by Maria Duenas
“It doesn’t matter, Professor. You can count on me.”
As the days went by, the young man’s attitude did not cease to amaze Fontana. Throughout the many years that he’d been laboring away in American classrooms, he’d come across students from all types of background and of all natures. In very few, however, had he seen the enthusiasm exhibited by that tall, lanky kid.
“I’ll need you for three days. We’re going to hold a gathering of Hispanists, sort of a conference. As of Thursday we’ll be assembling here; you must be available at all times until Saturday afternoon, for whatever we may require of you, from accompanying the visitors to their hotels to serving us coffee. Can I still count on you, or are you already regretting that you volunteered?”
Despite the fact that Fontana had spoken to them about what exile meant in connection to Machado’s verse, Daniel back then hardly knew a thing about the numerous professors and Spanish university assistants who two decades earlier were forced to undertake that long and bitter road. Some had left during the civil war and others had done so when it came to an end and they were dismissed from their posts. The great majority underwent a long journey through Central and South America, wandering from one country to the next until they found a permanent place; a handful of them ended up establishing themselves in the United States. There were those who returned to Spain and settled as best they could amid the Franco regime’s intransigent rules. Others returned and stood firm in their beliefs despite the harshness of reprisals. And then there were those who never left, living an internal exile, bitter and silent. The list of the intellectual diaspora was considerable, and Andres Fontana was to meet some of them a few days later.
“By all means, sir, you may count on me; I’m at your service.”
He tried to sound convincing, but was lying. He had to work at the Heinz factory five hours on each of those nights. By means of some complicated swaps and a bunch of generous promises of double shifts during the following days he was finally able to convince a couple of colleagues to cover for him. He knew that to return the favor would entail a major effort and that he’d have to be totally reliable. But, out of pure intuition, he anticipated that those three days in the company of Hispanists would well be worth his while.
Driving Fontana’s Oldsmobile, he picked them up from the airport, train station, and bus depot. Some of the newly arrived were fluent in English but had heavy accents; others were more limited. He taxied them back and forth, seeing to their every need with skill and grace; was courteous to them all; and memorized their various names, titles, and specialties. They discussed their country’s literature in a foreign land, constantly taking the words out of each other’s mouths, always eager to talk. Daniel made an effort not only to get to know them but to understand them and find out what was behind the strange labels of galdosiano, lorquiano, Cervantist, or valleinclanesco that they applied to one another regarding their areas of specialization.
In the process he also sought out in them the nostalgia of the childhood sun that Fontana had spoken to him about, but found only stray traces here and there, as if there was an implicit agreement among them not to bare their souls or touch upon deeper matters. They stuck to the surface of the banal, tossing barely a few crumbs of memory to the birds. One cursed the damned cold of those parts and recalled the warmth of his native Almeria. Another longed for Rioja wine during one of the lunches at the abstemious university cafeteria. A third one hummed a ballad at a well-endowed passing waitress: “A good stew instead of so much corn, now, that would be quite the treat!” They hardly spoke of politics, touching upon it at times but refusing to be drawn in. No one wanted a black cloud looming over such a cordial conference.
Daniel went out of his way for them and learned a thousand new things. Rich-sounding words and titles of books, certain phrases, names of authors and towns, and even a swear word or two such as that blunt “Coño!” that many of them peppered their conversation with.
When Saturday afternoon rolled by, he and the department secretary dropped them off one by one at their trains, planes, and buses. After several successful trips throughout the afternoon, they thought they were done. Daniel stood in the practically empty hotel lobby, waiting for Fontana so he could return his car keys and get to the factory.
And then he saw them walk out of the bar.
“What’s the plan for this evening, kid?” one of them asked from a distance. “There are still three of us left and your boss told us that you’d take care of everything until the end.”
A cold sweat ran down his spine. He had a double shift that evening, and he’d already arranged it with one of his factory colleagues: a quiet Pole, father of five, who didn’t put up with jokes.
“I didn’t know anything about it, sir,” he said, searching with urgent eyes for Fontana.
“Don’t tell me that, young man! We decided to change our tickets at the last minute so as not to take the red-eye flight. We’ve just had a bite to eat, and you don’t expect us to stay cooped up in our hotel till tomorrow morning.”
“I must speak to Professor Fontana; please forgive me.”
He tried not to show panic as he sought out the professor. He found him by the hotel entrance, seeing a couple off on their way to Buffalo.
“Well, now we’re done,” Fontana said in satisfaction, patting his student on the shoulder. “Good job, Carter. I owe you a couple of beers.”
“I don’t think so, Professor . . .”
“You don’t want to go for a couple of beers with me some day next week? Well, then, we’ll have coffee. Or better yet, let me invite you to a fine restaurant: you deserve it.”
“I’m not saying I don’t want to go out for a couple of beers, sir. What I’m saying is that this isn’t over yet.”
He pointed discreetly to the three professors inside the lobby with their hats in hand, waiting for someone to take them out on the town.
