Free The Heart Has Its Reasons by María Dueñas Page A

when the sparks flew.
    â€œMention of that prize gives me great satisfaction,” Zarate said as soon as the subject was raised. “And not only because of the recognition it would confer on the wonderful creative quality of the filmmaker himself but, fundamentally, because it finally confirms what some of my colleagues have refused or have been unable to appreciate in recent Spanish cinema.”
    No one replied; all the speakers waited for him to continue, not quite understanding his meaning.
    â€œI’m referring to,” he went on, “the reactionary position taken by a specific sector of our Hispanic studies academic community.”
    His panel colleagues remained silent. Until, unexpectedly, Daniel Carter slowly unglued his back from his chair, leaned forward, and, instead of speaking to the public, turned to him.
    â€œOut of mere curiosity, Professor Zarate, might that assertion have something to do with myself?”
    â€œI don’t think that Professor Zarate’s intention was to—” the moderator tried to intervene.
    â€œBecause if that were the case—and forgive me, Raymond, please,” he continued, interrupting the moderator while raising his hand so that he’d be allowed to continue, “—if that were the case, perhaps you could be more direct and explicit instead of hiding behind what must be for the audience some confusing rhetorical posturing.”
    â€œYou’re totally free to interpret my words as you please, Professor Carter,” Luis Zarate answered with a trace of haughtiness.
    â€œThen explain yourself more clearly so that you’ll be free from subjective interpretations.”
    â€œAll I’ve tried to say is that perhaps such a nomination would encourage some academic researchers to reconsider their assessment of Almodovar’s output—”
    â€œI don’t think anyone in our profession has ever questioned the quality and originality of Pedro Almodovar’s movies.”
    â€œâ€”assessment of Almodovar’s output as well as other productions of equal interest, I repeat, as a cultural product worthy of the most thorough scientific study,” Zarate continued, completely ignoring his interlocutor.
    The far-ranging debate had suddenly devolved into a sort of corrosive ping-pong match between two lone players. The public, meanwhile, kept up with the nimble exchange of opinions without a clear idea of where it was all leading.
    Despite the sophisticated dialogue, I began to sense something more. Something personal, carnal, human. It slithered beneath each of their interruptions, although neither one of them mentioned it outright. Something must have happened at some point in the past to give rise to the palpable hostility between the veteran visiting professor and the chairman of the Modern Languages Department.
    The dispute amplified. Luis Zarate attacked with an incessant sputter of words and very little body language: static, backed only by the movement of a pen that he occasionally jabbed against the table to stress his point. Daniel Carter, for his part, accompanied his words with more generous gesticulations as he leaned back in his chair with the apparent ease of someone with a good number of battles under his belt.
    â€œWhat I’m trying to say is there are lots of academics who are still stuck in old social criticism,” Luis Zarate insisted, “as if no advances have been made in either research methodology or Spanish culture since Carlos Saura or the publication of Time of Silence by Martin-Santos. As if the Marxist compromise was still alive and Spain was still a country of brass bands, castanets, and bullfights.”
    â€œGood God, Zarate, don’t tell me we’re discussing bullfights today . . .”
    Perhaps it was the tone more than the comment itself that brought a peal of laughter from the audience. I looked around and noticed that, far from being annoyed, most of the