The Heart Has Its Reasons

by Maria Duenas

  “Well, it’s time for us to start thinking of leaving too,” Vivian said with a certain laziness.

  Neither of them seemed to have babies or small children in their charge; most likely their kids were the wild devils nearby on bicycles.

  Daniel had a feeling that his last chance would depart with them as each went home and shut their doors, and then he would be left on his own again, standing before a precipice, having played his last card in vain, and the damn godfather still nowhere to be found.

  “Where are your husbands?” he asked suddenly. What did he care at this point about being discreet or not, since he had little to lose?

  “They’re at the military base in Rota. They’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Vivian explained.

  Two U.S. Navy wives alone, and a few hours ahead of him.

  “Rota, how interesting. That’s in Andalusia, right?” he asked, offering them a cigarette to prolong the conversation.

  Rachel shrugged while he lit a match for her. Vivian said she thought so. Neither of the two seemed very knowledgeable about the country’s geography.

  “It must be nice for them to get back to home and hearth,” he said, blowing out the match with a fake air of nostalgia. “I wish I had someone close by to take care of me . . . baked potatoes with sour cream, chocolate ice cream, pot roast. The good taste of homemade food . . .”

  Traitor, the voice of his conscience told him. Isn’t Aurora’s impassioned love enough? Isn’t what Señora Antonia provides for you on a daily basis sufficient?

  “For someone to roast a simple chicken for you, for instance,” he went on, paying no attention to his scruples. He’d have plenty of time to make peace with them; for the time being he had to concentrate on not letting his opportunity slip away.

  He had hardly missed any of that in the more than six months he’d been in Spain, eating at taverns and cafés in addition to the concierge’s. Tripe and gizzard, liver, fried blood, pigs’ ears—everything was to his liking. But now he wanted to make sure that Vivian or Rachel noticed. Whatever it took to be able to sit at either one of their tables that evening.

  The howls of one of the boys on their bikes abruptly silenced the conversation. It turned out to be Rachel’s son, a nine-year-old whirlwind bleeding through the nose. Behind him followed his younger brother, explaining the fall, and a redheaded girl with two braids giving her own version. A minute later two other rascals appeared trailing a dog.

  “I’m starving. What’s for dinner tonight, Mom?” one of them asked.

  “Macaroni and cheese,” Rachel said, pressing a handkerchief against her elder son’s nose.

  “And what about us?” another kid wanted to know while he picked his bike up off the ground.

  “Roasted chicken,” Vivian announced.

  Daniel was unable to hold back.

  “With potatoes?”

  For some unfounded reason, he intuited that he’d find a way out of his predicament through them. He was aware that he was at a total loss for tools to accomplish his objective: they didn’t speak Spanish; they knew no one of importance in the city and had no idea how social relations worked there. From all appearances they came across as young mothers with no other goal than to look after their loved ones. They might not even care much for the local culture, lacking all intellectual curiosity and the sensitivity to appreciate the historical and artistic richness of their surroundings. Perhaps it was all the same to them whether they were on the Iberian Peninsula or in Haifa or Corfu. But still, beneath their simple domestic appearance, he had the impression that they were strong women, determined and resolute, who had been capable of abandoning their homeland and were now taking care of their kids for long periods of time while their husbands were absent, always ready to pack their lives in boxes and suitcases to start a new stint wherever the U.S. Navy sent them. Positive, supportive women, used to finding solutions for everything, adapting to a thousand changes and to always having things left up in the air pending the next promotion or unpredictable transfer that would relocate them once more to some remote corner of the globe.

  They exchanged a fleeting glance.

  “Come on in. As soon as we’ve organized the troops, we’ll have some dinner.”

  Chapter 27

  * * *

  In the span of time between Holy Wednesday night and Easter Sunday, two diverging lines were in full throttle. On the one hand, the entire city went out of its way to celebrate the Holy Days. The streets were overflowing with people ready to admire the size of the thrones, the colorful robes, the light of the candles, and the procession of penitents. On the other hand, simultaneously, completely oblivious to the religious fervor and solemnity, a certain group of foreigners driven by a common objective concocted a strategic plan so meticulously formulated that the high command of the Sixth Fleet would have been proud to claim it as their own.

  The program was put into operation on Thursday morning, when Vivian and Rachel showed up unannounced at the house of Captain David Harris, knowing full well that the highest-ranking authority of the U.S. base was already on his way to his office. They were sure, however, that his wife was at home. The only thing they did not calculate correctly was the time, which was too early for a housewife without kids under her care.

  Loretta Harris, her hair in disarray, wearing a long robe and still half-asleep, received the two ladies who rang her bell at ten past nine with a raspberry cake as an alibi. She smelled a rat.

  “Morning, my darlings.”

  Her voice was raspy and she made no effort to hide her lack of enthusiasm. Nevertheless she invited them in.

  The protocol was the usual one: offer them coffee, light a cigarette, and wait for them to fire away. She had traveled the world for the past twenty-five years as the spouse of a prominent naval officer and knew full well that when the wives of lieutenants showed up at that hour in search of the wife of their husbands’ superior, it was because they were in need of something urgently.

