The Heart Has Its Reasons (19 page)

Two plainclothes policemen walked up and down the aisle asking for identification with unfriendly faces. The volume of conversation dropped sharply and the eyes of travelers were fixed silently on the
floor. Once the procedure was over, the lively conversations quickly resumed, with some passengers throwing fleeting glances or hiding a sigh of relief. Eventually sleep began to take over: some lay on the floor to snore soundly; others began to nod off with jerking motions on their neighbor's shoulder.

In Chinchilla, Daniel got out to stretch his legs and breathe some fresh air, which turned out to be cold. Taking refuge in the canteen, he ordered the same thing the two soldiers who were propped up against the bar were having: a glass of chicory with milk and a cup of anisette Machaquito.

Finally he reached his destination. To his surprise, the city he found at the end of that perpetual trip didn't initially seem at all like the ones he'd come across in Spain's interior.

It was Sunday, and people were dressed for the occasion, immersed in the routines of the week's most important day. Leaving church, having an aperitif, choosing cakes at La Royal. He followed the suggestions of two ladies he accosted in the middle of the street. “A place to sleep?” “Right here, in the pension on Calle Duque. Central and clean; why would you look any further?” He took a room initially for three days at the modest price of seventy-five pesetas per day. On carrying his luggage up the stairs, he noticed sharp pangs of pain in his head and a somewhat thick drowsiness, but blamed his indisposition on the cold that was still clinging to his bones. All of a sudden the room's small bed appeared pleasantly tempting, but he did not succumb to its siren song. Instead of lying down as his body was demanding, he mustered all the energy he possibly could and went back out. He didn't feel well and was aware of it, but his obstinate drive not to miss anything impelled him to explore the streets.

It didn't take him long to find himself in a pedestrian street. Long, narrow, and flanked by outdoor cafés, it gave onto a square that, like all others he'd come across in the city centers he'd visited, was named Del Caudillo in honor of the dictator Franco. Farther ahead the port could be discerned, but he was unable to reach it. His strength slowly dwindled and his mouth was becoming dry; the street noise and people's voices boomed in his temples. He decided to retrace his steps,
to return to the busy thoroughfare, and he walked into a café, not realizing that the establishment he'd randomly chosen seemed predestined to receive him with generous hospitality: Bar Americano.

“A glass of water, please.”

“Come again?”

The bald-headed bow-tied waiter had understood immediately but chose to think it over twice before serving him. The presence of that uncombed giant with wrinkled clothes created quite a stir in the premises. Among the vermouths and little plates of almonds, the Sunday clientele received him with disapproving glances, murmuring suspiciously without a shred of sympathy.

“A glass of water, please,” he repeated. “Or of seltz—”

Without noticing the stares and comments and with his ability to react seriously hampered, Daniel stood motionless for a couple of seconds, waiting to have any type of liquid placed before him that would quench the dryness in his throat. But all he received was a tap on his shoulder, as if someone were trying to draw his attention.

“I think you've chosen the wrong place, my friend.”

“Excuse me?”

On turning around he was faced with an individual with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache.

“This is a decent people's establishment. Please leave.”

“All I want is to drink a glass of water,” he explained. And turning his eyes on the waiter, he insisted for the third time in his effort to be served: “Or a Coca-Cola if possible . . .”

“Water is for frogs. And Coca-Cola you can drink in your own country. Get out immediately! Come on . . .” said this protector of the civilized world.

Daniel made another effort to explain his simple intentions to that man, whose face, voice, and mustache were becoming blurrier by the minute before his eyes and ears. His mumbled attempt, far from clearing things up, only served to reaffirm the initial assumption of practically everyone present: the disheveled foreigner was dead drunk. And it was hardly noon.

The next thing was to grab him by the arm.

“Get the hell out of here, dammit! This is no place for clowns like you!”

Daniel thought his Spanish must have come across as awkward and hard to comprehend; perhaps he'd mixed it up with English without realizing it.

