The Heart Has Its Reasons

by Maria Duenas

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “Aspirins, please.”

  Although he didn’t need them, he was hoping that, along with the painkiller, Gregorio would provide him with some clue regarding his young colleague. To Daniel’s disappointment, however, all he got was the small medicine parcel skillfully wrapped in paper.

  “Eight-fifty, just for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Daniel thought he was missing something. Perhaps the assistant was alluding in some way to seeing him the previous day. Or maybe making a joke about Daniel being a foreigner. Or, better yet, offering a cryptic message that might have to do with the absent girl. But he was mistaken. The assistant wasn’t dispensing any type of personal treatment but rather repeating for the umpteenth time what he thought was a witty remark. “Eight-fifty, sir. Very cheap. And for you, Doña Esperanza, the usual, right? Two boxes of laxative suppositories and Carabaña seltzer water.”

  While Daniel again discreetly slowed down the payment process, just as he’d done with the girl, he realized that the opportunity to ask for her whereabouts was slipping away from him. Now or never, he thought.

  “Is the young lady not in today?” he finally dared to ask, pointing to the back room.

  Loudly, as if Daniel were not only a foreigner but also deaf, the assistant declared to the four winds:

  “No! No! The young lady isn’t in today! She’s off shopping! The Three Wise Men: tonight the Kings come!”

  Intoning at the top of his lungs, “Here come the Three Wise Men, here come the Three Wise Men, on their way to Bethlehem . . .” He rang up the next sale while the radio in the background was announcing the third-prize number, which had just been pulled out of the lottery drum.

  For the rest of the morning Daniel wandered the streets in her pursuit, constantly changing course, sweeping his eyes past corners and over groups of friends, toward entrances to shops and café terraces. But the area of commercial activity was limited, and after making a couple of rounds Daniel realized it was already one thirty and the shops were preparing to close for the afternoon break.

  And then, finally, he saw her, as graceful as a reed, with her rebellious curls once more eluding the bobby pin that tried to hold them down at her nape, wrapped in a beige raincoat firmly belted around her narrow waist. She walked sheltered by two elegant-looking women who appeared to be twice her age and who seemed to be deep in conversation. Then she spotted him as well: the handsome American with the flu whom she’d attended on the previous day; the student who aspired to the extravagant profession of teaching Spanish literature at some university in his distant country.

  For the second time in his life the resolute Daniel Carter was at a loss about what to do. Fiercely independent from an early age, he had seen more of the world than many others in their entire existences; had been able to earn his keep working shoulder to shoulder with rough industrial workmen; had read all the Spanish classics; and had traversed countless dusty roads of that strange country, all on his own. Yet he was left totally disarmed as she approached.

  “I hope the medicines took effect.”

  He was never able to recall what he answered: perhaps some triviality plagued with grammatical and pronunciation mistakes. He realized that the encounter had come to an end only when he saw her back vanish in the crowd. He hadn’t learned anything about her, again losing her without even finding out her name. But the memory of her face and voice accompanied him throughout lunch, and not for a moment was he able to dispel her from his mind as he distractedly tried to read in the first hours of the afternoon, lying like a prisoner on his narrow pension bed, feeling fragile as never before, with nothing to do, nowhere to go, nor anyone to share what was burning within him.

  When he sensed that life once again filled the streets after the long break that Spanish families devote to the midday meal, he got ready to go out. He was still unaware that on that afternoon Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar, in their annual miracle, were about to arrive simultaneously in hundreds of villages and cities throughout the country.

  The unexpected merrymaking that Daniel encountered on the street astonished him—so much so that, for a few minutes, he was able to rid his mind of the young lady from the pharmacy and concentrate on the spectacle of the parade. He was fascinated by the children’s reactions and the sumptuous garb worn by the Three Wise Men and their retinue. His forgetfulness was short-lived, however, for chance willed her to emerge unexpectedly.

  They were on opposite sidewalks, almost directly facing each other as the procession passed between them, amid screams and applause. She was wearing the same raincoat as in the morning, now with a green scarf around her long neck. She laughed and spoke to someone by her side, suddenly shattering Daniel’s hopes. A young man with cropped hair and a tanned face, who smiled, nodding his head as she said something to him, holding on to his arm with familiarity. Possibly her boyfriend. Perhaps her husband. Probably military, a navy officer.

  Daniel’s interest in everything that surrounded him suddenly evaporated like a soap bubble. The kids applauding enthusiastically no longer seemed adorable creatures and changed into small yelling demons. The majestic attire of the Three Wise Men and their attendants suddenly seemed grotesquely ostentatious for that country in such need of other, more pressing things.

  He felt a sudden wave of heat, and thought his fever was spiking. Suffocating, he decided to leave, to return to the pension, to flee from that roaring commotion, which now was unbearable. But he was unable to do so with the speed he wished, because he realized that he was immobilized by the crush of people, trapped within the crowd that, ignorant of his dashed hopes, was still delighting in the procession. As he made an effort to escape, she spotted him from the opposite sidewalk and waved. She seemed sure of herself, cordial, and he replied awkwardly, copying her gesture while beaming a forced smile, hiding an immense wish that he had never showed up in that diabolical city. He was finally able to jostle his way through the crowd, but before disappearing he was unable to avoid turning around one last time in their direction. They were speaking to each other, and he had no doubt it was about him.

