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ADRIANA

Friday, January 13, 2012

I ago del Castillo , Iago del Castillo , I kept repeating to myself as I drove ever more speedily to the museum. I had a job interview in twenty minutes, and I was having difficulty saying the name of the person upon whom my new life in Santander depended without stumbling over it. I won’t deny it—I was desperate to change cities. Not even the bad weather that had been punishing the north of the country these past weeks had been able to dissuade me from going through with this latest move. As I drove I kept an eye on the heavy clouds heading toward me, and I took their presence as an invitation to come home.

To be honest, it wasn’t so much the urge to return to my birthplace that was motivating me as leaving behind the dead end that my life in Madrid had become. I couldn’t wait to be rid of a boss whose reputation added prestige to my job at the National Museum of Archaeology, despite the fact that he appropriated all my articles and forced himself to smile as he asked me for a thousand and one favors without displacing a single gray hair. Then there was the ex-boyfriend determined to reprise a long-finished story, and an absent father with whom I’ve always felt uncomfortable. Madrid no longer held any appeal.

Elisa Garrido, a friend and former fellow student at the Complutense University of Madrid, had recommended me for the position of chief curator of the Prehistory Department of the Museum of Archaeology of Cantabria, just outside Santander.

“Take the highway out of Santander in the direction of Torrelavega and head for the Portío district. You’ll eventually find yourself on the Costa Quebrada. Keep going past the turnoff, and you’ll see the sign for the entrance to the Museum of Archaeology of Cantabria. Though we employees call it the MAC.

“And we call the bosses by their first names. They’re brothers: Héctor and Iago del Castillo, the deputy director and the technical coordinator. They have another brother, Jairo, who’s the patron saint—the one who puts up all the money—although you won’t see much of him.

“So come and join us. People the world over are fighting to work here, and with your résumé you’ll have no difficulty in getting them to hire you. I don’t know why you’re still in Madrid wasting your time doing office work. You’ve turned into a bureaucrat.”

Elisa was a Cantabrian in her thirties like me, but that was where any similarity ended, because she was married and had had three children in five years. With my cousin Marcos, if you please.

The bureaucrat dig pricked my pride so much that it took me less than two hours to send my impressive ré sumé off to Elisa. The phone call from Iago del Castillo’s secretary at the MAC wasn’t long in coming either.

Barely half a mile after the turnoff, I reached a headland jutting out from the cliffs. I let out a whistle of admiration when I saw the museum. The monumental MAC building was an old house built at the beginning of the twentieth century by indianos —Cantabrian emigrants to the Americas who had returned to their homeland with their fortunes. The red façade of the building stood out from the gray rock and competed with the dark green of the trees in the garden, which also contained exotic plants brought back by the indianos to remind their neighbors of the source of their family wealth. As if the neighbors weren’t reminded of this each time they said, “Yes, sir.”

My car crept up the wide gravel driveway with the caution of a hunter. I steered around the building to the staff parking lot, a grass-free area of leveled ground at the rear of the museum. I parked on the edge of the cliff, next to a lavender bush that was miraculously clinging to life despite the fierce wind battering it. From that spot I could make out the hazy cliffs of the Costa Quebrada as if I were seeing it from inside a Monet painting. I checked the time on my cell phone.

Five minutes. I’m not going to make it , I thought.

As soon as I got out of the car with the folder I had prepared, a gust of wind whipped my hair into my face. I grabbed some sprigs of lavender and rubbed them between my hands. Then I inhaled the perfume, hoping to experience the calming effect of the lavender, composed myself with a smile, and buttoned the jacket of my suit.

Two enormously tall palm trees stood watch at the main entrance like praetorian guards. I went up a few steps and crossed the threshold of the enormous, ancient wooden door. Once I was inside, the noise of the wind and surf that had almost deafened me at the cliff edge disappeared, giving way to a welcoming silence. I crossed the entrance hall to the stairs at the back. The wide, polished wooden handrail curved its way up four floors as if a vine had sprung up inside the building. It was obvious there was no elevator; clearly, the renovations had adhered faithfully to the original design of the building.

I took advantage of the fact that there was no one in sight and raced up the stairs to the top floor. I flew down the narrow corridor, though I couldn’t stop myself from leaning over the balustrade and looking down. The rooms were arranged around a covered inner patio in the style of a Madrid courtyard. I could see a few people on the third floor glancing up at me out of the corner of their eyes while pretending to work. When I reached the door Elisa had told me to go to, I smoothed my hair one last time and knocked.