“Leave me alone, please . . .”

Seeing that the bartender wasn't giving up, Daniel, bewildered as he was, jerked his arm away suddenly in his attempt to break loose. So much so that he almost knocked the man over.

By way of reinforcement before the foreigner's apparently brash reaction, a couple of volunteers hastily took off their jackets, ready to neutralize him. The altercation was quick, and in less than a couple of minutes the young man, befuddled and staggering, was once again on the street, exposed to the indiscreet stares of the passersby, with the ends of his shirt hanging out of his pants, his hair disheveled, and his sleeve half torn.

On seeing the guest's arrival, the desk clerk at the pension didn't even bother to lift his eyes from the dime novel
The Last Outlaw
that he was absorbed in. Without looking at Daniel, he simply handed him the key to his room and clicked his tongue in resignation; then, wetting his thumb with saliva, he turned the page. As if we're supposed to stop reading just because another weird traveler has come in, he must have thought. And certainly not at that moment, when the county sheriff was about to shoot a round of lead into the bodies of the two outlaws preparing to make trouble in the saloon.

Daniel spent thirty hours in his austere room, lying on crumpled sheets. At times he felt shattering cold, at others as if he were in the middle of a desert. Sporadically he would regain consciousness, rise from the bed, and with a faltering step make his way to the sink in his room for water. That was his only intake until the afternoon of the second day, when someone knocked on his door. First hesitantly, then insistently. With an effort, Daniel uttered a weak “Come in!” and a feminine head appeared with worry written all over her face. He didn't know who it was: the pension's owner, or perhaps an employee, or an angel with an apron who was sent from heaven. The fact was that this
kind soul, alarmed by the absence of sounds from the guest, proceeded to change his bed, gave him an extra blanket, and brought him a couple of Okal pills, a glass of hot milk, and a hearty omelet sandwich that tasted divine.

That night he was able to sleep more peacefully, without shivering or having nightmares. The following day, well into the morning, he was able to gather enough strength to get up and slowly shower, shave, dress, and go out onto the street. From sweating and lack of food he'd lost several pounds and most of his memory of the quarrel at the Bar Americano.

The city welcomed him with a friendly sun. The modernist façades had fanciful wrought-iron balconies and the streets were packed with people. He was seduced by the light and the smell of the sea, but he chose not to be distracted in order to concentrate on his objective of finding a pharmacy. He knew that it had only been an inopportune flu and that it didn't require a doctor, but he still felt weak and wanted to avoid a relapse.

The Carranza Pharmacy was about to close for the prolonged midday break. The owner had left a good while earlier to stop by his club to read the paper and have an aperitif before continuing on home for lunch, as was his habit. When Daniel pushed the door open, the middle-aged assistant was already unbuttoning his white smock, eager to sit down to the rice and rabbit stew his mother had prepared for him the night before. He tried to dissuade the young man from coming in, saying, “We're closing, sir. Come back later this afternoon if it's not too much trouble.” But Daniel remained firm. No way was he ready to leave the place without an arsenal of medicine. The give-and-take that ensued only came to an end when a woman's voice was heard from the back room.

“You can leave, Gregorio. Don't worry, I'll close up!”

Although he was ravenous, the assistant was reluctant to take the woman up on her offer.

He thought it best not to leave the pharmacy with a stranger inside. However, after taking a few more seconds to make up his mind, he let his hunger override any other consideration. After eyeing the newcomer
from head to toe as if trying to gauge his degree of decency, Gregorio bid good-bye to his coworker with a hasty “See you later, then.”

The pharmacy emanated a soothing serenity, with its marble counter near the door presided over by an antiquated cash register, the wide arch leading to the back room, the black-and-white-tiled floor resembling a chessboard. Waiting to be served, Daniel killed time by contemplating the ceramic jars lining the glass cabinets, trying to decipher their Latin labels.

