There were very different reactions at the end of the speech. The younger, captivated by the rhetoric and the gestures of that bearded comedian who seemed to know all the family’s past secrets, screamed “Here’s to life!” at the top of their lungs while tossing their napkins in the air amid loud laughter. Annie ran upstairs, while Laura, clutching her husband’s hand, continued to shed silent tears, which had begun a good while back. Daniel got up and hugged Rebecca, and Jimmy’s girlfriend and I exchanged glances full of bewilderment and emotion. The Japanese au pair, not knowing what was happening, shot pictures with her digital camera right and left, while Betty the nurse, in view of the fact that no one seemed in a hurry to start eating, decided to begin serving the turkey herself. Only Paul was oblivious to it all, until his son, Jimmy, got up from his place and came over to occupy the chair that Daniel had vacated when he got up to hug Rebecca. With great tenderness, he held his father’s hand and caressed his face. From the corner of my eye I thought I saw that—very slightly—Paul smiled.
• • •
A couple of Tupperware containers full of leftovers was not the only thing I brought back from the Cullens’ house that Thanksgiving night. I also took a moderately sweet sensation hard to describe, a subtle whiff of optimism that I hadn’t felt in a long time. A vague certainty that everything, at some point, can become better.
Besides food for a couple of days and uplifted spirits, that night I also secured two small invitations to keep my social life active. One came from Rebecca and her daughters: to go shopping, observing the tradition of the day after Thanksgiving.
“This way you can start buying presents for when you return to Spain before Christmas. Because that’s when you’re going back, right?”
Rebecca’s unexpected question, while we were clearing up in the kitchen, caught me unawares. I focused on drying a saucer as if that trivial task required my five senses.
“I don’t know, we’ll see.”
I was not deceiving her: I had no idea what I was going to do once I’d finished sorting out Fontana’s legacy. And there was less and less left. With the end of my professional duties there would no longer be any excuse to stretch out my stay, although on a couple of occasions it had crossed my mind to contact SAPAM, the foundation that financed my work, to inquire about the possibility of obtaining another, similar fellowship. In fact, although it was unnecessary to my work’s progress and not one of its requirements, I often thought that perhaps it would be wise to contact them to let them know that everything was going well. I sometimes thought about asking Rebecca for the telephone number and address, or to talk to Luis Zarate about it. But something always came up, and out of forgetfulness or simple neglect, or because I was in a hurry, I never got around to doing it.
On the other hand, however, I was aware that sooner rather than later I’d have to return. I wanted to see my kids, I had to go back to my university, and at some point, despite my reticence, I had to confront Alberto face-to-face and talk to him. My stay in California was a kind of balm, a sweet bandage for the wounds that he’d inflicted on me. But beneath that comfortable bandage was the crudeness of real life, and eventually I’d have to take it on.
The second invitation came from Daniel after he drove me back home that evening. On reaching my apartment, he asked me about my weekend plans.
“I’m going shopping tomorrow with the Cullen girls. I’m told it is the year’s big shopping day, Black Friday, right? They insist that I can’t miss out on it.”
“Of course not. It will be an amazing cultural experience. Quintessential America.”
“And on Saturday I’m off on a little excursion. Rebecca is going to lend me her car. I want to visit Sonoma.”
“The city of Sonoma or Sonoma Valley?”
“The mission of Sonoma, San Francisco Solano, at the end of the Camino Real. You know that for the last couple of weeks I’ve been reading about the missions in Fontana’s papers, and I’d like to see this one at least. And by the way, Mission Olvido, which you asked me about the other day, hasn’t come up yet.”
“I figured as much. And do you have to go this weekend?”
“No, I could do it some other time, but I had nothing better to do this weekend. Why do you ask?”
He’d gotten out of the car to accompany me to the door. We kept talking in front of my building, beneath the façade’s faint light and surrounded by an uncommon silence.
“Because I’d like to accompany you, but I’m unable to this weekend. I return to Santa Barbara tomorrow: another dinner awaits me at my place, a somewhat unique Thanksgiving. This year I didn’t want to miss out on Paul’s reunion and his family, so that’s why we’ve postponed it until tomorrow.”
“You’re going to eat turkey two days in a row?”
“In truth the turkey is just an excuse for a few old friends to get together and catch up on a load of things. We drink like fish, play poker, and fix the world among ourselves; that’s what we basically do. A somewhat marginal and quite irreverent version of the traditional Thanksgiving, to put it mildly. If you wish to come, you are more than welcome: you’d be the first woman to have the honor of sharing that night with half a dozen troglodytes loaded on whiskey up to our ears.”
“Thank you, but no thank you,” I declined forcefully. “Terrible plan.”
“I figured. Nonetheless, you could take advantage of the time to visit the Santa Barbara mission instead of the Sonoma one.”