  Vivian and Rachel had made the decision to intervene the previous evening at dinner. As his plate slowly emptied, Daniel also began to strip away any imposture before them, dropping the globe-trotter mask he’d initially hidden behind and revealing his true intention.

  “I’m starting to think I did not enter this city on the right foot,” he confessed, once mutual trust was well established.

  They continued talking after dinner, with the American Forces Network on the radio in the background and their kids in bed. Everything around seemed cozy and familiar: the door handles, the back issues of Time magazine, the tablecloth’s color—all courtesy of the U.S. Navy for their people around the globe. Perhaps that was why he somehow felt at home and finally told them the truth.

  “No sooner had I arrived than I caught the flu,” he began, “and I was almost physically kicked out of a bar by force because they thought I was drunk.”

  “Well, that’s understandable,” Rachel said with an ironic face. “They must’ve thought you were just another souse, one of the many who overdo it and start a commotion almost on a daily basis.”

  “That’s one of the main problems our husbands are faced with now,” Vivian clarified. “Some of our men drink too much and raise a ruckus, then end up in fistfights with the locals or among themselves.”

  “I suppose that gives a bad image . . .” Daniel said.

  “Very bad,” both corroborated in unison. Rachel continued:

  “There are orders not to harass the Spanish population; to come across as friendly, generous, cordial, and willing to help. That’s part of our husbands’ responsibilities and we try to help them out.”

  “How?”

  They told him that on Christmas they’d taken a potbellied braggart, a certain Chief Petty Officer Smith, and dressed him in red, with a white wig and beard, loaded him with presents, and brought him to the House of Mercy.

  �
�We’re also trying to organize a softball tournament among our kids and the Spanish kids. And, for summer, a swimming championship.”

  “And a cultural week.”

  The two friends began to take turns talking, clearly excited about their projects.

  “And a sports clothes fashion show.”

  “For the Fourth of July we’re thinking of organizing an enormous fireworks display.”

  “And we’re constantly giving away food and medicine to the nursing home for the elderly.”

  Daniel, ruminating as he listened to them, was unable to tell if behind that enthusiasm there really existed a true human interest in ingratiating themselves with the local population, a courageous desire to help their husbands carry out their professional commitments, or simply a barrage of vacuous entertainment with which to fill the tediousness of their exile.

  “But we’ll need something with dramatic effect,” Vivian pointed out.

  “Something really spectacular that involves more people.”

  “Like what?” Daniel wanted to know.

  “We don’t know, we’re still mulling it over. Something that everyone will talk about, that brings together more influential people. Perhaps a dance with lots of guests.”

  “Or a festival . . .”

  “How about a wedding?” Daniel interjected.

  Rachel was left speechless with her glass half an inch from her lips. Vivian paused in mid-puff. They both looked at him in astonishment.

  “I volunteer. Willing to contribute with fifty percent of the required quota.”

  As the caffeine kicked in, Loretta Harris finally understood what the two girls wanted: for her to convince her husband to mediate with someone in the area with clout so that a young American could get the necessary permission from certain obstinate parents to marry their daughter. It would be a win-win situation if it succeeded: the cream of the crop of the U.S. Navy contingent in Cartagena sharing church pews and meringue wedding cake with a who’s who of the local community. They had nothing to lose and a lot to gain.

  Captain Harris’s wife didn’t find it at all odd to be asked to intercede for a civilian. Wherever there was no embassy or consulate nearby, it was not uncommon for high-ranking military officers to act as informal diplomatic representatives of their country. Therefore she didn’t find the request absurd but maintained a cautious silence. In her long, nomadic life caring for her five children in posts around the globe, she’d experienced much more complex situations between military personnel and the local citizens: inappropriate pregnancies, irresponsible paternities, fights, thefts, blackmail, and fraud. To mediate for the simple happiness of a pair of lovers seemed like a piece of cake. And if this enhanced the reputation of the U.S. Navy in the minds of the local population and offered a means of building bridges between the two nationalities, so much the better. Vivian and Rachel were not altogether mistaken: if they managed to pull this off in a satisfactory manner, the result would be most favorable. But first she would have to make some inquiries. And if she found nothing shady, they’d carefully plan the operation.

  Naturally, she did not share this with her visitors. She simply refilled their cups, lit another cigarette, and proposed the first step. To personally meet the affected party, that was the initial condition. To obtain basic information and gauge the matter’s complexity, she said. She was free that afternoon and her husband had an official engagement until evening. “Coffee is over, dears,” she announced, putting out her cigarette. “I want this Carter here at five o’clock.”

  • • •

  Modesto the desk clerk thought he was in the middle of one of his most torrid dreams when a jeep made a sudden stop before the pension’s entrance and ejected two stunning American women squeezed into blue jeans. Without articulating a half-decent word in Spanish, they were able, however, to make themselves understood well enough for him to know who they were asking for.

  “Ah, you are looking for Mr. Daniel! Mr. Daniel Carter, right?”

  “Exactly,” Vivian confirmed, winking one of her green eyes at him.

