissertations we supervise, and the courses we teach. Affection is not quantifiable but rather a totally personal matter.”
“But I suppose that affection helps somewhat,” I said.
“You bet it helps,” he confirmed sarcastically. “But some have not realized it yet.”
• • •
I’d never before crossed the campus at night. It was the first time I saw its classrooms and offices almost in complete darkness and its dorms totally lit; the first time I didn’t see students hurrying from one class to the next but rather sitting indolently on their doorsteps, smoking, talking, laughing, as the day drained away; the first time I saw the basketball courts with their lights humming loudly as the balls rebounded on the boards and lingering smells from the evening meal emanated from vents in the cafeteria kitchen.
We left the campus behind as we headed toward Santa Cecilia Plaza, the most urban area of the small city. Hardly a month had gone by since my arrival, but it seemed more like a century had elapsed since that first morning I’d sat down at the café in the plaza, lost and disoriented, making an effort to accept my new place in the world.
On hearing Daniel mention Andres Fontana, I quickly came back to the present.
“He loved to sit in this square, you know, Blanca? He always said that it had the air of a run-down Spanish town.”
“In a way it does,” I admitted.
“It’s only logical, right?” Rebecca said. “The city founders were old California natives, Mexicans of pure Spanish descent, when not outright Spaniards.”
“Maybe that’s why this plaza and Los Pinitos were his favorite spots. He’d stroll around ruminating about things; he said that’s how he oxygenated his brain.”
By then I was aware that Los Pinitos was where I had walked on that earlier afternoon when the vision of the photographs of the dead professor altered my approach to my work on Fontana.
“There seem to be problems with that area now; they intend to build a shopping mall, right?”
They answered yes almost in unison.
“In fact,” Rebecca went on, “a shopping mall may bring economic benefits to Santa Cecilia, but it would level a lovely spot that those of us who live here have always felt to be our own. A place which is very dear to our heart and our families, a place for leisure, for picnics with kids . . .”
“A place for students to horse around . . .” Daniel added.
“Or to simply take a stroll . . .”
“In any case, the battle is not altogether lost: there are solid doubts regarding the project’s viability,” Daniel continued, “because the legitimate ownership of the land seems to have been tangled up for more than a century.”
“I thought it was a public space that belonged to the town,” I said.
“The municipality manages it and can negotiate its concession because there is no irrefutable proof of its historical ownership. It’s a very confusing affair.”
“That’s why there’s a citizens’ platform trying to find some kind of legal glitch to stop it, but they’ve been at it for months and have yet to find a way,” Rebecca interjected. “And the deadline to appeal the project is by December, so we all fear the worst.”
We were caught up in conversation when, hardly a few feet away from us, a door opened and someone came out onto the sidewalk, momentarily blocking our path and halting our conversation.
The door was to a small clinic that seemed to be closing. The lights inside were practically out, and whoever was now leaving must have been among the last employees to go. The door, held by a young nurse in scrubs and clogs, remained open for an instant without anyone coming out and prevented us from continuing along in a straight path. As we began taking a detour into the street, a wheelchair emerged.
Its occupant was wearing an old sweatsuit and had light hair that fell below her shoulders, a pale face full of wrinkles, and lips painted vermilion. A shocking sight, or at least far from that of a conventional elderly woman. Despite the fact that night had fallen long before, she was wearing a large pair of sunglasses. Behind them, covering her right eye, was a gauze bandage.
“Well, well, well . . .” I heard Daniel whisper in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.
“Mrs. Cullen, Professor Perea, what a surprise to see you here! Professor Carter, I remember we met in the library the other day; I’m pleased to see you again. Look, Mother, look at all three of them!”
The person to greet us so enthusiastically while pushing the wheelchair was none other than Fanny. She came to a stop, placing herself smack in the middle of the sidewalk while the nurse slipped back into the clinic.
“Good evening, Fanny. Nice to see you again, Darla,” Rebecca greeted them cordially. “Any problem? I trust it’s nothing serious this time around.”
The old lady didn’t pay any attention whatsoever to her words. She didn’t reply, didn’t even look at her, as if she hadn’t heard her. I thought that perhaps her mental faculties were somewhat diminished; judging from her aesthetics, it was certainly a possibility. But as if to confirm how mistaken I was in my judgment, she spoke up.
“Now, now . . . Look who we have here . . .”
I immediately knew she was referring to Daniel. Perhaps they were also old friends, I thought. Everyone around here seemed to receive the university’s prodigal son with great affection.
“It’s been a long time, Darla,” he said somewhat indifferently. “How is it going? How are you doing?”
They greeted each other from the distance of a few yards. Daniel, with his hands in his trouser pockets, made no movement to come any closer.
“Wonderful: you can see how I’m doing, dear,” the old lady answered cynically. “And how are you doing, Professor?”
“I can’t complain. Working, as usual . . .”