“Good morning. My name is Adriana Alameda. I’m here to see Iago del Castillo.”

The secretary smiled mechanically at me. The voice that emerged from the woman with the thick mane of black curls was as polite as it was icy.

“Please go into the office on the right.”

I opened the door. The room had a certain air of the very old, like the rest of the building. Perhaps the solid, top-quality wood of the table and shelving was responsible. Even so, the office had a welcoming warmth about it. I could see a well-thumbed copy of Baltasar Gracián’s philosophical handbook The Art of Worldly Wisdom on the armrest of a leather chair. The picture windows at this privileged height looked out over the rear of the museum and beyond, and the wind was just a pleasant murmur that occasionally rattled the glass. I couldn’t stop myself from walking to the window.

The contrast to my office in Madrid was offensive. There, the farthest I could see was a poster of Homo habilis I had personally placed on my bare wall in the majestic building of the National Museum of Archaeology. I had never inquired, but it was clear that I wouldn’t have been allowed any further decorative license.

“I see you’re enjoying the view,” said a pleasant voice behind me.

“My apologies. It’s stunning. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Adriana Alameda.”

He held out his hand to me, his eyes smiling. He wasn’t your typical executive, despite the dark-blue suit and the carefully selected tie. His affable manner wasn’t the product of a course in social skills; he’d been born with it.

“Héctor del Castillo. And no formalities, please; I’m not that old. I was expecting you. My brother Iago usually handles the interviews, since he’s the one you’ll be working with most closely, rather than me. But he’s been called away for a few days and, as you know, we have to hire someone for the Prehistory Department as a matter of urgency. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll move right on to your application.” Pointing to a chair, he asked, “Would you care for something to drink or something to snack on?”

“No, thank you. I just had something in Santander,” I lied.

I couldn’t help feeling shattered. My immediate boss wasn’t even going to interview me? It didn’t look very promising. I headed in the direction of the chair, unsure where to leave my bag.

Calm down, Dana. Elisa said they were looking for someone with your profile. There’s no reason why there should be anything wrong .

“Good. Let’s start, then.”

He helped himself to a mineral water from the bar cabinet and sat down. I hadn’t had a good look at him yet. He seemed to be in his early forties, although the suit and the odd gray hair at his temples made him look somewhat older. There was something imposing about him even though he was neither especially tall nor particularly solid. He stood about five foot seven, maybe a bit more. Hazel eyes, brown hair, and a face that would undoubtedly have been considered attractive over the years.

“Iago and I have looked over your ré sumé. I have to say that we were both impressed by the number of sites and museums you’ve worked at in the past few years. You haven’t missed a single one, at least not in Europe . . . ”

He rattled off names I knew by heart because at some point they had all been temporary domiciles of mine. Then he leaned toward me eagerly, as if he were going to ask me for the location of Troy.

“You worked on the Neanderthal Genome Project at El Sidrón cave?”

“Yes, until about two years ago. Then major cuts in the funding forced them to let some of us go.”

“Tell me, what was it like working there?”

“We were a multidisciplinary team—geneticists, paleontologists, and archaeologists.” It’s possible my eyes sparkled as I spoke. “It was pure science fiction. We’d go down into the excavation site in white space suits, sterilized from head to toe.”

“Are you still in touch with people at the sites where you’ve worked?” he wanted to know as he finished off his glass of water.

A feeling of relief washed over me. If he continued down that route, the interview was going to be a breeze.

“Yes, of course. Most of us have formed groups on the Internet, and we continue to collaborate. Social networks for archaeologists, like Arquelógika here in Spain, are very active these days.”

Héctor nodded by way of reply. “I’ll be honest with you. What we need from you is to arrange agreements—memoranda of understanding—with other institutions in Spain and Europe. We want to push the Prehistory Department and increase the number of temporary exhibitions.”

“I don’t anticipate any difficulties. It would be a question of matching interests and suitable dates, but most, if not all, of them will be more than happy to collaborate. Would there be anything else expected of me?”

“To tell the truth, this year’s program is already finalized, but next year’s is still to be worked out. The person who was employed in this position left a few months ago, so Iago has taken charge of the department, as well as continuing to coordinate everything else, so we’d want you to get up to speed right away.”

“As far as I’m concerned that wouldn’t be a problem. Elisa had already mentioned some of this to me. In fact, I’ve brought a proposal for a program with me, based on what’s being done at the leading archaeological museums.”

