by Maria Duenas
When we left the mission and passed before the entrance’s iron bell once again, Daniel halted. With his large hands he felt the thick wooden beams that held it and caressed their roughness. Then we walked instinctively toward the square and sat on a bench to savor the day’s last rays of sunlight. Before us, between enormous trees, rose a bronze sculpture of a soldier with the old bear flag fluttering above his shoulder, an homage to California’s ephemeral independence. Beyond it was a playground in absolute peace, with motionless swings and not a trace of children.
Despite my outburst that morning during breakfast, in a certain way I felt better after having told Daniel about myself. Unburdened, lighter, more at peace. Contrary to what I’d thought up until then, exposing my life to a stranger had turned out to be somewhat liberating. Perhaps because, in any case, I was growing stronger; or perhaps because that stranger was becoming less so by the day.
“Did you know that of all the missions, this one is for some reason the one Fontana showed most interest in?” I pointed out. “And its founder as well: Father Jose Altimira, whom the guide mentioned before when she told the story of the mission to the schoolchildren. He was a young Catalan Franciscan, recently settled in Alta California. I’ve found a few documents about him among Fontana’s papers.”
“And what did he learn?” Daniel changed posture, turning toward me with interest.
“That Father Altimira managed to get authorization to build this last mission at the worst possible moment. Mission Dolores of San Francisco was then in a deplorable state and he proposed to move it here, but his superiors did not give him the go-ahead. Mexico had recently gained its independence from Spain and there was already a feeling that it wouldn’t be long before the missions were secularized. Meanwhile, the Franciscans refused to recognize any government other than their Spanish king. The governor of California, however, did accept Altimira’s proposal, and thanks to him Altimira began its construction.”
“I imagine it wasn’t because the governor was concerned with the souls of the infidels.”
“Of course not. He did so for a much more practical reason: to guarantee a stable presence in this area before the advancing Russians, who, in exchange for a couple of blankets, a few pairs of riding pants, and a handful of hoes, had gained from the Indians a great tract of land farther north, next to the Pacific.”
“Smart guys, those Russians from Fort Ross. Would you like to go see all that someday? Tomorrow, for instance?”
“Remember, I’m having dinner with Zarate.”
“Make up any old excuse and come with me again. You’ll be way more bored with him.”
“Cut it out,” I said, half laughing. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Altimira?”
“Of course I do. It was only a slight interruption. Carry on, I’m all ears.”
“Well, in spite of having civilian authorization, Altimira lacked his superiors’ permission. Regardless, he did as he pleased; he chose this place, which at the time was totally inhospitable, and used several branches to fashion an altar, then stuck a wooden cross in the ground and established this mission.”
“A bit wayward, this Altimira, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, quite rebellious, although in the end his superiors had to go along with him and allowed him to keep the mission active. Fontana found him a very interesting character. Among his papers one perceives a great effort to piece together Altimira’s past beyond Sonoma.”
“Any luck?”
“So-so. Once he established his mission here in Sonoma against all odds, the newly converted Indians living in it rebelled. Apparently he was an efficient manager and a good administrator, but was unable to establish an affectionate relationship with the natives. In his zeal to civilize them, it seems he was harsh and demanding, applying constant physical punishments and never winning over their trust.”
“So they revolted.”
“Exactly. Two or three years later, the Indians sacked the mission and set it on fire. Altimira and some neophytes escaped by a hairbreadth and fled.”
“And what became of him?”
“It’s not too clear. Fontana seemed to be greatly interested in following in his footsteps, but I haven’t come upon anything further on the matter.”
“Life in this mission must have come to an end then.”
“Quite the contrary. Shortly after the fire and Altimira’s flight, another Franciscan took charge of it: Father Fortuni, an energetic old priest who quickly put things in order and fostered the necessary morale to rebuild the mission. However, he would eventually have to face something worse than fire or looting.”
“The secularization of the missions.”
“Exactly. A secularization that started out badly. At first, the new Mexican military representatives came all the way up here, to Alta California, with the intent of reconfiguring the social order. Then, overnight, conflicts began on various fronts: between the military and the Franciscans, the latter loyal unto death to the old Spanish order; and between the military and the local nonindigenous inhabitants, the old Californios, also of Spanish origin, who until then had lived peacefully, devoted to farming their lands and managing their haciendas.”
“And riding horseback, saying the rosary, singing, dancing and playing the guitar for their fandangos, which is what they called their parties in these parts. I’m not surprised they didn’t identify with the idea of a republic, considering the good life they led under the Spanish monarchy . . .” Daniel remarked sarcastically.