Both their sentences conformed to the norms of courtesy, but one didn’t need to be too sharp to recognize the chill. Before I was able to conjecture any further, Rebecca decided to intervene.
“What happened to your eye, Darla?”
“Mother bumped into the door of the bathroom closet, was badly hurt, and bled a great deal. Today we came to have it checked.”
“Shut up, Fanny, shut up, don’t exaggerate so much . . .” Darla growled. “It was only a small domestic accident, that’s all—nothing serious.”
“This is Professor Perea, Mother,” the daughter went on. “I’ve spoken to you about her several times; you finally get to meet her.”
“Delighted,” I said. For some unknown reason I imitated Daniel in his behavior and did not move closer to her.
“Another little Spaniard in Santa Cecilia; isn’t that just wonderful. My daughter has already told me what you’re up to here.”
“Also working, Darla. Like everyone else at the university,” Daniel burst in without giving me time to answer.
“I’ve been told that you’re involved with the papers that our old friend Andres Fontana left behind,” she said, addressing me as if she hadn’t heard him. “And? Have you found anything interesting? Bank checks? Anonymous messages? Love letters?”
“Among Professor Fontana’s papers there are only professional documents, Darla,” Rebecca clarified. “Professor Perea simply—”
To my good fortune the clinic door opened again, interrupting the uncomfortable conversation. A gr
im-faced man in his fifties emerged, carrying a briefcase, and I surmised it was the doctor who had treated Darla. Behind him, this time wearing jeans, his nurse proceeded to lock the door with a large bundle of keys.
“Remember, Mrs. Stern, don’t remove the bandage until next week’s visit. And make an appointment beforehand, please.”
There was not the least trace of sympathy in his tone. Most likely mother and daughter had showed up without notice at the end of the day, forcing him to stay behind a good while longer than normal.
Fanny had begun apologizing with hasty excuses, citing various obligations between work, her spiritual meetings, and caring for her mother, but no one was really listening. Taking advantage of the doctor’s presence and his final words of advice, Daniel had already moved on and Rebecca and I followed, muttering a brief farewell.
“Why don’t you come pay me a visit one of these days, Carter!” the old woman screamed from a distance.
“See you, Darla, I wish you all the best,” he answered without turning back.
“What a pair!” I said as we passed over the pedestrian crossing.
“Yes, what a pair . . .” Rebecca repeated with a short laugh, as if trying to downplay the situation.
Daniel kept walking in silence. I noticed that Rebecca grabbed his left arm affectionately with both hands. He, thankful but somewhat absent, finally took his right hand out of his trouser pocket, placed it on top of hers, and patted it.
“No one ever said the past was devoid of shadows.”
Chapter 10
* * *
Only ten minutes before my new course was to begin, the telephone in my office started ringing with a loud din. I didn’t answer; I had no time. A half hour earlier, after mulling over the syllabus for the thousandth time, I’d decided to change the sequencing of certain topics; but when I tried to print out the new syllabus, the printer jammed. I then turned to the photocopying machine, which bore a sign that read: TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE. Neither Fanny, Rebecca, the chairman, nor any professors were at hand; the conference room’s closed door signaled a long departmental meeting. Once more I turned desperately to the printer, opening and closing it repeatedly, taking the ink cartridge out, then replacing it. In the middle of my hand-to-hand combat with technology, the telephone rang again insistently. I finally picked up the receiver reluctantly and hurled a cutting “Hello.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? I bumped into Alberto and his pregnant Barbie in a restaurant and he told me that you’ve decided to sell all of your things and start signing papers. But do you know what you’re doing, dear sister? You’ve never behaved like this, Blanca; you’ve always grabbed the bull by the horns . . . What’s the matter with you: have you gone nuts all of a sudden or what?”
Just as she had done so many other times, my sister barged into my life unannounced and at the worst possible time. Ana, thirteen months my elder and so radically different from me that we didn’t even seem to have the same blood. An emergency physician and mother of four kids, she was outspoken, biting, and prone to meddling. A bundle of pure energy capable of taking on the world by storm, she would call in the middle of her night shift, perhaps between treating a renal colic case and a motorcycle accident victim.
“I know what I’m doing, Ana; of course I know what I’m doing,” I answered swiftly, with little conviction.
“You’ve really lost it, sister!” she went on, undeterred. “This business of your husband’s cheating has affected you more than you think. Where is that spunk of yours? The son of a bitch fools you for months, then suddenly informs you that he’s going to live with that bitch, and then shortly afterwards you learn that she’s pregnant, probably before he walked out on you. So, as a prize for his remarkable behavior, you let him off scot-free to do whatever he wants with your things. He can sell your house and leave you on the damned street while you conveniently take off to California on holiday to celebrate . . . Wake up, Blanca! Get back to your old self, dammit!”
“We’ll talk it over calmly, I promise. This is not a good moment: I’m working.”
“What you need to do is to make life for that son of a bitch Alberto as hard as possible.”
“Come on!”
