The Heart Has Its Reasons Read Online Free Page A

a stove at my feet. To pay for babysitters, day care, baby food, and a thirdhand Renault 5, to finally move to a rented apartment with central heating and two terraces. To prove to the world that my existence was not a failure. All this had been left behind and in this new chapter only I was left.
    Impelled by the sudden lucidity that the memories had brought, I removed my hands from my face, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the cold ugly light, I rolled my shirtsleeves up past my elbows.
    â€œGreater heights than this have been scaled,” I whispered.
    I had no idea about where to start organizing the disastrous legacy of Professor Andres Fontana, but I rushed headlong to work as if my entire life depended on the task.

Chapter 3
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    T he first few days were the worst: submerged in the storeroom, trying to find a thread of congruity amid the chaos. Dozens of notepads were scattered among folios, reams of yellowing papers, and countless letters and cards. Everything stacked on shelves that risked collapsing or in ramshackle piles on the verge of toppling over.
    After the first week I gained a certain confidence, and despite the snail’s pace I began to negotiate that shapeless mess more efficiently, giving each document a quick glance to ascertain its contents and assign it a corresponding category according to my rudimentary organizational scheme: literary criticism, prose and poetry, history of Spain, history of California, and personal correspondence.
    I’d begin work before nine a.m. and wouldn’t stop until past five o’clock in the afternoon, with a short lunch break in some corner of the campus cafeteria when I would absentmindedly leaf through the university’s newspaper. Usually it was rather late, toward two o’clock, when the cleaning crew would begin their perfunctory mopping of the floor and when only a few students were left scattered among the tables, some busy reading, others dozing off, still others wearily underlining in their books before finishing off their lunch.
    I finally met Luis Zarate, the department chairman, one day whenI needed scissors to cut the tape from some bundles and mine were nowhere to be found, lost no doubt beneath some pile or other. Unable to locate Fanny to borrow a pair, I went to Rebecca’s office, where I bumped into her and Zarate going over a course syllabus together. She, seated, speaking deliberately. He, standing beside her with hands leaning on the table as he bent over the syllabus, seemed to be listening to her attentively. My first glance registered a slender, well-groomed man of roughly my own age with brown hair and rimless eyeglasses, wearing dark gray pants, a black shirt, and a light-gray tie.
    Once we had exchanged pleasantries, he invited me to accompany him back to his office. I inwardly regretted the deplorable state of my attire. My overly casual clothes, resistant to grime and cobwebs, would hardly make a professional impression on the person who was in effect my new boss. I looked dusty and disheveled, with a ponytail that could barely restrain my hair and dust-covered hands that I was forced to rub against the seat of my trousers before extending one to greet him.
    â€œWell, I’m delighted to welcome you to our department, Professor Perea,” he said, pointing to an armchair in front of his desk. “Or Blanca, if you’ll allow me,” he added while taking his seat.
    His cordiality sounded authentic and his Spanish excellent: polite, modulated, with a slight accent that I was not quite able to pinpoint.
    â€œBlanca, please,” I agreed. “I’m equally delighted, and thankful to have been accepted.”
    â€œIt’s always a pleasure to receive visiting professors, although we’re not used to having many from Spain. So your visit pleases us all the more.”
    I took advantage of that initial exchange of pleasantries to take a quick look around his office. Adjustable steel table lamp,