“I’ve already got plans,” Fontana mumbled below his breath, coming to a dead stop. “No one told me these three intended to stay an extra night.”
Daniel knew already that there was a woman in Fontana’s life. He didn’t know her name and hadn’t seen her face, but he had heard her voice. Accented, but in good English. He knew because he’d taken her call in Fontana’s office some days earlier, when he’d gone there to receive instructions for the conference. “Answer, Carter,” Fontana told him on the third ring while he quickly slipped on his jacket. “And say I’m on my way.” He only heard her pronounce his name: “Andres?” And afterwards a “Very well, thank you” when he relayed his professor’s message. Enough for him to realize that it was a relatively young woman. After that, nothing else.
“But we’d agreed that my duties with you would be over by Saturday afternoon,” Daniel insisted. “I have to work at the factory today; I’ve got to make up to my coworkers for the days that they’ve stood in for me.”
“Don’t piss me off, Carter, for God’s sake.”
“Professor, you know I’d be delighted to, but I can’t, really . . .” he insisted, handing over the keys to his car.
The loud honk of a horn on the other side of the street interrupted their conversation. They both turned their heads toward a white Chevy with a woman seated at the wheel, her hair covered with a floral silk scarf and her face hidden behind sunglasses. Fontana raised his hand, motioning for her to wait.
“Think of something, Carter, think of something,” he mumbled, hardly parting his lips and not grabbing the keys his student handed him. “You can see there is nothing I can do.”
“If I don’t show up at the factory tonight, I’ll be fired on Monday.”
Fontana lit a cigarette with an anxious puff. On the other side of the lobby window, the three professors seemed to be getting restless.
“You know that if I were able to, I wouldn’t hesitate, Professor, but—”
“The depa
rtment will soon have to evaluate the scholarship applications for the following semester,” Fontana said, cutting him short, emitting a puff of smoke.
“And you think that this activity could be considered an academic merit?” Daniel asked, immediately catching the hint.
“Even outside normal hours, no doubt about it.”
The horn honked again and the three professors were about to emerge from the revolving door.
“I’ll keep your car another night, then.”
Fontana’s large hand gave him a squeeze on the neck.
“Take good care of them, kid.”
He took one last deep puff, flung the cigarette to the pavement, and crossed the street, headed toward the Chevy.
Chapter 12
* * *
They drove around Pittsburgh aimlessly, Daniel behind the wheel of Fontana’s car, throwing fleeting glances at his watch. He had to find a way to keep the three Hispanists entertained in the Steel City no matter what, and there were only forty minutes left before his shift began. It started to snow.
For a copilot he had a Mexican professor, an expert on San Juan de la Cruz, with whom he chatted in English once in a while. Behind, wearing their coats and smoking like the possessed, were an elderly, unobtrusive Spaniard and another, younger one who got by in a confused linguistic hodgepodge that Daniel was barely able to decipher. It was too late to visit the Carnegie Museums, so Daniel passed by Pitt Stadium on the campus and crossed his fingers, but no luck: the Pittsburgh Panthers weren’t practicing that evening. He kept driving to the vicinity of Forbes Field, but the Steelers’ stadium was deserted too. He had thirty minutes left by the time they reached Loew’s Penn Theater and he suggested they go inside to see Elvis Presley in Love Me Tender. None of the three showed any interest. How about a visit to the Atlantic Grill on Liberty Avenue, local temple of German food? The silent elderly professor roared with laughter and proceeded to have a coughing fit. A drink at the bar of the Roosevelt Hotel? No response. Twenty minutes until clock-in, Daniel figured, looking at his watch again. It kept snowing. That damn scholarship.
“Listen, young man,” the Mexican finally said as they crossed one of the bridges over the Monongahela River for the third time. “We humble professors, whom you have the kindness to accompany this evening, come from New York. I teach at the Hispanic Institute at Columbia University, Professor Montero is professor emeritus at Brooklyn College, and young Professor Godoy has just begun teaching at Wagner College on Staten Island. We are all accustomed to restaurants, movie theaters, and sporting events. What we’d like this evening is something unique, something that can only be done in Pittsburgh, do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Daniel said, taking a sharp turn.
Finally he had an idea. Perhaps it was madness, but he had no other card to play.
The factory reduced its activity during the night, but didn’t stop it altogether. The first hurdle was the guard.
“Wait for me here, please.”
He left them smoking in the car with the heater running full blast. Confused and intrigued, they watched through the windows while he headed toward the security booth. What he said next did not reach the ears of the three professors. Fortunately.
“Good evening, Bill,” he greeted the guard, reading the tag that was pinned to his chest. He didn’t know them all by name but remembered seeing this one before and knew he wasn’t too bright.
“Good evening, kid,” Bill answered back without quite ungluing his eyes from the sports section of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
“My shift begins now,” Daniel said, showing his card, “but you wouldn’t believe what happened to me as I drove here.”
“A flat tire?”
“Far from it. I saved three lives.”
