The Heart Has Its Reasons

by Maria Duenas

“As I said, whenever you want to.”

  My answer was sincere: I wasn’t averse to the idea of going out to dinner with him. There were always a lot of things to talk about, and after displaying his more human and less formal side at my party, he’d scored some points on my likability scale.

  “Thanksgiving is coming up; would you prefer before or after?”

  “I’ve got no plans. Whenever it suits you best.”

  “My mother summons me to Concord to celebrate family holidays, a duty of being an only child. Before that I have a couple of pending engagements. Perhaps it would be best to leave it to my return.”

  I was going to answer that it really didn’t seem that complicated, but I held back. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was interrupted, for three women arrived at that moment, professors from the Modern Languages Department, whose offices were on another floor and with whom I’d hardly had any contact. One was Lisa Gersen, who was commonly thought to be Zarate’s girlfriend, a thirty-something with ivory skin who always had her hair back in a tight bun and wore heels to work. The other ones were colleagues who, like Lisa, taught German.

  I moved aside, imagining they had an appointment with the ­chairman.

  “We’ll be in touch,” I said to Luis in parting.

  As I motioned to leave, they protested, insisting, “There’s no need for you to go; we can wait.”

  Luis stood and looked at his watch.

  “Perfect. So we can settle on a date for our meeting.”

  Although he was speaking in Spanish, Luis clearly preferred not to mention the word “dinner.” “Our meeting” was what he said. Perhaps casually or perhaps to deflect the attention of someone who had been or still was emotionally close to him. The last thing I needed was to interfere in a relationship, I thought, when I was still recovering from my own romantic debacle.

  I didn’t even stop to check on the functioning of my new printer or to mull over why Luis Zarate had preferred not to call a dinner by its name. I had something urgent to do: return to the book on California that Daniel Carter had brought me in an innocent bag as if it were simply another piece of reading material. The book that had awakened my need to know.

  Half an hour later I had decamped to the library. There, in a remote corner of the fourth floor, alone and isolated from noise, I began delving through various sources to find the geographic and historical underpinnings of what had happened in that territory called California, which nowadays spreads across two nations.

  I spent the following day as well buried in the library. I found moving passages and hundreds of facts that enabled me to begin piecing together a vast picture of my countrymen’s involvement in the creation of California and to envision how the writings of Andres Fontana fit within this larger scope. I hardly spoke to anyone during the two days that I remained sequestered. I simply advised Rebecca of my whereabouts and dove into my research like someone looking for scattered treasure at the bottom of the sea. Around one o’clock on the second day, I paused in my work to get something quick to eat.

  Entering the campus cafeteria alive with the commotion of students, professors, rattling plates and cutlery, and the smell of not-too-tempting food, I spotted Daniel Carter from a distance. With his light-colored hair, his height, and his relaxed appearance, it was always easy to spot him in a crowd. He was having a lively conversation with a couple of professors, and they seemed to have finished their lunch. I could hear a couple of guffaws in the distance. I figured he hadn’t noticed me.

  I chose a chicken burrito and a Coke, waited on line to pay, and ensconced myself in a corner with the university’s paper for company. Upon my third bite of the burrito, the chair opposite me suddenly ceased to be empty.

  “What a great surprise to find you here, Professor Perea. I’d already given you up for missing.”

  “It’s your own fault.”

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  “Your book made me want to know more about California. By the way, I should have tracked you down earlier to thank you: forgive me.”

  “You already did so the other day at ten to four in the morning. Or am I starting to dream about you?”

  As I slowly got to know him, I also began to get used to his natural way of going about life, the affectionate way in which he treated everyone and everyone who knew him treated him. He flirted with the waitresses, the uglier and fatter the better. He’d hug his friends without reserve, would look at things through the lens of irony, and made everything around him seem easy.

  I’d only seen him tense with a couple of people, coincidentally the same day. With Zarate, at the National Hispanic Heritage Month debate. And with Fanny’s mother a little while later. I never knew the reasons for those lapses in understanding, and in truth I didn’t care. I was more interested in being able to continue to count on him to help me see the light in his old professor’s accomplishments.

  “You didn’t dream it, but you did manage to deprive me of sleep. And force me to lock myself up like a recluse in the library.”

  “You can’t imagine how happy I am,” he said, pinching off a bit of my burrito.

  “But you just had lunch . . .” I protested.

  “You made a better choice than I did today; my goulash was lousy. Tell me more: what have you been up to?”

  “Everything is much clearer now. I’m starting to realize how he gradually became fascinated by the story of the Spaniards in this country, how he became personally drawn into it all, and that’s why he made an about-turn in his line of research and grew increasingly passionate about the old California. And I’m beginning to have a clearer idea about what that world was like.”

  “So where exactly are you, then?”

  “I am working with documents pertaining to the last Franciscan missions toward the end of the Hispanic California period. A few years before it briefly became independent and then became part of the United States.”

  “The story of the missions is quite fascinating, although it has taken me years to admit it. I remember that when Fontana was busy investigating them I found it a boring subject.”