  Back in his room, the drums of the damn parade were still booming as he tried to read but was unable to concentrate. He remained lying there for what seemed an endless amount of time with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling. When he was finally able to analyze the situation calmly, he realized it had been absurd from the very start to think that she’d be accessible, and pure arrogance to have imagined that behind her friendliness, her smile, and her radiant eyes there was anything besides simple courtesy toward a lost foreigner.

  Once he half convinced himself that there had never been a glimmer of hope, he was finally able to resume more mundane activities and realized he had a wolfish appetite. Although the procession had ended a while ago, he was in no mood to go out onto the deserted streets, in which there would still be a sad vestige of the extinguished racket. He went down to the reception desk hoping that the woman who had succored him the night he had a fever would prepare him a sandwich. As Señora Antonia would say, “Bread lessens all sorrows”—a piece of wisdom from her boundless catalog of popular sayings. He would see if it was so.

  The clerk from the day of his arrival was there, again absorbed by his reading. This time he was riding across the Arizona desert, still not knowing if the judge would end up sentencing the cattle rustlers or not. Born for the Gallows, Daniel was able to read from the corner of his eye.

  “Interesting?” he asked for the hell of it, although deep down he couldn’t care less.

  “Bah. I liked Lead in the Chest much better. And The Coward’s Trail—no comparison. I have them here somewhere . . .” he said, momentarily disappearing beneath the counter. He presently resurfaced with a couple of well-worn little books in his hand. “If you want me to lend you one to pass the time, they�
��re not due back at the kiosk until tomorrow.”

  Daniel had seen many Westerns at the movies but had never read any in book form, not even those of his legendary countryman Zane Grey. It seemed silly to start with one written by a Spaniard; who knew what nonsense that could be?

  “So, are you going to take any, my friend?” the clerk insisted. “If you want the truth, they’re both worthwhile. And if you don’t like these, tomorrow I can bring you others, like The Coyote, since I’ve got a bunch that I’ve had for years. Those are about California, and the characters seem Spanish. I’m not sure if you—”

  “Thanks very much, but I’ve got my own books in my suitcase.”

  He was not lying—he had reading to do—but more serious stuff, more essential to his career: Spanish contemporary authors with whom he was beginning to get acquainted.

  “Well, it’s up to you, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re not going to find anything better than this. Come on, take one, man . . .”

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the anonymous angel who had come to his rescue during his fever. In slippers, in her fifties, and wearing a checkered apron.

  “Modesto, are you going to do the night shift today, or is your cousin Fulgencio finally going to show up?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Catalina; he hasn’t said anything to me yet.”

  “I need to know if I should start preparing dinner or wait a little longer. I’ve got noodle soup and marinated mackerel. Would you like me to bring you a plate up to your room, son?” she said, addressing Daniel, who was still leaning on the counter. “The evening is getting ugly; this way you won’t have to go out on the street again. And it’ll do you good: you look awfully skinny. Even with that fever you’ve had, you don’t stay still for a minute, and you may end up having a relapse. I’ll set some of ours aside for you, because where two eat, three can eat as well.”

  “Wait, Catalina, he still has to choose a novel. Which one will it be, my friend?”

  Lead in the Chest was the price he had to pay for dinner.

  He had thought he’d spend the following day in search of information that would open his eyes to Sender’s sources when writing his novel. Before going to bed he’d gone over his notes regarding places and characters. But suddenly all of that no longer seemed to interest him, and although he had made a firm commitment to his work, he also decided that, if things remained this gloomy, he would return to Madrid the following day.

  About to fall asleep, he added one more resolution to his list: not to evoke the memory of the young lady at the pharmacy. Thinking it over carefully, she was not worth all the fuss. Her strides seemed overly energetic, her very presence somewhat overwhelming for a medium-size woman of her age. And that hair of hers, so wild, seemed a bit too flashy in comparison with the well-combed dark hair that Spanish women usually had. Prettier women had crossed his path and would in the future, he told himself; women who were more accessible, less distant. It was settled, and he fell asleep. But half an hour later, he was dreaming that he was sinking his fingers into the curls at her neck and, drawing her close to him, kissing her wide sweet mouth.

  • • •

  The next day dawned with pouring rain and it didn’t let up until evening. A dark, sad day, with a leaden sky, empty streets, and shut-down shops. Far from being discouraged, he took to the street carrying an umbrella with two missing ribs that Catalina had lent him and a well-worn copy of Mister Witt en el Canton still covered in newspaper to avoid parading the name of the exiled author in plain sight. His vague objective was to discover some clue to what could have inspired Sender to create the character of the old English engineer that the writer placed in the revolutionary Cartagena of the First Spanish Republic. But there was no one around who could give him any reliable information on that day of gift giving and family gatherings. Moreover, the public library was closed.