“You saved three lives?” Bill asked, setting his paper aside.
“Yes, sir, three lives. And perhaps even the future of this company.”
He pointed to the car, where the three Hispanists sat perplexed, puffing their Lucky Strikes. Daniel continued in a confidential tone.
“I have here with me three European representatives of the food and agriculture industry. They were coming on a business visit to the famous Heinz Company, but their rental car broke down shortly after leaving the airport and had to be left in a ditch. Their motor caught fire; they could have died.”
“My goodness . . .”
“But I happened to come across them by pure chance. And, thank goodness, even after the long delay, I’ve been able to drive them all the way here.”
The guard scratched his head apprehensively behind his left ear.
“I’m afraid they can’t come through now. At this time only employees have access.”
“I know, but they have to see the factory right now.”
“Why don’t they come tomorrow?”
“Because tomorrow is Sunday.”
“They can come Monday.”
“Impossible: they’re expected in Atlanta to see the Coca-Cola Company.”
Daniel himself was astonished by the ease with which the lies were flowing out of his mouth. All because of that damn scholarship.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, my friend . . .”
“Well, I wonder how you’re going to explain to the manager next week that these sales representatives returned to Europe ready to sell millions of gallons of Coca-Cola there and not one single product of ours.”
Once again the guard scratched his head.
“I may get myself into some trouble, right?”
“That’s what I think.”
Two minutes later they were all inside.
“Welcome to the heart of America, gentlemen,” Daniel then declared in a screeching Spanish, trying to sound triumphant.
“Excuse me?” the professor emeritus asked.
“What is the essence of the American way of life?” Daniel asked.
He’d gone back to his native language: he needed it for the operetta that he was about to enact. Hardly giving them time to weigh in with a reply, he automatically answered himself: “The hamburger, naturally!”
They walked along the corridors as Daniel continued talking nonsense, all the while wondering what the hell he was going to say next.
“And what is the key to a good hamburger? You think the meat, perhaps? No way. The roll? Nope. Not the lettuce or onion either. The key is the ketchup! And the ketchup’s secret lies right here. In Heinz!”
They’d reached the area where the bottles were filled, dark and deserted at that hour with all the machinery shrouded in a cemetery of silence. He searched for the light switches, flipping them all on until the fluorescent lights revealed the factory room’s immensity. Luckily the night manager was elsewhere. Pacing back and forth, he improvised explanations for each of those gigantic machines, since he was largely ignorant of their purpose, having been in that area of the factory only a couple of times. But in a desperate flight of imagination, on coming upon what he vaguely recalled as the labeling machine, he dramatized its task. Afterwards, when they’d reached the area of closing and sealing, he insisted that each of them put a handful of screw tops in their pockets. Working their way backward, they finally reached the vat that initiated the process of filling. Daniel, with a leap, climbed onto the platform and stuck a finger inside. Seconds later, it emerged red.
“Ketchup, gentlemen, the company’s prized product! Come and try it for yourselves!”
He held his hand out to the youngest of the professors who, still somewhat disconcerted, didn’t dare refuse.
“Go ahead, Professor!” he insisted, forcing him to stick his hand into the tank.
He then helped up the Mexican, who was a little more reticent. His right hand also went straight into the tank. The mature Professor Montero, in spite of their insistence, refused.
While they descend
ed the platform, Daniel again checked his watch. Time was running out and he had no idea as to what to do next. He then took them to the locker room and asked them to wait outside while he put on his sand-colored overalls, which all employees were required to wear. At the back could be heard the noise of the conveyor belts and the mechanical forklifts used to stack boxes on the trucks. Men’s voices were shouting out orders and there was an occasional loud laugh. Meanwhile the professors, incongruous in their long dark coats, ties, and hats, were still wondering what on earth they were doing there.
As Daniel was leaving the men’s locker room, three women were coming out of the women’s locker room.
“Hello, student,” two of them said in unison in a mocking tone. The third one slightly blushed on seeing him.
They were dressed in casual clothes and had makeup on, having just changed from their uniforms. The first was a tall brunette, the second a plump blonde, and the third, who had blushed, had chestnut-brown hair. The Mexican and young Spanish professor finally showed a spark of interest. The older gentleman coughed.
“What’s up, girls? Are you already going home?” Daniel greeted them.
“What else?” the blonde said, feigning annoyance. “Prince Charming’s not going to take us out dancing.”
He seized the opportunity at once.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce you to my friends Ruth-Ann, Gina, and Mary-Lou. The prettiest women on the entire North Side, and the manufacturing industry’s quickest canned-soup packers of all time. Girls, you have before you three wise men.”
He spoke at top speed, realizing that he had barely a few minutes left before he had to press the Stop button on the mechanical forklift stacking boxes. While they shook hands and exchanged names, he moved close to the blonde’s ear.
“Five bucks to each one of you if you show them the town for three hours,” he said in a whisper, surreptitiously handing Gina the keys to Fontana’s car. “And Thursday afternoon I’ll invite you to the movies.”