by Maria Duenas
The waiter appeared with my coffee and refilled Daniel’s mug.
“Spanish writers from the end of the century, that’s what I’m up to: the last twenty-five years of your literature. Those who came before and those who appeared during that period. Although I imagine you haven’t come to see me to talk about the whole gang, which I’m sure you know as well as I do.”
“That’s correct,” I said as I tore open a sugar packet. “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
He looked at me with eyes that had read and lived a great deal before that gray afternoon.
“About Andres Fontana, I imagine.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“Is his legacy getting a bit complicated?”
“You can’t imagine how much.”
I answered with my eyes concentrated on the coffee’s blackness. Unaware I was speaking in a hush. As if I were discussing the intimate problems of someone close instead of discussing a work-related matter. As if my entire assignment had suddenly turned into something personal.
“I’m here to help you with whatever you may need, Blanca, as I said.”
“This is why I’ve come. By the way, do you know that I found a postcard of yours the other day among his things?”
“I can’t believe it!” he said, laughing out loud.
“New Year’s Eve, 1958. You were announcing your departure from Madrid to someplace or other in search of Mr. Witt.”
“Oh my God . . .” he whispered while smiling with a trace of nostalgia. “That was my first Christmas in Spain, when I was still researching my dissertation. It was he who suggested that I work on Sender. Who would have guessed: that changed my life for good. Anyhow, I don’t wish to entertain you with melancholy stories from way back when. Tell me, what kind of difficulties is my dear old professor getting you into now?”
I demurred before choosing the appropriate words, taking my time while stirring in the sugar. It wasn’t altogether clear to me how best to express what I wanted from him.
“I’m done classifying by decades until the fifties and now I’m beginning with the texts of the California period, the sixties,” I finally said. “They’re interesting but very different from the previous.”
“Less literary, I take it.”
“That’s right. They no longer focus mainly on authors or on literary criticism, as had been the case up to then, although there are always notes on the subject. In general they’re more historical, more Californian, less familiar; that’s why I’m having a harder time classifying them. Besides, the dates are mixed up, and occasionally I’m at a loss because I have the feeling that information is missing.”
“And what you want to know is if I know whether something is actually missing.”
“That’s correct. And since we’re at it, out of mere personal curiosity, I’d also like you to explain, if you have any idea, that sudden turn in his career. Why did literature all but cease to interest him, and why did he instead plunge into the history of California, something that was basically alien to him and his academic interests?”
He took his time to reply, pondering the question with his big hands wrapped around the mug.
“Question number one, whether there is information missing or if I know what could have happened to whatever you believe to be missing, has a simple answer: I haven’t got the foggiest clue. I left Santa Cecilia shortly after his death, and as far as I’m aware, all his documents remained in the university without anyone touching them until your arrival. In fact, even I didn’t get to see them outside his office.”
“How long did you live here?” I asked point-blank, perhaps a little indiscreetly. Daniel Carter’s private life had nothing to do with my work on Fontana or his affairs, but I suddenly felt an urge to know.
“About two and half years: less than six semesters.”
“How long ago?”
“I left in ’69, so that . . .” He performed a quick mental operation and added, “God, thirty years ago! Unbelievable!”
Reclining in his leather chair in his navy-blue sweater, with his long legs crossed and his left elbow on the armrest, he seemed completely comfortable, like someone who after so much coming and going in life is capable of being at ease anywhere.
“As for your second question, regarding the sudden turn in his research interests, the truth is that my answer is only a tentative one, because after so long my memories are somewhat vague. But I think he fell in love with the history of California from the very moment he settled here and that’s probably why you noticed a change in his output. He discovered a connection between this land and Spain, and that—don’t ask me why—fascinated him.”
“And why did he come here? Why did he leave Pittsburgh?”
I too had made myself comfortable, thanks to the coziness of the café or the revitalizing coffee. Or Daniel’s natural ability to make me feel at ease around him.
“All of us who knew him were surprised that, after spending so many years in a big urban campus such as Pitt’s, he would decide to move to this small city at the other end of the country. But he had his reasons. First, he was offered the quite tempting position of department chairman. Secondly, he’d just gotten divorced, ending a relationship that had left a bitter taste in his mouth, so I imagine he wanted to get away from there.”
I was surprised, not having seen any reference to marriage or divorce among his papers. And I told him so.
“It was a short marriage to a Hungarian biology professor. I hardly met her, but I know they were together on and off for a few years, mutually torturing each other, until they decided to get married. By then I was no longer at Pitt, but according to what he told me sometime later and without going into detail, a few months into the marriage they both realized it had been a mistake.”
I would have liked to learn a little more about that, but he didn’t seem to have any additional information.
“And although he didn’t tell anyone,” Daniel continued, “perhaps the main reason he decided on a change of scenery was because his health was starting to decline. In appearance he was strong and robust; his students often called him the Spanish bull. But his lungs were damaged. He was a chain-smoker, and the relentless winters and smoke from the Pittsburgh factories further ruined his health. So he decided to move, settle somewhere quiet with a moderate climate and less pollution. That’s how he ended up in Santa Cecilia.”
