Free The Heart Has Its Reasons by María Dueñas

there, right?” Rebecca asked on the day of the event, popping her head briefly into my office at noon.
    â€œI suppose so. And you?”
    â€œOf course, I never miss it. I’ll come pick you up.”
    The lecture hall was practically full, and everyone was still settling in. The stage, however, remained empty except for a couple of technicians busy installing microphones in front of nine empty chairs. I was relieved that none of them would be mine.
    We bumped into Luis Zarate, who was chatting in the hall with colleagues and students. On seeing us, he broke away from the group and came over.
    â€œI trust you’ll find it interesting, maybe even fun. I would have loved you to participate, Blanca. Perhaps some other time.”
    â€œSome other time, for sure,” I said, knowing full well that such a time would never come. “Are you on the panel?”
    â€œI’m afraid so; I have no other option. I hope I won’t bore you . . .”
    I was convinced that he wouldn’t. He had the gift of gab, wasquick and clever in his conversations, and had a considerable amount of knowledge. I had growing proof of this because we saw each other often: meeting in offices and hallways, or at lunch in the cafeteria.
    Rebecca and I sat at the end of one of the first few rows. Soon the lights dimmed and the panelists took the stage while the room slowly fell silent.
    Luis Zarate, dressed in black as usual, sat in the third chair from the right, where I would have no doubt been sitting had I accepted his invitation. The last panelist to cross the stage in a few long strides was Daniel Carter, the university’s former professor whom I’d met in Meli’s Market. Wearing a jacket but no tie, he looked self-assured, with that contagious energy of someone recently arrived. Before taking a seat he went around giving the other speakers handshakes, affectionate gestures, and a quick hug or two. But he was unable to exchange a word with our chairman: when he passed by Luis Zarate, the latter seemed absorbed with writing something in his agenda.
    â€œWhy is your friend there?” I asked Rebecca in a murmur as Daniel finally sat down next to the moderator.
    â€œThey always invite a visiting professor who has something to do with the Hispanic world, just like Zarate invited you.”
    â€œWasn’t he only passing through?”
    Although it was impossible for him to have heard me, just then he spotted us and gave us a quick wave.
    â€œHe’s thinking of staying longer than he initially intended,” Rebecca explained in a quick whisper.
    There were no more explanations: the moderator had started introducing the various participants. A Guatemalan painter, a professor from the Art Department, dressed in a huipil covered with embroidered flowers and birds. A young, skinny Argentinian professor with a blond goatee, a specialist in international economic relations. A mature journalist, just back from Ecuador, where her daughter worked for the Peace Corps. A graduate student about to finish her dissertation regarding relations between the United States and Chile during the Allende period. Along with my two acquaintances, plus two other participants whose affiliations I didn’t catch.
    The debate flowed smoothly. In deference to the majority of the audience, English was for the most part the language used, although everyone peppered it with Spanish when references or evocations so required.
    They spoke of domestic and international issues related to the Spanish-speaking world, and offered opinions and forecasts regarding the twenty-first century. The subjects were wide-ranging: Hugo Chavez’s rise to power in Venezuela, Pastrana’s dialogues in Colombia with the FARC guerrillas, Clinton’s increasingly flexible policies toward Cuba, the Latin invasion of pop music, and finally the chances of an Oscar nomination for Pedro Almodovar’s film All About My Mother . That was