The Heart Has Its Reasons by María Dueñas

group of American professors, from addressing language misunderstandings to finding a doctor at an ungodly hour to simply making the rounds of the most picturesque taverns in Madrid.
    Andres was impressed by everything about those strangers. Their unflagging energy in capturing the simplest scenes with their modern cameras, be it a cat on a roof, a stone coat of arms, or an old woman in mourning selling eggs from a wicker basket hanging from her arm; the ease with which they spent money; the bright, almost thunderous colors of their clothes; those white-toothed smiles. Through them he learned to smoke his first filtered American cigarette and dance to the rhythm of swing with a Valkyrie from Detroit in the Hotel Palace’s ballroom. He was moved, along with them, by the Roman aqueduct in Segovia and Velazquez’s painting Las Meninas ; he tasted the thick chocolate of La Mallorquina for the very first time; he taught the visitors typical expressions as well as how to drink wine out of an earthenware jug. Far from simply being a faithful guide for those three months, he also turned out to be of great help to those insatiable foreigners in practicing their Spanish once classes were concluded. He corrected their pronunciation of the letters j and z, clarified their subjunctives, proofread their essays, and, in short, made sure their stay turned out to be pleasant and fruitful.
    Several weeks before they returned to the States, one of the ­professors—Sarah Bulton, the slender blonde who always wore pants and smoked nonstop, leaving a perpetual rim of scarlet on the filters—informed him that her university had set up a yearly program for bringing in foreign conversation assistants. If he was interested, she couldrecommend him. In the event that he were to accept, besides teaching his own language, he would have the opportunity to take advantage of his year in America to learn English and continue with his education by enrolling in courses relevant to his major: linguistics, American history, comparative literature. At the end of the course he could return to his career in Madrid having seen a bit of the world and having acquired new experiences and acquaintances.
    The Americans returned to their country toward the end of March loaded with beautiful fans, typical pottery, and espadrilles, unaware that they left behind an Andres Fontana whose perspective on the world had been altered for good. He would go to bed turning over the proposal in his mind and would wake up the following morning the same way. Leaving his mining village to move to the capital had been a big step, but accessible; crossing the ocean to stay at an American university seemed more like leaping over a chasm. Immense, but fascinating.
    The spring of 1935 settled in calmly over Madrid as Andres prepared for the last stretch of his course work and impatiently awaited news from the program in Michigan. Four weeks after the Americans left, he received an envelope in the mail that Señora Antonia handed him on his return from the university. Despite the great anxiousness he felt on seeing it, he took it to his room, opened it, and pulled out the letter, sitting down to read it unhurriedly at the foot of his bed. It had been sent by the head of the Department of Classical and Romance Languages, who informed him that, given the highly favorable report that he had received from Professor Bulton, he had the pleasure of extending a formal invitation to take advantage of a grant within the Hispanic studies program at the university. Andres’s responsibilities would include teaching fifteen hours of classes weekly and participating in something called the Spanish Club on Friday afternoons. In exchange, Andres would live on campus, receiving a small stipend for his expenses, and could enroll in as many courses as he wished, tuition free. If need be, the university could pay fifty percent of the trip’s costs. His engagement would last for one