“And you followed him . . .”
Once again I realized my indiscretion too late, although it didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“No, no, not at all,” he said, changing his posture. “I came years later; before that I was in a few other places. In time an interesting position opened in this department, he offered it to me, and that’s how I landed here—although where I really wanted to go was to Berkeley. I thought this would only be a nearby, transitory stop.”
“Did you manage to make it to Berkeley in the end?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, everything took a turn that no one had anticipated . . . To make a long story short, the result is that I never did become a professor at Berkeley, and Andres Fontana died a little over two years after my arrival in Santa Cecilia.”
“Was he that sick?”
“Not at all. In fact, he felt much better here.”
“Then . . .”
“He died in an accident.” He took a sip of coffee before resuming his narrative. “Driving his own car, the old Oldsmobile that he had had for the longest time.”
That end had never crossed my mind; unconsciously, I’d thought his life had extinguished itself from natural causes, the wear and tear of age.
I wanted to continue asking Daniel questions: he seemed open to answering without reserve. What he was offering me were broad brushstrokes of Fontana’s life, but I found them valuable. I regretted not having come to him ea
rlier: I would have saved myself hours of doubt and a headache or two.
The noise coming from the street suddenly diverted our attention and we both focused on what was happening on the other side of the coffee shop window. The young man with the Rastafarian hair and the large drum, like an alternative Pied Piper of Hamelin, started the demonstration. Behind him was a crowd made up of students holding signs and megaphones, young couples with baby carriages, professors and middle-aged citizens, schoolkids with colored balloons, and the energetic old ladies selling T-shirts and yelling like truck drivers.
“Should we get going?” he said, starting to pick up his books.
I put my raincoat back on as he finished gathering his things, leaving several dollars on the table without waiting for the waiter to bring the bill. Then he jotted down something quickly on a napkin.
“In case you still need me,” he said, and handed it to me.
While I was putting the two phone numbers—cell and home, I figured—in a pocket, he slung his heavy backpack over his shoulder and I did the same with my bag.
“Thanks a million for clarifying a few things,” I said as we left.
“On the contrary, Blanca, you’re doing me a favor. I like to reminisce about my old friend, to talk about him again. It’s healthy to unburden oneself of memories and make peace with all that has been left behind.”
The afternoon’s weather was getting bleaker; no sooner had we set foot on the street than I closed my raincoat, crossing my arms firmly against my chest, and Daniel pulled up the collar of his overcoat. The wind stirred our hair.
“You know,” he added, a half smile visible amid his light-colored beard, “had he lived, Andres Fontana would no doubt have been at this protest. He was always against any meddling. I told you that he often took long walks in Los Pinitos, right? Especially in the last couple of months, when he still had no idea how little time he had left.”
He then passed an arm around my shoulders, partly protecting me from the tumult and partly pulling me toward him. A couple of seconds later we were in the midst of the protest. In between yells, songs, slogans, and the booming of the drum, Daniel had to shout for me to hear him.
“He was fond of saying, half-serious, half-joking, that he walked there in search of the truth.”
Chapter 16
* * *
Toward the middle of November my birthday approached and with it a handful of electronic greetings from family and friends. Along with their best wishes, most asked in passing when was I planning on coming back, but I was not forthcoming with dates because I didn’t even know myself. My fellowship did not stipulate a precise end date, stating instead that I had three to four months to complete the assigned task. I still had work ahead of me, and for the time being had no intention whatsoever of returning.
Being a year older is not the most encouraging thing that can happen to someone whose husband has just left her for a younger woman. Nor did it raise my spirits that I lived far from my sons or that I received insistent calls from my sister every four or five days furiously goading me on to sabotage my ex-husband on his road to happiness. Nevertheless, I decided to celebrate the date, perhaps to prove to myself that life, in spite of it all, went on.
No one in Santa Cecilia knew it was my birthday. Perhaps because of this, and in an attempt to make the day special and add some color to my life, I decided to throw a party—a Spanish party for my recently made American friends, who had opened the doors to their homes and offered me their time and affection. A party in which none of the typical travel-guide Spanish ingredients would be missing; a wink perhaps to the long-past National Hispanic Heritage Month debate. I’d serve potato omelets, gazpacho, sangria, olives. I decided, however, to keep the reason for the gathering secret.
I ran off some invitations on the old office printer, which most of the time functioned capriciously. I distributed them among the department’s mailboxes and handed out another batch to my students. I hadn’t given everyone much notice, but that’s just how it had worked out. Unexpectedly, unforeseen. Just like everything else lately.
Once people had confirmed, I calculated that there would be more than thirty of us, between those invited and their respective partners. Luis Zarate accepted from the very start, as did several other colleagues. Rebecca would be there, of course. Daniel Carter would come by if he managed to make it on time: the night of the party, he’d be returning from a conference in Phoenix, he’d told me over the phone. And most of my students wouldn’t let me down either.
