The Heart Has Its Reasons Read Free Page A

previous evening at the airport.
    I took a quick glance at the sign on the door as I entered. Rebecca Cullen, the name on almost all e-mails I’d received prior to departure, finally had a tangible place and presence. In addition to all the files and transcripts in her office were paintings saturated with color, family pictures, and a bouquet of white lilies. Her greeting was an affectionate, warm handshake. Her clear eyes lit up a pretty face from which the wrinkles did not detract. A large lock of silvery hair fell over her forehead. I figured she was in her sixties, and I had a feeling that she must be one of those indispensable secretaries who, with a third of their superiors’ salaries, are usually three times as competent.
    â€œWell, Blanca, finally . . . It’s been a total surprise to learn that we have a visiting researcher this semester. We’re delighted . . .”
    To my relief, we were able to communicate without a problem. I had laid the groundwork for my English during stays in the U.K. and had strengthened it through years of study and frequent contact with British universities. However, my experience regarding North America had only been sporadic: a few conferences, a family celebration in New York after my son Pablo passed his university entrance exam, and a brief research stint in Maryland. So I was reassured to confirm that I’d be able to cope on the West Coast without any great language barrier.
    â€œI think I told you in one of my last messages that the head of our department, Dr. Luis Zarate, would be at a conference in Philadelphia, so in the meantime I’ll be the one in charge of orienting you in your work.”
    Rebecca Cullen explained in general terms what I more or less knew I was expected to accomplish: to order and assess the legacy of an old faculty member who had died decades earlier. It was financed by SAPAM, the newly created foundation for Scientific Assessment of Philological Academic Manuscripts.
    â€œHis name was Andres Fontana and, as you know, he was a Spaniard. He lived in Santa Cecilia until his death in 1969, and was muchbeloved, but the usual thing happened afterwards. Since he didn’t have any family in this country, no one came forward to claim his things and, awaiting someone to decide what to do, they’ve sat here all these years, stacked in a basement.”
    â€œNothing has been moved since then?”
    â€œNothing, until SAPAM finally endowed a grant to carry out this project. To be perfectly honest,” she added in a knowing tone, “I think it’s rather shameful that three decades have already gone by, but that’s how things are: everyone’s always busy, the faculty comes and goes. And of all the people who were familiar with and esteemed Andres Fontana in his day, hardly anyone is left here except a few veterans like myself.”
    I made an effort to disguise the fact that, if his own colleagues weren’t interested in that expatriate who had fallen into oblivion, I was even less so.
    â€œAnd now, if it’s okay with you,” she continued, getting back to practical matters, “first I’m going to show you your office and then the storeroom where all the material is kept. You’ll have to forgive us: the news of your arrival has been rather sudden and we haven’t had a chance to find you a better spot.”
    I pretended to look in my bag for a tissue to blow my nose, waiting for Rebecca Cullen to change subjects, hoping she’d move on to another matter quickly and not delve into the reasons why a Spanish professor with a secure professional career, an impressive CV, a good salary, family, and contacts had decided so swiftly to pack a couple of suitcases and move to the other end of the world like someone fleeing the plague.
    My new office turned out to be a remote cubbyhole, with no comforts and a single window—narrow, off to one side, and not too