8

IAGO

Mars Day, the eleventh day of the month of Luis

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

T here were barely two unoccupied tables in BACus; all the others were taken by tourists and visitors to the museum. We headed to the bar together, where I ordered my usual, and Adriana asked for a latte. After we chose some pinchos , I nodded in the direction of the table at the back of the room, on the other side of the wooden railing. We’d be comfortable there, well away from the stares of inquisitive busybodies.

BACus had the air of the cafés of the late nineteenth century. The floor looked like a chessboard, the square tables had white marble tops and black wrought-iron feet, and the mirrors had period frames. The fire in 1941, which destroyed the historical center of Santander, left the city without a single café from that era, so we assumed that a little nostalgia might fill our coffers, and we hadn’t been mistaken.

“So, what’s brought you back to your old neighborhood?” I asked, sounding her out.

“Call it homesickness,” she replied as she looked around her in a distracted manner.

Just then the waiter brought over a tray with our hot pinchos .

“Do you live with your parents?” I offered her a mushroom vol-au-vent. “Try this. The mushrooms are local, from the Valle de Pas.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a bite. “You’re right; it’s delicious. Is this a redcurrant sauce?” Unselfconsciously, she touched her finger to the vibrant sauce and brought it to her mouth, savoring the tartness.

I realized I was staring at her at about the same time she realized I was still waiting for the answer to my question.

“Oh, yes, my parents. I’ve practically lived on my own since my mother died when I was seventeen. Not long after that, my father and I moved to Madrid. But my father is a traveling salesman, and he’s always on the road. So it’s just me, although I’m living in the apartment where I grew up. Will you please pass me a croquette?”

“Of course. They’re not the ones from the Este Market, but—”

“Oh! The Este Market . . . It’s been a long time since I went in there. Thank you for the reminder! It’s the first thing I’ll do when I finish work today. And what about you? Have you been here right from the start?”

Quite literally , I thought, smiling to myself. And you’re an expert at changing the topic.

“Yes, since we set up the museum four years ago.”

“Amazing. So you’ve been technical coordinator since you were thirty. That’s some record.”

“Thirty-one,” I specified. “And why does that surprise you so much?”

“I’m just astonished that you’re so young,” she explained, shifting nervously in her seat. “All the coordinators I’ve known so far spent time in various departments of museums, which usually meant at least a few decades gaining experience, so they were all in their fifties. And you must be . . . thirty-five.”

“And seven months,” I interjected.

This is starting to be surrealistic , I thought. And I admit I’m not a patient man.

“So you think I can have a general idea of all the areas, but I can’t be an expert in . . . your prehistory period, let’s say?” I challenged her.

“I really didn’t mean to offend you, Iago, or doubt you. It was more of a compliment. But,” she said carefully, “your youthfulness is so . . . striking.”

Well, this will be amusing.

“I’m not offended, but it would be better if we cleared up this misunderstanding right from the start. If we’re going to be working together, I need you to have as much confidence in me and my expertise as you have in your own. After all, you are quite young, too.”

“So what do you propose? That we put it to the test? That isn’t what I was suggesting, seriously,” she said, more and more nervous.

You testing me? My dear girl, I had already spent millennia wearing out the ground you’re standing on when the notion of a test was first mooted.

“I have a better idea,” I suggested. “Let’s play for the last salmon pincho . Ladies first. Come on, pick your topic.”

“As you please, but just for the record, it’s not that I have any doubts about you.”

“Come on, start.” I gave an enigmatic smile; I’d always enjoyed pretending to be offended.

“Let me see . . . ” she said, looking around her for inspiration.

The waiter came over to our table again, carrying a tray.

“Your espresso, sir.”

“Thanks, José.”

“Got it,” she said after she’d briefly scrutinized my coffee. Her eyes sparkled. Was that a hint of mischief? She seemed to have started to enjoy our game. “How long have we been drinking milk?”

“As adults? About seven thousand five hundred years. The mutation that enables us to digest dairy products throughout adulthood originated in the Balkans.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed, a look of surprise on her face. That raised eyebrow really was going to cause me grief, I could tell already. “That study was published in PLOS Biology .”

“August 2009. Are you going to limit yourself to questions about journal reviews?” I persisted.

“Okay, let’s change the topic,” she suggested, becoming more excited. “When did the last Neanderthal become extinct?”

“The remains of the most recent specimen suggest it was about twenty-eight thousand years ago, in the Gorham’s Cave in Gibraltar.”

And if you were more open, Héctor would be able to give you more details than you could ever dream about.

“Fine,” she said. “Did they hunt with harpoons?”

“Definitely not.”

“Body painting?”

“Well, that would depend on the clan in question, Adriana. Each one had its own aesthetics. Cultural anthropology and the concept of ‘ethnicity’ come to mind. Although in general terms, Neanderthals mainly used black and ochre.”

“That’s a supposition,” she countered, shaking her head. “I assume you say that because they’ve found kilos of iron oxide in some of the caves. But that’s not sufficient to allow you to infer that they painted their bodies. We’ll never have any evidence of their external appearance.”

Ask Héctor. He’ll tell you.

“Of course,” I conceded. “Keep going.”

“Do you think they interbred with us? That at some stage human-Neanderthal hybrids were born?”

“Yes, we were living together in Europe and the Near East for many millennia. Tell me, when have we Homo sapiens ever missed an opportunity to spread our seed? The proximity would have proven irresistible.”

“True, but even if physical contact had occurred, it remains to be seen whether or not we were different species. Intercourse and interbreeding are not the same. If Neanderthals were a different species, a hybrid would not be viable.”

How can I explain to you that . . . ?

“Any more questions?” I asked, sipping the last of my coffee.

“Did they have language?”

“Of course they did. Though their language was rudimentary, with just two or three vowels and more examples of onomatopoeia than we have.”

“How can you assert that without batting an eyelid? At this stage we only know they had the gene that enables the capacity for speech, but until the similarities with our gene are examined, we can’t be sure.”

“I’m also up-to-date on Operation Neanderthal Genome,” I replied. “Although I understand that you’re not asking me for a summary but rather that I give you my opinion. But go on: give me your conclusions. Based on the data we have, do you believe they spoke?”

“I think we can’t know that right now. We have to wait for the complete DNA sequence.”

“That’s obvious, but think about it for a minute. Allow yourself to make inferences based on the evidence, as you were suggesting we help our visitors do in the new Interpretive Center,” I insisted. “We have Neanderthal burial grounds throughout Europe and Eurasia. All the tombs face the rising sun. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Not enough to allow us to conclude that they spoke,” she reasserted as she finished off the last crab pincho .

“But enough to be able to deduce it. How else could they have done it? Those discoveries suggest a common religion, or at least belief in some sort of life after death. How can something so profound be transmitted without articulating a single word? Tell me, Adriana, are you one of those people who only believe in the answers we can get from fossils?”

She was silent for a few seconds before she answered. And she refused to pursue my line of thought.

“Iago, I think we’re caught up in the classic archaeological debate. I also think that we won’t be able to shed light on the questions it raises for a few decades.”

“You’re right,” I conceded.

And it may not be in your lifetime.

“In any case, you’ve won my respect as a prehistorian. The salmon pincho is yours,” she said, pushing the dish in my direction and winking.

With her smile and that wink, she did know how to conclude an argument, I conceded. “Well, well, much appreciated.” Especially the salmon. “Come on. Let’s head back to the office.”

In my mind I erased the earlier thought that she was going to be easy to work with.

And despite that, I smiled to myself.

What the hell! If nothing else, we won’t be bored together.