After initially hesitating, I finally decided to invite Fanny as well, but she refused, claiming that she always dined with her church members on Saturdays. I’d gotten used to her strange personality and we managed to get along well, even with affection. I was no longer taken aback by her small eccentricities and her messy way of doing things; time had turned her into a close presence, almost dear. Not exactly into a friend, but someone special.
“Is there anything I can help you with or lend you?” Rebecca offered when I told her of my plans.
Before I could reply, she assumed the answer was yes and started to reel off the essential supplies to convert my 450-square-foot apartment into a decent place for a party.
“Let me think . . . I’ve got a collapsible table and folding chairs for when I have a crowd at my place. I can also lend you cooking utensils if you need them and, if you want, a large tablecloth, glasses, and cutlery . . .”
I had no other choice than to cut short her overwhelming generosity, otherwise my tiny space would be so packed with stuff that the guests wouldn’t fit. I accepted the table, a few chairs, and a couple of other odds and ends. The rest would be disposable.
“When I’m done Friday afternoon, I’ll wait for you and we can stop at my place first, load the car, and take it all to your apartment. I have to go to Oakland on Saturday morning and most likely will only return just in time for the party, so it’s better if we get it all ready the day before.”
• • •
At a little after five, we pulled up in front of Rebecca’s house. There was a lush garden and pool at the back, and a big hairy gray-and-white dog of dubious pedigree and with a preference for pizza crusts, she told me. His name was Macan and he was as genial as his owner. He just showed up one day ten years ago; Rebecca said her daughters found him tied to the rear wheel of one of their bikes. They put up posters in the area, but no one ever claimed him.
There were still indelible marks of the inhabitants who had passed through the house: skates and bicycles in the garage, raincoats on the clothes rack behind the door. Rebecca had three children and five grandchildren, none of whom lived nearby. However, the house didn’t look like that of a mature, independent woman but more like one whose family members had just gone out to the movies or on a brief errand. Not a typical empty nest but rather a refuge to which they could all return at any moment and feel as if they’d never left.
“Let’s begin in the kitchen,” she proposed.
The room had a large window overlooking the garden and a wooden island with burners at its center, above which, suspended from an iron frame, hung pots, pans, and clusters of dried herbs. Rebecca’s efficiency evidently went beyond the office: everything was in its place, the jars labeled, the calendar on the wall with neatly written annotations, and some recently cut flowers in a vase on the counter.
“This is for the gazpacho,” she said, taking out an enormous electric contraption with a glass jar attached to it.
I said that a simple blender would do just fine, but apparently she didn’t have one.
“And this is for the sangria. Pablo Gonzalez, the Colombian professor, brought it back for me from Spain some years ago,” she announced, raising a large earthenware pitcher with a spout at the bottom. “Now let’s go to the basement to fetch the chairs.”
We descended to a large open room where household goods and odds and ends
were neatly stacked. In the center was a ping-pong table, and along the walls were cardboard boxes labeled with the names of their owners and their contents; posters of bygone singers; hundreds of vinyl records; and loads of photographs, pennants, and diplomas affixed to an enormous corkboard. A junk dealer’s paradise, with the order of a military parade.
While Rebecca located the folding chairs, I was unable to resist the temptation to take a look at the photos. Picnics on the beach, kids’ parties, prom dances, toddlers who were now parents, and grandparents who were only alive in the memories of their descendants.
“Well, we’re done,” Rebecca announced as soon as she’d finished stacking a few chairs next to the stairs. She came over to where I was looking at the photos. “They’re ancient,” she said, smiling.
Just as she’d shown me the picture of Andres Fontana in the department’s conference room shortly after my arrival, now she pointed out who was who in her large family. For each image she had a reminiscence, an anecdote.
“This was a Fourth of July on the beach; in the end we got caught in a huge storm that ruined our fireworks. Here we are on an excursion to Angel Island, in the bay. That day my son, Jimmy, ended up falling off his skateboard and wound up with a gash in his head. He had to have seven stitches.”
She continued traveling in time as she went through the photos, until she came to one with a group of young adults.
“My God, what a sight! So many years ago! It’s been a while since I’ve looked at this one. Let’s see if you can recognize anyone,” she challenged me.
I looked at the snapshot carefully. Four people in the open air, two men at the sides, two women in the middle. All leaning against a large red car covered in dust. In the background, a desert landscape and what looked like Mexican houses. In the distance, the sea. The first one on the left was a dark-haired man with a wide band around his head. Very skinny, with a flowered shirt and a beer in an extended hand, as if toasting the photographer. Next to him, a short girl, all smiles, with her hands stuffed in her shorts pockets, two braids, and a yellow shirt with the word PEACE emblazoned across it. The third figure was a young woman, slender and pretty. Her large mouth seemed to have been captured just as she burst out laughing. She was wearing countless colored necklaces and a long white dress that reached almost to her bare feet. Next to her, a tall man wearing a faded shirt and ragged jeans completed the group. One could hardly make out his face, which was hidden behind a mane of blond hair that reached his shoulders, a thick beard, and sunglasses. It looked like summer, and they were tanned, oozing happiness.