The Heart Has Its Reasons by María Dueñas Read Free Book Online Page A

significantly better than average considering Spain’s dire educational predicament during the first decades of the twentieth century, when more than sixty percent of the population was illiterate, and teachers—scarce and often lacking proper training—received miserly salaries.
    The system’s shortcomings didn’t bother Andres in the least on that cold morning when he walked down Calle de los Reyes in the company of Marcelino to cross the threshold of the Cardinal Cisneros Institute for the very first time. With the letter that Doña Manolita had left upon her death addressed to the director as a safe-conduct pass, they followed the school clerk with reverential silence as she led them down a wide corridor filled with winter light. Advancing with their laborers’ caps in hand, trying not to make noise with their footsteps, they becameincreasingly aware of the incongruity of their humble appearance in that erudite place.
    They didn’t have to wait for long. A bony bald man came to fetch them from the bench where the school clerk had contemptuously directed them. They both rose as if triggered by a spring; the gentleman barely smiled in greeting. It was Don Eladio de la Mata himself.
    He had them step into his office, which was littered with books, framed degrees, and portraits of other men, equally prominent, who had preceded him in the position. After reading the letter addressed to him by Doña Manolita, he listened attentively to the youth’s statement and with brief but cutting gestures prevented the talkative Marcelino from interrupting him several times to contribute his irrelevant observations. Next he asked Andres a few questions, which in his opinion the young man answered with a maturity and seriousness not in accordance with his origins and age.
    In conclusion, with modulated diction and perfect clarity, Don Eladio explained the principles that Andres needed to follow if indeed he was inclined to complete his studies and enter the university. He spoke of trigonometry, declensions, and commitment; of poets, chemical formulas, and persistence; of equations, syntax, and integrity. The young man listened in rapture, absorbing the words one by one and mentally noting all the names and concepts. When he departed from that office half an hour later, both the director and he himself felt that the goal was attainable. Poor Marcelino, meanwhile, suspected that something fundamental eluded him in life.
    They left the school in silence and wandered the nearby streets. Marcelino, in front, unusually quiet, advanced with long strides, his hands in his pockets, and Andres followed, picking up the pace, trying not to lose him while still savoring Don Eladio’s words. They entered a tavern next to the Mostenses market. Elbowing the crowd, they made their way up to the bar and Marcelino ordered two tumblers of cheap wine. As they drank wordlessly, enveloped by the din, Andres couldn’t figure out what was the matter with Marcelino, what the reason was for his uncharacteristic quietness. He soon found out. The anarchist bricklayer took the last gulp of his drink, set it down with a bang on thecounter, wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, and, eyes fixed intently on the kid, asked him to teach him to read and write.
    From that day onwards, a phase began in Andres’s life in which weeks and months melted into a confused mass of nonstop study locked up in his room. He slept the minimum and ate only when Señora Antonia forced him to, sharing the family’s stew or fried eggs. He made an effort to participate in their conversations, pay attention to the news that Marcelino brought back from the street, and laugh at the boys’ funny remarks. He’d try, but his mind was far away, ruminating on the Pythagorean theorem, considering the periodic table, reciting fragments of the Aeneid : At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura . . .
    His godmother’s monthly allowance