“But they didn’t have any other choice. Mexico had decided that the system of missions was an anachronism and immediately ordered the secularization of all of them and the distribution of the lands among the Hispanicized Indians and the new settlers who chose to establish themselves there. This too brought disputes, because there were some sly people who tried to get hold of these properties for nothing, and others, more reasonable, who thought the lands should revert to their original, legitimate owners.”
“Who I imagine were the Indians,” he suggested, “the native population.”
“Yes, in fact. Because, according to what I’ve read, the Franciscans never intended to become proprietors of the lands they settled, and even though to a large extent they failed in their attempt and often employed unfortunate practices, their sole objective was to bring the natives closer to their faith and try to transform them into citizens more or less integrated into their communities.”
We were still seated amid the trees in the square as the sun was setting, and only a few passersby diverted our attention from time to time.
“But they never achieved that . . .”
“No, because the grand plan to make the transfer was ultimately ignored and only a small percentage of the lands ended up being handed over to their rightful owners.”
“And the Indians, practically uprooted by force from their form of life and culture, ended up being, as is usually the case, the great losers of the story.”
“Unfortunately, yes. And the rest of what happened around here you know better than I, because it’s the story of this country of yours.”
“The brief California Republic, and afterwards the Mexican-American War. And, at its end, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which reconfigured our map and gave us all of northern Mexico, including California.”
“The missions, from then on, would fall into complete oblivion until the 1920s, when they started being physically rehabilitated, and from the fifties onwards the historical investigation takes off.”
“Ensnaring a few romantics like Andres Fontana during the last years of his career,” he added.
“That’s why you and I are here today, at the end of the fabled Camino Real, at the last mission of this chain of relics of Spain’s colonial past. But hardly anyone remembers much about this anymore.”
“Especially in Spain.”
�
��Certainly. Except for me,” I joked, “who’s saved from ignorance thanks to an unknown foundation that gave me a fellowship I’d applied for without even knowing what it was.”
He changed posture again, now staring blankly at some diffused point in the square. Perhaps the bronze heroic figure of the soldier of the Bear Flag Republic, or the empty swings.
“I was very lucky I got the fellowship,” I went on. “It’s turning out to be very comfortable to work without deadlines or pressure. They send me a check every month and I work at my own pace until, on completion, everything is organized and I provide them with a final report.”
He kept silent, listening to me with a mixture of aloofness and interest.
“Let’s go, then,” was all he ended up saying. “Should we return to Santa Cecilia or should we take a walk around here?”
We strolled in the surrounding area, coming across pedestrian side streets with shops, art galleries, and cafés. Finally we reached an Irish pub that looked altogether incongruous there. At the door a concert was announced and we felt like having something, so we decided to go in.
It was long past lunch hour and dinnertime hadn’t yet begun, but the place seemed willing to offer us whatever we might want. We sat at the bar. A trio of veteran musicians, all on the far side of sixty, prepared their instruments in a corner. One of them had a gray ponytail halfway down his back; another had on a black T-shirt covering his prominent belly and emblazoned with a marijuana leaf; a third was riffling through the contents of a large bag on the floor.
We ordered a couple of beers and kept talking amid green clover decorations and Gaelic captions. We spoke of Fontana once again, an almost unconscious tribute to the mission we’d just visited, prompted by him.
“During that last period, when he began to be interested in the history of Spanish California and the missions,” Daniel said after his first gulp of stout, “I remember that he also took to buying documents on colonial history. Chronicles, maps, and bundles belonging, I imagine, to the missions or other related institutions.”
“There is very little of that among what was given to me; everything is much more documentary. Where did he come up with all this?”
He shrugged.
“He’d find things any old place and would pay just a couple of dollars for something. Apparently very few people appreciated those documents’ worth, since they were written in Spanish.”
“Perhaps he was looking for Mission Olvido.”
A basket of french fries was placed before us and we started to nibble at them.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I remember once he suggested that it could even have been situated near Santa Cecilia. Probably that’s why he was interested in getting ahold of old documents from the area, in case he might come across any information. But are you sure there is nothing about that in the papers you’re working on?”
“Nothing at all, as I told you. Although I still have the impression that there are things missing in his legacy, something more that would shed light on his last batch of work.”
“It’s strange,” he added thoughtfully as he grabbed a few more fries. “Ever since you told me that you felt there were missing documents, I can’t stop wondering what could have happened to them. Perhaps part of the material was misplaced in some move. Or perhaps he got rid of it himself, although I doubt it, because he wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything out. You cannot imagine what his office looked like. The cave of Ali Baba.”
The pub had slowly filled up and the atmosphere was becoming livelier by the minute as the elderly musicians got ready to play.
“I found lots of notes pertaining to a library at the University of California where most of the records regarding the missions are located. That is another visit I’d like to make.”
