The Heart Has Its Reasons Read Online Free Page B

modern prints, books and papers enviably in order. Without being altogether minimalist, it came quite close to it.
    â€œFor us,” he went on, “it has been very gratifying to strike this deal with SAPAM to subsidize your work. Any initiative that involves attracting research from other institutions is always welcome. Although we weren’t expecting someone with your background . . .”
    His words put me on guard. I did not want to discuss the reasons that had pushed me to apply for this position so far from my area of expertise. I had no intention of being sincere, nor did I feel like inventing an awkward lie. So I chose to change the course of the conversation instead.
    â€œSAPAM and the department have been incredibly efficient in making all of the arrangements, and here I am, already immersed in my work. Santa Cecilia is turning out to be a very pleasant change of scenery to finish out the momentous year of 1999. Perhaps the world will come to an end as well while I’m here,” I said, trying to be clever.
    To my relief, he smiled at my clumsy joke.
    â€œWhat paranoia, this business of the end of the millennium! And in Spain all this madness must be affecting you all the more so now that the euro is about to become the new currency. How is it progressing, by the way? When will the old pesetas cease to function?”
    The reasons behind my applying for this fellowship turned out to be of less interest to the department chairman than a superficial conversation about recent events in my country on the threshold of the new century. We talked of Spain in general, of the situation in Spanish universities, of everything and nothing. In the interim, I moved out of harm’s way and, while I was at it, took advantage of the chance to have a thorough look at him.
    I figured he must be three or four years younger than myself; recently turned forty, no doubt, but no older than that. There were the unmistakable signs of gray streaks at his temples and small creases at the corners of his eyes, which did not in any way diminish his appeal. He was the son of a Chilean psychologist, he explained, and a trauma surgeon from Santander who had been living in the U.S. for a long while but with whom he didn’t seem to have much contact.
    Luis Zarate clearly enjoyed talking, and I selfishly took advantage of the situation, giving him free rein. The less I had to explain about my own matters, the better. I was already familiar with his academic career, but discovered that he had been in Santa Cecilia only a couple of years and that his intention was to leave as soon as possible in pursuit of a ­position at some prestigious East Coast university. To my relief,after having spent more than half an hour chatting with him, I was convinced that this specialist in postmodern cultural studies couldn’t have cared less about the yellowing bits of paper belonging to an old professor who’d been dead for three decades. Thus I would be able to continue working at ease without having to give explanations to anyone.
    I was already in the hallway, about to make my way back to the storeroom, when, as if not quite willing to let me go, he called me back from his office door.
    â€œI think it would be a good idea to organize a little get-together to introduce you to the rest of our department colleagues.” He did not wait for my answer. “At noon on Thursday, for instance,” he added. “Next door in the conference room.”
    Why not? It would do me good to climb out of my hole and socialize a little, I thought. It would also be a convenient way to put names to some of the faces I had been coming across in hallways and on campus.
    The proposed lunch date finally rolled around. The conference room was quite large, with several windows, a bookcase full of old leather-bound books, and a collection of photos displayed on the wall. The university’s catering service had prepared a cold buffet of