  “Why?”

  “Because back then I was a complete ignoramus, even though I thought I was brilliant. I didn’t understand how some simple adobe constructions, a handful of shabby priests, and a bunch of Indians whose names, languages, and principles had been altered could have aroused the interest of a scholar of his standing. And even though he’d often try to, he was unable to convince me.” He broke off another piece of my burrito. “The last, I promise.”

  The cafeteria had slowly emptied; there were only three or four tables still occupied. The background noise had diminished and there was only a casual good-bye here and there and the distant clatter of plates.

  “Perhaps he got tired of doing the same thing for decades,” I suggested. “Perhaps he needed new perspectives in his lines of research. And in these missions, so distant in their geography while at the same time so near to his own culture, he may have found something vital.”

  “You’re probably right. But tell me something, just out of curiosity: Have you found any reference to a so-called Mission Olvido?”

  “In the material I’m studying in the library now?”

  He shook his head.

  “In Fontana’s papers.”

  “No, but I still have a lot to sift through. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I remember that he mentioned that name several times toward the end of his life. I imagine you’ll come across it if indeed there is something.”

  We left the cafeteria still talking, and after saying good-bye we each went back to our duties. I returned to the library wondering about the mission he had mentioned and how it related to the twenty-one missions erected by the Spanish Franciscans along that extensive route in western California known as the Camino Real. I’d become familiar with ma
ny of them over the past couple of days—San Diego de Alcala, San Luis Rey de Francia, San Buenaventura, La Purisima Concepcion, Santa Ines, Nuestra Señora de la Soledad—and their stories of courageous friars, violent soldiers, rebellious and devout Indians, ambitious kings commissioning expeditions to unknown territory, and an old Spain anxious to extend its boundaries ad infinitum, without foreseeing the fleeting nature of its conquests. But I had never come across any reference to a Mission Olvido, of that I was sure. I filed that piece of information in the Missions folder of my memory for future investigation. I eagerly pushed open the door to the library and walked into my very own carpeted paradise, where all the available knowledge that I needed awaited me.

  Midmorning the following day I received an unexpected visit from Fanny, who was agitated and nervous. Small drops of sweat rolled down her temples, and she sighed with relief on seeing me.

  “I finally found you, Professor.”

  It really wasn’t easy to find me in that remote corner of the fourth floor of the library, an area almost always deserted. The great majority of students would congregate on the main floor, in the most accessible areas and in front of the computers.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

  “Nothing, thank God. It’s just that I’ve been looking around for a while and couldn’t find you. Mrs. Cullen sent me. This is for you.”

  She handed me a cream-colored envelope with my name on it. Inside was a handwritten note from Rebecca in which she invited me to share Thanksgiving dinner with her and her family. An elegant move done with particular tact so as not to propose something unexpectedly in person that I might not feel like participating in.

  Thanksgiving Day didn’t really mean much to me, given that it was a celebration alien to my culture and to my personal inventory of nostalgic holidays. I could have just as well passed the day alone in my apartment, reading a book or seeing a movie without feeling alone or missing my children, the turkey, or the pumpkin pie. But I knew that for Americans it was an important day, so I was comforted to know that Rebecca had invited me.

  “Give my thanks to Mrs. Cullen, please, Fanny. Tell her I’m delighted to accept and I’ll stop by to see her as soon as I can.”

  “Okay,” she whispered in a soft voice.

  She had begun to move to and fro like a rocking chair, with her feet glued to the floor, her hands held together behind her back, and her gaze lowered in concentration. Her attention was no longer focused on my words; the “Okay” that she’d just finished uttering would have served to answer anything. Her eyes, meanwhile, wandered across the table, which was covered with books, maps, and various documents I was working with.

  Finally her gaze sought mine.

  “Aren’t you working on Professor Fontana’s legacy anymore, Professor Perea?”

  She asked the question timidly, almost embarrassed, as though she might be invading my privacy.

  “Yes, Fanny, of course I’m still working on that, although I’m coming closer to finishing with the processing part. But before continuing, I needed to do research on some things, which is why I’m here. It won’t take me too long, I’m almost done. In a couple of days I’ll be back at my office and will continue working there. We’ll get to see each other often.”

  She nodded while continuing to rock back and forth. Her straight hair, held to one side with a child’s clip in the shape of a pink cloud, moved rhythmically as she once again focused her fishlike gaze on my research material. Three open books and a few that were closed. A bunch of photocopies. Two extended maps. Several sheets of paper covered with notes.

  “He also worked like this,” she finally said, pointing to it all with her finger. “Like you, with lots of papers and maps on top of the table, always writing a lot. He used his fountain pen and a typewriter. He didn’t really like to type much, so Mother did it for him sometimes. Mother could type fast. Very fast. But she didn’t like transcribing the papers in Spanish, because she could not understand them. Only in English. But he preferred to write in Spanish. And to speak in Spanish. Uncle Andres was a good man. Very good. He always gave me presents. Shoes, clothes. And dolls. He would take us in his car. And he would buy me ice cream and shakes. Especially strawberry.”