“The queen of missions,” I clarified.
“That’s what they call it. In fact, I live relatively close, we could . . .”
My nonverbal refusal made him desist.
“Very well, I take the proposition back. But I’ll be back on Tuesday, so if you wait for me and don’t go alone to Sonoma the day after tomorrow, we could go together next weekend. We could even try to visit some other mission if we have the time, although I’m not quite sure if there’s another one in that area to the north of the bay.”
“Yes, there is another: the twentieth, San Rafael Arcangel. Founded in 1817 by Father Vicente de Sarria.”
“I’m impressed,” he said with a laugh. “What have you been doing since I last saw you, getting a PhD in missions?”
“Basic research, what you suggested.”
“Is that how you were taught to do research at the Complutense University of Madrid?”
“No,” I answered categorically. “This way of working I’ve learned all on my own, chipping away at stone for years. Okay, then, call when you get back. And thanks for offering to come with me.”
I climbed the stairs to my apartment feeling that something was a bit off, but I was unable to identify what it was. Something in the last part of our conversation. I already had the key in the lock when I realized it. I ran down the stairs and onto the street as he was driving away.
“Daniel!”
He jammed on the brakes after having gone a couple of yards and rolled down the window.
“How do you know I studied in the Complutense?” I yelled.
He answered from behind the wheel, in the same manner I had addressed him: at the top of his lungs.
“I guess I just imagined so. Fontana studied there. And so did I for a while, when it was still called Universidad Central. And other dear people that I met in Spain. I probably put you in the same boat without realizing it.”
Chapter 23
* * *
Professor Cabeza de Vaca was seated at his walnut desk, waiting for Daniel as if nothing had happened between his last visit and this one. His appearance was, as always, meticulous. The thick curtains of his office kept out the morning light, and the inkstand and ivory crucifix occupied their customary places, in perfect harmony.
“Well, young man, I’m happy to finally have you back,” he said, holding out his hand without moving from his armchair. “It’s already mid-February and I’ve
not heard from you since before Christmas. I imagine that your incursion into the old Canton must have been an intense experience.”
Despite his effort to give an update, not one single image came into Daniel’s mind of the literary settings that he’d gone in search of and never found. Instead there appeared a prolonged sequence of images and sensations: Aurora’s face, Aurora’s eyes, Aurora’s smell. Her infinite tenderness, her hearty laughter, her voice.
“Intense, sir, indeed,” he finally was able to mutter after clearing his throat. “A very intense experience.”
“I imagine, then, that you’ve returned to Madrid with a profound knowledge of the geographic background of Sender’s novel.”
He assented without words. He lied, of course. He had hardly glanced at the settings of Mister Witt en el Canton. Instead, he’d ventured to explore the territory of the woman who’d captivated him there. The tiny scar on her cheekbone, the softness of her lips, and those four beauty marks right next to her hairline. The gentleness of her fingers as she caressed him and the taste of the sea in Madrid—hundreds of miles from any coast—eternally present on her skin.
“I also imagine that you must have familiarized yourself with the historical events that are mentioned in the book.”
Again he assented; again he lied. The only events of relevance that had stuck in his memory were those that had to do with Aurora. That first encounter in her father’s pharmacy while she tried to put her disheveled hair in order. His stealthy pursuit of her, feverishly refusing to lose her. The encounter in the middle of the street the next day, not knowing what to do or say. His bitterness over the feast of the Three Wise Men, when he rashly imagined what wasn’t true. That long train journey in which they began to know each other, the beginning of all that was to come afterwards.
“And likewise I imagine,” Cabeza de Vaca continued, oblivious to the thoughts that assailed the American’s mind, “that you have already written a preliminary report regarding your thoughts and findings.”
Daniel’s response this time was to clear his throat. Unable to continue lying, Daniel murmured something unintelligible.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Carter. Speak clearly, please.”
“That I’ve been unable to do it, sir.”
“What is it you haven’t been able to do? To find relevant information for your work or to write the pertinent report?”
“Neither of the two.”
Cabeza de Vaca showed his surprise with a stern yet subtle puckering of one side of the mouth.
“Would you be so kind, if it isn’t an inconvenience, to explain the reason?”
Daniel cleared his throat once more.
“Personal matters.”
“How personal?”
“Extremely personal, sir.”
His endless waits at the entrance to the school of pharmacy, craving to see her race down the steps in her half-buttoned coat, her arms loaded with books. The calls at ungodly hours to share trivial things. The long, hidden kisses in half-lit corners. The countless walks, hand in hand, along Madrid’s streets as they tried to teach each other their respective languages. Aurora to him: science and laboratory terms, everyday expressions and words to describe family, childhood, the schoolyard. Daniel: simple nouns, verbs, and basic adjectives in her first steps toward English. Aurora is beautiful, Aurora is gorgeous. I love Aurora from morning until night.