“The Bancroft Library, in Berkeley. That’s where he was returning from when he was killed. He’d been consulting documents and data. Night was falling; it was the seventeenth of May 1969. It was raining, one of those heavy spring showers. A truck crossed his path, he skidded . . .”
“How sad, right?” I sighed. “To dedicate so much time to rescuing what has been forgotten and end up dead, lying alone in a ditch on a rainy night.”
Daniel took a few seconds to respond. The conversations of those around us filled the silence in ours. When he finally did speak, he did so with his eyes fixed on the glass he held in his hands. Turning it as if he were trying to find in it the inspiration to say what he intended.
“He was not alone in the car. Somebody else died in that accident.”
“Who?”
The musicians broke into the first chords of Celtic music and the noise of the conversations died down.
“Who, Daniel?”
He looked up from his beer and finally answered.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“What difference does her name make now, after so long? Are you still hungry? Should we order something else?”
Chapter 31
* * *
We went on to talk about many other things, ordering more beers and some hamburgers, of which Daniel ate one and a half and I only half. Between the Celtic music and recollections of our visit to the mission, we let the rest of the evening roll by.
By the time we decided to start on our way back to Santa Cecilia, it was already pitch-dark. As we headed toward the parking lot, he saw something in a shopwindow, and after a simple “Wait a moment” he dashed inside the store, reemerging a minute later with a small iron bell, a replica of the missionary symbol. “A souvenir from this day,” he said, handing it to me.
“You still have time to run away with me and forget about your chairman tomorrow,” he warned me with his usual irony on pulling up in front of my apartment. “How about we go to Napa and visit a couple of cellars?”
“Negative.”
“Okay, you win, even if afterwards you regret it. And what are you doing next week?”
“Work: tying up loose ends, settling matters pertaining to the legacy. Time has flown: we’re already in December and, as I told you, I have less and less to do.”
“And then you’ll leave us,” he added.
I delayed my answer a couple of seconds.
“I guess I have no other choice.”
I could have not said anything else, keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself. But, since I’d revealed my feelings in the morning, I had the urge to continue. “I don’t want to go, you know? I don’t want to return to Spain.”
“What you don’t want to do is to come face-to-face with your reality.”
“You’re probably right.”
“But you must.”
“I know.”
We were still sitting inside the parked car, in front of my place.
“Unless SAPAM could offer me another fellowship,” I went on. “Perhaps, even though it’s late, I should get in touch with them.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because things need their closure, Blanca, even though it may be painful. It’s not wise to leave open wounds. Time cures everything, but before that, it’s best to reconcile yourself with whatever you’ve left behind.”
“We’ll see . . .” I said, not too convinced.
“Take care, then.”
He put his hand on top of mine and squeezed it. I didn’t budge.
Suddenly my Taiwanese neighbor, a mathematics professor, appeared carrying an enormous box that, from its size, seemed to contain a television. His balancing act trying to get it inside the building distracted us.
I pulled my hand from under Daniel’s, opened the door, and got out.
“See you soon,” I said, bending down to speak to him through the open passenger’s-side door.
“Whenever you want.”
As soon as
he saw me go in, he left.
• • •
The next day, Saturday, I took a walk past Rebecca’s house around noon. I would have liked to talk to her about Daniel, Fontana, and the tangle of emotions they were weaving within me, as well as those earlier times when Rebecca herself had dealt with them, and perhaps even about the woman who died with the professor on that rainy night. Even though I knew Rebecca was in Portland celebrating one of her granddaughters’ birthdays, I needed somehow to confirm it by seeing the closed windows, the garage door down, and not a trace of her good old dog, Macan.
Later that day, Luis Zarate showed up in his car in the very same spot where Daniel had dropped me off the previous night. How strange it was for me who’d been driving everywhere all my life to suddenly find myself without a car, waiting for someone to pick me up.
Los Olivos was our dinner destination; I was finally going to discover the city’s most famous restaurant. Packed, with a good table reserved for us, it had class without fanfare, tall exposed-brick walls covered with large paintings, and bottle racks loaded with wines.
“Cabernet? Shiraz? Or would you prefer to try a petit verdot? I like your earrings; they look very good on you,” Luis said.
They were the same I’d worn to Rebecca’s Thanksgiving dinner. When I bought them at Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar on that trip with my husband, I never could have imagined that less than a year later I’d be dining at the other end of the world with a different man, somewhat younger than me, who just happened to be my boss and promised, moreover, to be good company.
“Thanks, they’re from Turkey. As for the wine, it’s best you choose.”
“There’s something special you Spanish women have when it comes to dressing up. Spanish and Argentinians, and Italians too. Do you like pasta? I recommend the linguine alle vongole.”