“Please excuse me: I was busy unpacking an order . . .”

He quickly extricated his attention from the Latin and turned his head. Hardly ten feet away, there she was, her cheeks flushed from her previous effort while, with quick agile movements, she tried to smooth back the loose curls of her straw-colored mane. Unlike any conventional pharmacist, unlike any of his former classmates. Unlike any other woman he'd ever come across in his life.

“If you tell me what I can help you with . . .”

She spoke with her arms still up in the air, endeavoring to tame the unruly locks while she waited for him to speak. Her large mouth, meanwhile, smiled with a mixture of charm and surprise at the idea of finishing off the morning serving someone so different from the usual clientele.

“I think I've got the flu,” he finally was able to say.

He listened to her in silence while she recommended different remedies to relieve the last symptoms of his general malaise. Then he heard her speak about the treacherous manner in which that climate constantly fooled strangers who tended to believe that the weather was always fair by the Mediterranean. Silent, engrossed, baffled, he listened to the advice with the faith of a convert, unable to take his eyes off her while her hands searched adeptly in cabinets and drawers and placed the medicines on the white marble counter.

When she finished doling out instructions regarding dosage and use, he had no choice but to conclude the transaction. As he counted out the money, he frantically searched for an excuse to prolong his stay and not lose sight of the untidy mane of hair, or the gray eyes or the long fingers, of this unexpected provider of his well-being. But his
dulled brain seemed to deny him any success, instead slowing down his movements and allowing him to take all the time in the world to put away his change.

“You've been most kind. Thank you very much” was his courteous but somewhat formal good-bye.

“You're most welcome,” the woman said, handing him the parcel. It seemed to him that, for a split second, their fingers grazed each other's. “Take care. And bundle up.”

He assented, with the medicines wrapped in thin paper in one hand and a strange sensation somewhere deep within. As black and white tiles directed his steps toward the exit, he sensed her gaze fixed on his back. When he pulled the polished brass door handle, the glass rattled slightly. A step away was the street, where there were people. Anonymous people in crowds in which most likely he'd never again find the face he was about to leave behind.

But then her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Are you a military man from the American base?”

The door swung closed and the glass stopped rattling.

“I'm American, but not military,” he said without turning, without looking at her, without letting go of the handle.

Finally he turned around, and fleetingly, with a vertiginous spark of lucidity, he sensed that somehow he would never altogether leave.

The young lady had anticipated a negative answer before asking the question, since the foreigner didn't look like a military man despite his spotless appearance. His hair was longer than usual for such a profession, and his posture and gestures, although correct, had a more relaxed manner that didn't seem in any way military.

He wanted to offer her something beyond a few clues about his identity; his anxious desire was for her to see him for who he really was, and not simply as a passing client in search of medicine. He told her he was specializing in Spanish literature, that he aspired to be a professor, that he'd come to this port city on the trail of a novel . . .

Suddenly the door opened behind him, preventing him from continuing. Three little whirlwinds full of coughs and mucus stormed into the pharmacy, followed by an overwhelmed mother.

“By a hairbreadth! I thought we weren't going to make it!”

The room all at once filled with voices as the boys began chasing one another while the poor mother alternated between trying to control them and frantically searching for the prescription in her bag. One of them pushed another against a cabinet full of bottles, and the piece of furniture wobbled precariously, threatening to tip over. The culprit received a rap on the head by his mother while the victim ostentatiously exaggerated the effect of the collision, half hiding his face, screaming and stomping furiously on the floor.

Behind the counter, the girl, aware of her inability to recapture the bond between them, shrugged her shoulders and cast Daniel a look of apology and helplessness.

“Don't worry,” he mumbled, forcing a smile that barely showed.

They were oblivious to the family quarrel as they exchanged their last words, looking at each other above the three small rascals and their long-suffering mother.

“Good-bye,” her mouth read, since her voice was lost amid the kids' wails and the mother's angry rebukes.