How to explain all this to the scrupulous philologist? How could that helpless medievalist, lost in his world of codices and scrolls, understand the distressing cold he felt inside each time he walked alone kicking stones beneath the streetlamps after dropping Aurora off at her dorm at ten? How could he know the way he felt night after night locked up in the concierge’s room, lying in his patched-up bed, imagining her long-boned body, her smoothness, her warmth?
Now it was the professor’s turn to clear his throat, followed by a question.
“Might we be speaking of a lady, perhaps?”
Powerless before the inevitable, Daniel nodded.
“Homo sine amore vivere nequit . . .”
“Excuse me?”
“Man, Carter, cannot live without love. And less so in a foreign land.”
“I . . . well, the truth is that—”
“Don’t bother explaining, I have no intention of prying into your private life. But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to give you a piece of advice.”
Daniel did not expect a caustic admonishment; it wasn’t Cabeza de Vaca’s style. He expected something more along the lines of: Remember that you’ve incurred responsibilities and duties—that the purpose of the Fulbright grant that you are enjoying is to finance an academic project, not a love affair. Both Professor Fontana and I have placed our utmost trust in you, so you should devote yourself to your career. Forget about romance and concentrate on your work.
However, such words did not spring forth from the mouth of the old monarchist soldier.
“But first I have a few questions. With your hand on your heart, are you convinced that it’s not a bird of passage?”
“Do you mean ‘bird’ as in ‘fowl’?” Daniel asked, confused.
“I’m afraid your metaphoric sensibility is not too sharp today, young man. Allow me to reformulate the question in other words: are you sure that this is not a mere transitory rapture?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir,” he admitted, without being able to hide his embarrassment. “Rapture, did you say?”
“I’m inquiring whether there is truly on your part a willingness to commit, an unbending desire to jointly overcome the misfortunes that life throws your way, which, keeping your particular circumstances in mind—and if you’ll allow me to be totally frank, I anticipate it will be quite a few . . .”
Daniel stirred uncomfortably in his chair, and the professor decided to cut straight to the chase.
“For you to understand once and for all, young man: are you sure that this is the love of your life?”
Finally Daniel understood, and did not hesitate.
“A hundred percent, sir.”
“Well, then, my friend, don’t let her escape.”
Minutes later, leaning on his crutch by the window, Cabeza de Vaca saw them kiss and then go off with the carefree stride of those immune to anything beyond the periphery of their feelings. Her arm tightly around his waist, his around her shoulders, half-hidden by her disheveled mane, pulling her close to him. The old professor imagined that they were speaking nonstop, getting up to speed on what had just transpired in his office.
Cabeza de Vaca knew full well how fleeting happiness was, the brutal simplicity with which the claws of destiny are capable of wiping out everything we erroneously believe established. And still, he would give his only good leg to feel in his soul again that grandiose, confident sensation of falling in love.
Between classrooms and caresses, test tubes and libraries, spring finally bloomed before Daniel Carter and Aurora Carranza. At the same time, almost without his realizing it, he opened his eyes to that American passionate about Spain, its literary heritage, and a woman, and the helpless, melancholic medievalist poked his head out of his cave. And he saw there was light outside. That the world moved on, that wounds healed, that people loved each other.
The Holy Week holidays came around and Aurora, inevitably, had to return home. They said good-bye at the same Atocha station platform that had received them three months earlier. This time an eleven-day separation awaited them. “I’ll miss you,” “Me more,” “No, me,” “Think of me,” “You too,” “I’m already thinking of you . . .”
As a precautionary measure Daniel made the firm commitment to take full advantage of the coming days. Since his February meeting with Cabeza de Vaca, he had decided to focus once again on his studies. And he had managed, with Aurora always close by and his love for her intact; he??
?d been capable of resuming his work at a good pace. Until she left and his plans came crumbling down as soon as he felt her absence. On his third day without her, he lost all interest in everything. He hadn’t anticipated how much he was going to miss her. He chose to stay home, longing for her painfully, as if short of air. Waiting for a call or a letter, altogether impossible given her recent departure. And contemplating the future.
“But what’s the matter with you, dear boy, tormented like a lost, wandering soul, moving here and there all day long?”
The widow’s question oozed with maternal anxiety. While she cooked she could hear Daniel coming in and out of his room constantly, incapable of reading more than ten minutes straight. While she ironed, she could see him sullenly pacing the room like a caged lion, grumbling, moving things about without rhyme or reason. First thing in the morning he’d take off to go for a run on the University City track, a practice from his Pittsburgh days that he’d taken up again once settled in Madrid. In the early afternoon, he’d head to the Café Viena to have a coffee with a drop of milk. The rest of the day he was unable to concentrate on anything beyond the thoughts that plagued his mind.