The Heart Has Its Reasons (29 page)

“Well . . . it has to do with something else . . . more . . . of a family matter, you might say.”

Although he wasn't quite telling them the whole truth, he wasn't exactly lying. After all, his intention in the long run was to create a family with Aurora.

“In that case, if I were you—if I can speak freely—you know what I'd do?”

They all looked at Catalina.

“I'd go in search of the women first thing tomorrow. You see, we women have a better understanding of family matters than men do. Then, if it's necessary, they'll know how their husbands can best resolve whatever needs to be resolved.”

Once again Catalina was the light that chased away the darkness. Just as on the murky night of his fever, when she'd come with a French omelet sandwich like manna, she'd offered a possible solution to his problem.

“What time do they finish work at the base, Agustin?” Daniel asked in a hurry, glancing at his watch. It was 4:20.

“At five o'clock a siren goes off.”

“Could you please get me a taxi, Modesto?” he asked.

“Consider it done, mister. You don't want me to accompany you, right?”

Chapter 26

N
o sooner had he arrived than Daniel had the feeling of having been torn away from the reality of Holy Wednesday next to the Mediterranean and transported as if by magic to an anonymous spot in his own country. Before his eyes was what seemed to be a suburb of an average American city: modern houses surrounded by immaculate lawns, red hydrants on the sidewalks, and blond kids playing Frisbee on the grass.

He walked slowly, incredulous, immersed in that almost surrealistic experience, until a group of mothers with babies in their arms and kids running between their legs guessed his nationality from his looks and greeted him in their own language: “Hi!” “Hello!” “Are you an American? How're you doing?”

With a short distance still separating them, he made a decision: not a word of the truth for the time being. No mention of his true intentions. In any case, he had no clear idea how to explain the hazy concept of the godfather, in the Spanish sense, that he was seeking.

Those six young mothers fit the image of a girlfriend that he would have chosen had he wished to have a peaceful future devoid of complexities. Now, as a first step, he would attempt to win these American women over, not quite knowing yet how or to what end.

After the greetings and self-introductions, he began to recount his wanderings through a Spain they hardly knew: nights in medieval castles where ghosts were said to wander; visits to cellars full of gigantic casks; and basilicas that seemed as vast as baseball stadiums.

“Wow! Fascinating! Really?” Soon the husbands also started gathering to hear of his exploits, and then everything began to change. They greeted Daniel with cordial handshakes and exchanged some friendly words. “How do you do? What a surprise: an expert in literature. How interesting.”

Until they started talking over each other and his novelty began to wear off. Each of the newcomers had something to tell, the wives' attention was directed elsewhere, and Daniel's star, like the end of a fireworks display, slowly vanished until it disappeared. His glory had lasted only briefly and the feeling that his opportunity was slipping away from him was confirmed as the group began to break up: “Well, good luck, buddy. See you later. Have a good one,” the men said. “A pleasure meeting you, Dan. We hope you keep enjoying your adventures,” the women said.

Each couple slowly retired to their homes, dragging their little ones, leaving behind the landscape of children's laughter and speech. As the group thinned out and peace and quiet settled over the previously bustling area, Daniel's despondency grew proportionately. Perhaps he had acted in the worst possible manner, he thought as one of the last families moved off, turning their backs to him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to pretend to be a mere wandering compatriot, a charming student devoid of worries. Perhaps he should have been more direct, to have spoken to them of Aurora's angry parents, of her dogged tenacity, of his determination to find a way of not losing her. He should have confessed that, for the first time since his arrival in Spain, the visceral attraction to that unfamiliar culture had turned into uncertainty. That the eternal honeymoon he'd lived until then had started to crack.

Only two women remained, the most mature, in spite of their evident youth. There was a tall one with a chestnut ponytail, green eyes, and a yellow checkered shirt with a slight Southern accent. Her
name was Vivian. And then there was Rachel, a blonde with a turquoise bandanna tied in the manner of a headband.

“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

I
n 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.