  The only one who seemed to shed any light on the subject was an elderly customer who looked like he’d had a few too many. In a tavern on the Calle Cuatro Santos, he explained to Daniel that Sender was a rotten Red and that his name was not mentioned in that country of peace and order that the Caudillo had brought about. To round off his discourse, he stood up unsteadily and delivered a resounding “Long live Spain!” The clicking of heels that accompanied so patriotic a salute would have sent him falling backward had Daniel not caught him.

  He returned to the pension drenched and in a mood as black as the day itself. He let the afternoon roll by absorbed in another brainy contemplation of the spots on the ceiling and then started to write a letter to Professor Fontana that didn’t go beyond the salutation. Toward seven o’clock he went down to the reception desk to take a look at the local paper. A notice announced that that evening The Prince and the Showgirl was being released in the Central Cinema in CinemaScope and Technicolor. If he hurried, he’d make it to the seven-thirty showing. It might distract him a little, even if it meant listening to Marilyn Monroe and Laurence Olivier flirting in Spanish.

  He started packing as soon as he got back to the hotel, deciding to head back to Madrid the following day even though he hadn’t found one single interesting piece of information for his work and still had the image of the pharmacy girl fresh in his mind despite his effort to purge his mind of her. To compensate for the former, he’d have a chance to consult other resources at the National Library. The latter he’d dispel in time.

  In order to avoid contingencies similar to those encountered on the outbound trip, at the station he purchased a first-class return ticket. There would be plenty of time to mingle with the true essence of Spain; as of now, all that mattered to him was getting out of there, the sooner the better.

  He chose not to board the train before the appointed time, devoting himself to watching the hustle and bustle of people and belongings as he sat on a platform bench. There was not a trace of the previous day’s rain, and he found himself savoring the last feel of the Mediterranean sun on his skin, as he had no intention of returning to that place.

  He liked train stations and their routines; it amused him to speculate on the lives of travelers and their destinations, the reasons for their comings and goings. Some of the Spanish customs he found a bit excessive, like that tendency to take several family generations along to say good-bye to or greet some of their members.

  He watched with rising spirits before his imminent departure while behind him, from the canteen’s open door, amid the early-morning clinking of plates and glasses, the radio was playing. The lilting rhythm penetrated his bones, and without his realizing it his foot was soon tapping out the beat. He realized how in no time this city would be pushed to the far reaches of his memory and the only thing remaining would be the faint images of a literary figure whose face he had never found and a woman whose name he was unable to learn. An elegant middle-aged couple, a distinguished-looking old lady, and three young people hurried onto the platform, loaded with luggage. Instinctively, he opened one of the newspapers he’d just bought and took refuge behind it while beyond its right edge he continued to watch them.

  They were all accompanying a young lady with straw-colored hair who was evidently traveling to Madrid after the Christmas holiday. Later he would find out that it was to finish the last year of her pharmaceutical studies. He saw them exchange kisses and hugs, which intensified when it came to the brother, a young air force lieutenant with cropped hair and a tanned face.

  He waited until the last second to hop onto the coach. Through the window he could see how the family—huddled together and already feeling her absence as they continued to wave at the train—diminished in the distance.

  The girl, meanwhile, made an effort to contain a stubborn tear that was threatening to fall and concentrated on organizing her luggage. A large suitcase, a traveling bag, her blue coat . . .

  “May I help you?” she heard behind her back.

  Once more sh
e received him with a glorious smile and those gray eyes that sparkled like the sea before her balcony on winter mornings. He finally learned the six letters of her name.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  I had always enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen, putting new twists on traditional recipes. Any excuse or minor event had been a good reason to sit family and friends around the table to celebrate. The end of the school year, an anniversary, my sons’ smallest successes, or simply a Friday night. Sometimes these were noisy meals with crisscrossing conversations and eternal after-dinner talk. Other times they were small gatherings with wine and candles until the wee hours, bringing the feeling that the world had come to a standstill beneath one’s feet.

  But everything was different now that my age-old friends were at the other end of the world and my family had disintegrated. The only event I could celebrate was that the calendar had just certified I was a year older.

  A sad perspective that, properly looked at, might be a good incentive to settle into my new life, one that I had not chosen, full of absences and uncertainties. Suddenly, from one day to the next, I had had to reinvent myself and begin feebly muddling through, like a child learning to walk, except that I already had four and a half decades behind me. At an age when I should have reached a serene maturity, safe and secure in what I had achieved, I instead felt vulnerable, disillusioned, without expectations, and with my self-esteem in tatters.

  Toward noon I went in search of food supplies. I needed eggs, potatoes, garlic, tomatoes for the gazpacho, and peaches for the sangria. The Cantabrian anchovies, a few wedges of aged Manchego cheese, and some other delicacies I’d purchased a few days earlier at the price of gold. What I still lacked were the basics, for which I chose the G&G behind the square rather than the more exclusive Meli’s Market.