  It took me a moment for her words to sink in, to be able to accept that the Fontana of my sleepless nights and that Uncle Andres, whose name she pronounced so differently, were one and the same. I was surprised to hear that Fanny and the professor had had such a close relationship. She kept talking without looking at me, and although her eyes still seemed fixed on the table, in fact they were wandering through the past.

  I didn’t interrupt her; I don’t think she would have heard me.

  “He once took us to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, next to the sea. It’s very old, the oldest amusement park in California. Some of the rides were lots of fun. Lots of fun. And other ones were dangerous. Very dangerous. I rode in practically all of them. The one I liked best was the roller coaster. He got on with me and held my hand tight so I wouldn’t be scared. Mother stayed on the ground. It was a wonderful day.”

  The half smile on her wistful face suddenly disappeared.

  “I was very sad when he died. I was asleep. Mrs. Walker, the neighbor, woke me up. Mother was no longer in the house; she’d left in the middle of the night. I didn’t like being with Mrs. Walker: she called me stupid and other nasty things. Uncle Andres never bawled me out; he always said to me ‘Very good, Fanny!’ or ‘Well done, Fanny!’ He’s also like that with me. He never says anything mean to me, or disagreeable. Only nice things.”

  I blinked, surprised. I’d lost the thread and I didn’t know who she was referring to now. I could see she was making an effort to scrutinize her mind, chipping away at memories and sensations while she rocked to and fro. Her gaze remained vacant and the words kept flowing out of her mouth artlessly, but with a certain delicacy.

  “He’s like Uncle Andres but different. I don’t see either one of them, but I know they’re there. They’re both good with me. He also says to me, ‘Come on, Fanny! You can do it, Fanny. Good girl, Fanny.’ ”

  Then it all made sense. I remembered the stickers on her car, the messages on her office wall. I knew who He was, that other being who treated her with the same love that Andres Fontana had. She was speaking of God, that personal God that she had molded to her specifications to shine into the dark corners of her life.

  “Mother doesn’t like that I speak so much of Him,” she carried on in her monotone. “I think it’s because she knows that He is not going to give her anything of what she wants. Of what Uncle Andres gave her when I was little—not afterwards. Presents, car rides. Sometimes he even lent the car to her so that she could drive it without him. I’d sit by her side and she would speed, speed, speed. She liked driving a lot, but we didn’t have a car because father took it when he left us and we could not afford to buy another one; that’s why Mother would sometimes drive Uncle Andres’s car. I like driving too. After the accident his car was totaled. Mother wanted to keep it, but it couldn’t be fixed. It was ruined.”

  Her monologue was interrupted by the arrival of a couple of female students in sweatsuits. Carefree and tanned. They chatted and laughed, ignoring us, their blond ponytails bobbing. The fact that they were unable to find the book they were looking for seemed extremely funny to them. Their frivolous talk brought Fanny back to reality.

  “I think I have to go; it’s late now,” she announced, bringing her watch up close to her eyes. “I’ll tell Mrs. Cullen that you’ll go see her as soon as you can.”

  I watched her walk away with her clumsy gait while I grabbed a felt pen to continue with my work. But I wasn’t even able to uncap it because Fontana and Fanny still hovered in my mind. Fontana and Fanny, Fontana and Darla Stern—unexpected connections that suddenly came to me. I was unaware that mother and daughter had had a close relationship w
ith him, but it didn’t seem so far-fetched. Fontana had been the department chairman and Darla his secretary; Fanny, then a somewhat clumsy fatherless girl, had likely elicited tenderness from those around her.

  Time had reassembled things. He was absent now; they were still here. He was dead, but they were alive and with him in memory—at least, Fanny was. But perhaps Darla was too.

  I forced myself to resume my task and once again pored over the map of the old missions. From Santa Barbara to Santa Ines, from Santa Ines to La Purisima Concepcion. The afternoon advanced into evening, the setting sun visible behind the windowpane. The image of the Spanish professor and the girl Fanny on a roller coaster remained, hovering before me, keeping me company like a little spider hanging from a nearly invisible thread.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  The following morning I returned to Guevara Hall to see Rebecca, who received me warmly as usual, serving me some tea. She worked with soft background music and freshly cut flowers by the window, making me envious. Despite planning to do so at the beginning of each semester, I never managed to have a teapot or CD player in my office. Not even a simple bouquet of daisies or an old transistor radio. The furthest I’d gone was a couple of pots of plants that ended up drying out on me during the holidays.

  “My kids and grandchildren will be there, as usual. I prepare the turkey according to my maternal grandmother’s recipe, and after dinner the boys will watch the football game on TV and the girls will clean up, as tradition demands,” she said with an ironic wink.

  “I’d be delighted to spend such a special day with all of you.”

  She fell silent for a couple of seconds, as if hesitating about sharing something else.

  “Daniel Carter will also be coming.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And . . . and someone else.”

  She again fell silent for an instant and then she added:

  “Paul will also be there.”

  “Paul . . . your ex-husband?”