I offered him the folder I was holding, trusting he wouldn’t notice my sweaty hand. I could tell from the expression on his face that he wasn’t expecting this. He leafed through it for a few minutes, genuinely interested. I began to think I’d gained a few brownie points.

“They say you’re the youngest person at the National Museum of Archaeology,” he commented without looking up from my report.

“True.” I wriggled somewhat nervously in my chair. Where was this heading?

“They also say it’s only a matter of time before they announce a permanent position to fit your profile.”

“They’re saying that?”

What else could I say? My boss, Federico Santos, had offered me a temporary position at the National over a year ago. The tacit agreement had consisted of my becoming his obedient slave in return for his pulling the strings to ensure that I, his star assistant, ended up with a permanent position. But Santos was about to retire and had become bored with his career, although not with continuing to see his name on all the articles and introductory commentaries about prehistory archaeology in Spain. It wasn’t difficult to guess who was responsible for the content of all that work.

“Let me put it another way,” he said, pushing a wooden bowl full of hazelnuts in my direction. “Are you sure you want to leave the future job of your life in Madrid to come and work with us? We started this MAC venture barely four years ago; who knows how it will end.”

“Don’t be so modest. They don’t give the European Museum of the Year award to just anyone. And to answer your question, yes, I’m sure. I would like to put down roots in Santander.” I shrugged my shoulders and added, “Call it homesickness.”

“I can understand that,” he smiled.

“Also, I need to work in a more dynamic institution,” I said in a burst of sincerity. “My instincts as an archaeologist are getting rusty.”

I don’t know what it was about Héctor, but something in his friendly manner encouraged me to trust him with information beyond the strictly professional. On the one hand, I wasn’t used to encountering this type of casualness in my work environment, but on the other, it was pleasant finally to be able to relax a little.

“Let me level with you, Adriana. This interview was a mere formality. Given your ré sumé and the reference Elisa provided for you, Iago made it perfectly clear that he wanted to hire you—no question. So if you accept, we could move on to the practical aspects. When could you start?”

I sank back in my chair, free at last of all the tension I’d been carrying inside me. I’m sure Héctor realized this, because he hid a little smile as he helped himself to the last of the nuts in the bowl.

To be honest, I’d been expecting the typical three-step job interview: condescending questions to start with, followed by a portion where you’re put under pressure to see how you react in stressful situations, and then the dollop of cream at the end to leave you with a pleasant taste in your mouth. But there was none of that. It wasn’t really an interview, more like a welcome.

Once we’d discussed a few details and determined my starting date, Héctor got up from his armchair, opened a drawer in the table, and took out a bunch of keys.

“Come on, I’ll show you around the museum. By the way, I see you haven’t brought an umbrella with you.” He walked over to the old brass umbrella stand—one of those that always have an English frigate painted on them—and extracted a large red umbrella in the same shade as the façade of the building. It had a wooden handle and a screen-printed outline of the museum on one side. “It’ll start to rain as soon as the gallego —the nor’easter—stops blowing.”

I looked at him in the same way I used to look at my grandfather when he got going on the weather. Héctor picked up on it and burst out laughing.

“Don’t look at me like that. The northeasterly wind always brings rain with it. A meteorologist would be able to give you the scientific reasons, but you’d better believe it. It’s always been so.”

“In that case, thank you,” I said good-humoredly, not the least bit inclined to disagree with him. I took the umbrella he was offering, and together we went downstairs to the exhibition halls on the ground floor, the only level open to the public.

An hour later, in the vestibule, Héctor said good-bye to me with a broad smile, although I had to wait quite a while before I could go out to my car: the storm was blowing with such force that not even the big umbrella was going to keep me from becoming totally drenched.

Once the downpour stopped, I drove to my apartment in downtown Santander, in the elegant Plaza de Pombo. I opened the door with a shout of, “Mamá, I’m home,” but she didn’t answer.

She never did.

I walked down the empty passage and headed for my mother’s study. I was exultant. I’d successfully passed my first test, and I felt strong enough to take on any task. Maybe this was the impetus I needed.

An orderly collection of black notebooks filled the bookshelf in front of me from floor to ceiling. The clues I really sought were somewhere in there. Because the fact is that the decision to move into my parents’ apartment was by no means accidental. Having spent every insomniac night of the past fifteen years haunted by an uncertainty, I’d finally decided to get to the bottom of it, no matter how unpleasant it might be—to find out exactly what had happened on the afternoon that changed my life and the life of my small family forever.

There was no going back.