The Heart Has Its Reasons (25 page)

“I love your earrings. Thanks for the wine and chocolates. I hope the kids have treated you well.”

She smiled, but her eyes bore a residue of sadness.

The house had suddenly filled up with voices and noise. The little ones washed their hands in a nearby bathroom and slowly settled in the dining room. Sounds could be heard on the stairs: conversations among adults, children's laughter. Rebecca meanwhile spoke without looking at me, gliding across the kitchen from one place to another nonstop, organizing what was missing to take to the table.

“I'll introduce you to my children now. Forgive me for not being with you earlier: we've had a long conversation.”

“Don't worry in the least. I've been with Daniel and have met Paul. Tell me, how can I help you?”

“Let's see . . . First, I think we should carve the turkey and set out the side dishes.”

Before long we were all seated around a large rectangular table, outfitted with a russet tablecloth and white porcelain dishes. Five children and twelve adults. The family, their partners, and their children. Plus a friend from the old days, the female Japanese au pair, Paul's nurse, and myself. Sixteen active minds and one absent. Annie, Jimmy, and Laura,
Rebecca's children, friendly like their mother, had greeted me warmly before we took our seats. Paul sat between Betty and Daniel and the next spot had a card with my name. A centerpiece with autumn fruits rose in the middle of the table. One of the young blondes, Natalie, seated opposite me, didn't stop squinting while darting monstrous faces at me. I returned a few.

Daniel leaned toward me.

“Rebecca wants me to say a few words. Here I go, without a safety net.”

He then asked for everyone's attention by tapping his fork against his glass.

“Dear Cullen family, dear friends. Rebecca has asked me to say a few words for this Thanksgiving dinner, and since I've never been able to deny anything to this woman, not even in a hundred lives, here I am, in the capacity of the family's oldest friend, ready to act as master of ceremonies. But before that, before giving thanks, I'd like to take the liberty of telling you a few things that have been on my mind for some time now—ever since Rebecca told me about her decision to bring us all together here today.

“When I exited your life, you, Annie, Jimmy, and Laura, were still very young, so most likely you hardly have any old memories left.” He then turned his attention toward the children. “Did you know, Natalie and Nina, that when your mother was your age, she baked a cake in the kitchen of my house and we almost all caught fire?” A theatrical gesture simulating an explosion caused a burst of laughter from the kids and made Annie cover her face with her hands. “And you, Jimmy: when I carried you on my shoulders, you'd say that you could almost touch the clouds. And you, Laura, you were so little that you still fell sometimes when you tried to walk. And once, with your dad's help,” he said, placing a hand on Paul's shoulder, “I built you a house out of wood and cardboard in the garden. It stood for nearly three days before it came crashing down on a stormy night.

“A long time has elapsed since then, but even though I haven't seen you in all these years, through your mother I've been able to follow your lives: your careers, your loves and progress, the birth of your kids, these
handsome boys and girls who are seated among us at this table, eager to sink their teeth into the turkey. Rebecca and I don't get to see each other as much as we'd like to, but our late-night phone conversations can last for hours, so I am kept up-to-date. Did you know, kids,” he said, addressing the youngest, “that your grandmother is like an owl and doesn't sleep at night? When the entire world goes to bed, she revives and starts doing things: she gets on the Internet, cooks strange recipes, swims in the pool, calls someone up. Until the wee hours. Sometimes, I receive those calls of hers.

“This is why, Annie, Jimmy, and Laura, I know about what you've lived through, what you've suffered, and the wonderful people you've turned out to be. I know that the three of you are conscious that all of this would have been impossible without the encouragement of this great woman who has prepared the dinner we are all about to share. And this is why I want to ask you that, for her, even if it is only for her, you accept things the way they are today. That we are all here this evening, gathered around this table.

“Getting older when you're a grown-up is not as much fun as when you're a kid. No one gives you interesting presents, only books, records, ties, and nonsense like that. But to reach a certain age has its positive side. You lose a few things along the way, but you also gain others. You learn to see the world from a different perspective, for instance, and you develop strange feelings, such as compassion. Which is nothing other than wanting to see others free of suffering, regardless of the previous suffering they might have caused us. Without holding anyone accountable or looking back. Today we don't know if Paul suffers or not: we are unable to probe his brain. Perhaps being here today may not make him any more or less happy, although it is thought that people like him don't lose affective memory or the feeling of pleasure and that, in their own way, they're grateful for a simple affectionate word, a spoonful of ice cream, or a caress.

“It is said that compassion is a sign of emotional maturity. It's not a moral obligation or a feeling that springs from reflection. It's simply something that, when it comes, it comes. Wanting to have Paul among us today is not a betrayal or a sign of weakness on the part of Rebecca.
It's simply, I think, an example of her enormous generosity. For me, Paul was a great friend, my best friend during a certain period. He did things for me that I wish no one would ever have to do. Did you know, kids, that he once had to cut my toenails? Clip, clip, clip, with an enormous pair of old scissors that someone lent him. He was a great friend to me, but that is only one aspect of him.

“I am aware that he was not always a good inspiration as a father or as a partner, and that it's hard to forgive and forget. His presence today won't overcome the past or compensate for the years of absence. But Rebecca has so wished it and I ask that we respect her decision. Paul may not have been a good father, but I know, because he told me so himself, that in spite of how disordered his life was and in his own way, he loved you all a lot, very much. Until the last minute that there was a spark of light in his mind.

“I don't want to go on any longer because that turkey is waiting for us to eat it. Today is Thanksgiving and I believe all of us present here, regardless of how the past has made us suffer, have lots of things to be thankful for. What I'm not quite sure about is to whom we must be thankful, because that is a matter of personal choice. But, thinking about whom we could all thank today, an old song has come to mind that Rebecca liked in the old days: a song that is on a big black record that I know she sometimes plays on that piece of junk she's got in the basement. Because in her strange nights, in case you didn't know, kids, your grandmother also sings and dances around the house, with the music at full blast and in her nightgown. Yes, yes, don't laugh: spy on her late at night, you'll see. That song I'm telling you about was sung ages ago by another grandmother also a bit crazy by the name of Joan Baez, who in turn borrowed it from another mad grandmother by the name of Violeta Parra. The song's lyrics are in Spanish and it's called ‘Gracias a la vida.' It gives thanks to everything that helps us be happy on a daily basis. The eyes to see the stars, the alphabet to compose beautiful words, the feet to roam through cities and puddles, and all those daily activities that some no longer have, and those of us who do should feel immensely grateful for. Because sometimes, even if the going gets tough, in the end we always have those small things. So let's
all give this Thanksgiving Day a loud, strong ‘Here's to life' in Spanish and English:
¡
Gracias a la vida!
Here's to life!”

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.”