  “Mr. Daniel has gone out; he’s already left,” he announced, pointing toward the street. He automatically regretted what he’d said. Damn it, he thought. If I’m not careful they’ll just leave. “Although he may have come back and I didn’t notice,” he immediately corrected himself. “Or maybe he’ll come right back.”

  “Well . . . perhaps we can leave a note for him.”

  “Yes, ma’am, by all means. Whatever that little mouth of yours asks for, good-looking. To obey, that’s what we’re here for . . .” Modesto answered Rachel without taking his eyes from her cleavage, which was accentuated by a short lemon-colored sweater.

  He provided them with a piece of paper whose reverse side was filled with household sums, and an old pencil with a chewed-up top. While they wrote a note summoning their new friend to the home of the base commander that very afternoon, Modesto’s feverish eyes darted back and forth from one to the other. He broke into a sweat.

  “Thank you very much,” they said in unison once they were done.

  Before the eyes of the clerk shone the whitest teeth and the fullest lips he’d ever seen in his life. “Mother of God,” he whispered with a dry mouth.

  He accompanied them out, surreptitiously trying to brush against them as he opened the door with purported gallantry. Then he watched them leave, cursing his rotten luck for lacking the communication ability to delay them for a little longer. “Fuck,” he said before spitting with fury on the sidewalk. Half a life reading those Westerns, only to be able to say “whiskey,” “sheriff,” and “saloon.”

  The morning also turned out to be fruitful for Daniel. First he’d decided to position himself on the Paseo de la Muralla, close enough to observe the comings and goings of Aurora’s house, but far enough away so that his presence would go unnoticed. Just as on the previous day, first he saw the father leave and, although he was unable to make out his face, from the cold greeting he gave the porter he gathered that he was not in the best of moods. A while later the mother and grandmother left the building, caught up in an irate discussion he was unable to overhear. The moment he made out the ladies’ silhouettes at the doorway, he vanished swiftly behind a palm tree.

  After they turned the corner, he came out of his hiding place and headed toward the doorway. When Abelardo the porter saw him, he tried to defend the fort with all the vigor expected of him, only too aware that the American had already sneaked through once. Abelardo could not afford to be reprimanded again.

  “You cannot come in! You are forbidden to enter!”

  A one-hundred-peseta bill—the most convincing of arguments, folded between two fingers like a safe-conduct pass—tore down the barricade. Abelardo didn’t think it over twice: the bill went into his left pants pocket as quickly as the young man slipped into the building and again climbed the stairs three at a time. The porter sighed in relief. What difference did it make if he received another scolding by the stormy Señora Carranza if with that money he was practically able to buy his son’s First Communion suit?

  A kind-looking person of considerable age with a chignon at the nape of her neck opened the door, alarmed by the impetuous ringing that resounded all over the house. He didn’t even greet her or announce the reason for his visit. Nor did he identify himself. As soon as the door opened and he realized he had free access to the apartment, he said only one word, repeated three times and shouted loudly: “Aurora!”

  A fraction of a second was exactly what it took for a whirlwind in pajamas to appear from the end of the hallway. She hurled herself into Daniel’s arms with a wildcat’s leap, clutching his neck, his torso, and his legs, digging her nails into his back, caressing his neck, crying and laughing at the same time. He, for his part, was only able to whisper her name while holding her tightly with all his might, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her slender w
aist, feeling her laughter in his ears and her tears on his face.

  Two witnesses watched agape, not quite knowing if that embrace oozed pure shamelessness and sinful scandal or an overflowing tenderness that there was no longer any human means of containing. The first was Asuncion, the woman who had opened the door, who for more than forty years had devoted herself to the family and who, in light of the scene, was only able to let loose a hasty litany of “Blessed Virgin” and “Good heavens” that seemed to have no end. The other was Adelaida, the young domestic servant. Hidden behind an antique desk, she was bowled over at the sight of the couple and wondered why her boyfriend was not this romantic with her when on leave from the barracks.

  Then Asuncion reacted, and her insistence on pulling Aurora from Daniel’s arms was the only thing that brought them back to reality: “Girl, girl! GIRL!” Only then was he aware of being, for the first time, in the house where she’d been born; of stepping on the floor where she’d taken her first steps; of seeing for a fleeting moment everything that had surrounded Aurora throughout her life: the family photos in silver frames, the library inherited from the father’s side of the family, the balconies looking onto the port, the portrait of a very young Nana smiling coquettishly at some anonymous painter . . .

  Aurora, meanwhile, begged for the momentary relief from her suffering to be extended a little longer.

  “Just awhile, Asuncion, please let him stay awhile . . .”

  However, Asuncion was a hard nut to crack. She’d brought up Aurora, adored her, and for days had been suffering on her behalf. But before that she’d brought up the girl’s mother, and knew full well the uproar she would raise if she were to find out that Asuncion had authorized the American’s presence in the house.

  “Out of the question: he must leave right now. For God’s sake, girl, for God’s sake, this cannot be!” the good woman repeated while she held the door open for Daniel to leave.

  Aurora’s eyes, while she tenaciously hung on to his arm, again filled with tears.