My outburst was actually directed at the printer. Since it refused to heed to reason, I decided to try hitting it with a clean blow. But my sister, in the distance, did not pick up on it.
“What are you saying?” she yelled. “You’re not going to defend him on top of it!”
“There’s nothing to accuse or defend him against, Ana. What has happened has happened: he’s found another woman he loves more than me. And he’s left. And that’s that,” I said, smacking the machine on its left side. “I don’t see any reason to make things more complicated than they already are. As long as I don’t have any contact with him, that’s enough. In any case, don’t worry, I’ll think about everything you’ve told me.”
In truth, I had no intention of thinking about everything she’d told me; all that I wished was for her to calm down, hang up, and forget about me. To add emphasis to my words, I gave the machine another whack, this time going for the right-hand side. It was of little use.
“You’ll think about it!” she roared. “If you think about it the way you’ve done so far, I fear the worst, sister. What you need to do is return home and continue being your old self. Continue with your life. Without your husband, but with your life. With your work, your kids nearby, with your old friends and the rest of your family.”
“We’ll talk about it, Ana. I’ve got to go now.”
Right then Fanny’s round face popped in the door.
“Your new students are waiting for you in room 215,” she announced.
“I’ll call you some other day. Kisses to everyone. Good-bye! Good-bye!”
I hung up the receiver with one hand while my other delivered one last whack to the printer. And, miraculously, the machine began making a raspy noise and spitting out paper.
“Help me, Fanny, for God’s sake,” I begged her in an agitated voice. “Staple these pages in twos, please, like this, you see?”
She enthusiastically rushed to my rescue, so much so that in the process she knocked over a pile of Fontana material at one corner of the table that was still awaiting my attention.
“I’m so sorry, Professor Perea, I’m really sorry,” she muttered, flustered, as she bent over to restack the papers.
“Don’t worry; you finish with this, I’ll pick it up.”
I put my jacket on in a split second, then began gathering what had just fallen to the floor: a couple of typed pages, a handful of old letters, and a pile of postcards. I tried to put it all back on the table, but Fanny, with her particular way of doing things, had covered its entire surface with the copies of the syllabus. Instead, I hastily left it all on my armchair and swung my purse onto my shoulder, causing a few postcards to slip to the floor. I picked them up again while Fanny, triumphant, handed me the ready copies.
“You’re a sweetheart, Fanny, a sweetheart,” I said to her, sticking the syllabuses into my folder distractedly along with Fontana’s postcards.
I walked into class winded, relieved to have gotten rid of Ana and to finally have the programs ready, apologizing for the five-minute delay.
The course had been advertised as Advanced Spanish Through Contemporary Spain, a mixture of culture and conversation class. After I introduced myself, the students introduced themselves, revealing a broad range of interests: passion for travel, professional needs, curiosity about history. There was also a diversity of ages and backgrounds, from a professor emeritus in history to a thirty-something sculptress in love with Gaudi’s work.
From the very first moment, out of intuition hard-won after practically twenty years of slogging it out in classrooms, I knew the course was going to work out.
I’d decided to start the class on a ligh
t note, knowing how it could help everyone adjust to the new setting and group dynamic. Although thanks to my sister’s call I was in no mood for jokes and witticisms, having only a great urge to lock myself up in the toilet to cry, I applied a golden rule for any good professor and left all personal issues in the hallway. Like an actor who steps onstage, I simply got going.
“During the seventies there was a very popular television program in Spain called One, Two, Three . . . Respond Again. Would you like to play?”
My goal, obviously, went beyond mere entertainment. My intention was to tie their world to mine in a totally informal manner. The answer was a resounding yes.
“Okay, then, for an imaginary twenty-five pesetas, I want cities in California that are named after a Spanish saint. For example, Santa Cecilia: one, two, three, respond again . . .”
I was unable to warn them that one of the rules of that old show was to start the string of answers with the example given, because before I was able to open my mouth they were already off and running with saints’ names: San Francisco, Santa Rosa, San Rafael, San Marco, San Gabriela, Santa Cruz, Santa Clara, Santa Ines, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, San Jose . . .
When they’d reached two dozen saints and were still going strong, I asked them to come up with places in California containing Spanish words or phrases.
Alameda, Palo Alto, Los Gatos, El Cerrito del Norte, Diablo Range, Contra Costa, Paso Robles, Atascadero, Fresno, Salinas, Manteca, Madera, Goleta, Monterey, Corona, Encinitas, Arroyo, Burro, La Jolla . . . With a pronunciation often far from the original and at times distorted to the point of incomprehension, their unending list covered ports, mountains, counties, and bays.
With an emphatic gesture I indicated they could stop.
“And Chula Vista, next to San Diego,” one of the students added, unable to resist including one more name.
“How about Mariposa County?” another blurted out.
“Okay, okay . . .” I said.
“Let’s not forget Los Padres and the Camino Real: they’re the origin of it all.”