The Assassin (L2.1)

Dr. Lavinia Rivers is on half-salary leave from her university. That means she isn’t teaching any classes, but she’s being allowed to do an extraordinary research project. Or more. It wasn’t clear to her yet what price she might have to pay for her special status, but she couldn’t worry about that.

She knew she had been able to keep her position due to a stroke of good luck: an international scholar had contacted the department chair to inquire if there were any positions available. The chair knew which of the two women would be more ‘useful’, and had granted Lavinia’s request. Still, she had made a huge promise and didn’t know if she could keep it. She had to come up with something never done or studied before. 

Unfortunately, except for discovering an unpublished manuscript or an author nobody had ever read, there was not much new under the academic sun when it came to library studies or gender studies. For the latter field, especially, because the market was flooded. Finding something truly groundbreaking was going to be hard, but she had to take the risk.

And so Lavinia is cautiously trying to find a direction for her research when she hears about a well-known restaurant that was once frequented by many, including - as the story goes - Valle-Inclán, Lorca, and Unamuno. Three extremely famous writers, a Galician, an Andalusian, and a Basque. Not that where they were from mattered. 

Lavinia, having been reading more literature than before arriving in Santiago, thinks about the three famous men and how all three would die in 1936, the tragic year of Franco’s fascist revolt. Not from the war itself, but perhaps there had been something in the water? Somebody had referred to the restaurant we’ll call The Assassin in English, because it’s too confusing to go back and forth between El Asesino (Castilian) and O Asasino (Galician). People around town varied in how they called it.

After a few days, maybe a couple weeks, Lavinia hears about The Assassin again and is becoming curious about it. Curiosity had always been both blessing and blunder for her, but she saw no danger in being curious in this case, despite the restaurant’s ominous name.

The researcher can’t help wondering why it is named in a manner that surely would not attract customers. Logically, she looks online, and is saddened. The first link states that The Assassin is permanently closed, with exclamation point. Disheartened, Lavinia Searches some more on the internet and reads the restaurant is going to reopen. She is obviously confused, because the notices have approximately the same date.

Lavinia is still also curious about the name, The Assassin. One story that is online is about an employee chasing after a chicken to prepare it for the meal, a chopping knife in his hand. Seeing the chase, the customers call out: “Assassin! Don’t kill it!” Nobody mentions when the locale, which opened in the 1870s or 1880s in an old stone building of modest proportions, acquired its name or if it was named something else first. Had it been such a humble eatery that it couldn’t afford a sign?

Presently the sign has a woman with a knife running after a hen. But asesino or asasino, it doesn’t matter which language you use, is masculine gender in both: -o. Lavinia wondered if she was allowing her gender studies training to distort her thinking, but she couldn’t let go of the asesino/asasino being represented on the restaurant’s sign by the image of a woman. She knew a little about retranca, Galician-style humor, and began to develop a theory.

Lavinia has heard the restaurant was very sketchy, so something must have happened since the big literary guns went there. She had conjured up an image, based on the odd looks on the faces of the people who had mentioned it. It has so far seemed to be very little above the soup kitchen that wasn’t all that far away, near the market. Plus, none of her friends has anything specific to say nor do they mention the food or decor. A real dive, maybe. Unsafe to eat there, maybe.

Then she has two further experiences to underwrite her natural penchant to learn about even the oddest of things

What she has now heard next is not a remark made directly to her. She overhears it first on República Arxentina Street and then while walking along one of the Agalias: ‘It happened right outside El Asesino’. Twice, and not the same speakers. Also, Lavinia knows they were referring to two separate incidents because of the snatches of words she catches.

She is determined to get into The Assassin to look around at what she is imagining to be the worst restaurant in all of Compostela. Maybe if she goes to the address, somebody in the area will know how to get in. More probable is that there’s a sign with contact information or one announcing the reopening.

Standing and surveying the original site, somebody passes by to Lavinia’s left and whispers:

“There’s a new site for The Assassin. Go see it.” 

Lavinia heads in the direction pointed out to her. It’s more or less straight ahead, along streets whose names she hasn’t het memorized but will. It is not more than a five-minute walk, quite a bit less than comfortable, given that these stones have gotten less attention from visitors’ feet than the ones around the Catedral. Somewhere there’s a curve, which may or may not be a signal that the narrow little street has changed names. There are streets in Santiago that do that.

She arrives, not seeing any doorway that could possibly lead to a restaurant, even a low-level one like The Assassin must be. There are no lower-level windows open, no lights visible at the exact address she has. Others shine, from both sides, but not the one she’s facing.

She senses another person through a speck of granite displaced by a shoe, and is immediately approached by somebody. This does not surprise her at all, not after the events that occurred during her first months in Galicia. It also doesn’t surprise her that it is not clear whether the person who has drawn near is male or female. It shouldn’t matter, but women are socialized to become tense if a male stranger approaches. Nobody needs a degree in gender studies to be aware of that.

Against all her better judgment, Lavinia remains in the same place, meaning both the stranger and she are mostly in the shadows. She waits quietly, completely aware that the mentions of The Assassin were planned prompts, designed to nudge her in a certain direction. She decides that, at least for the moment, she will, as they say, ‘trust the process’. Not that she likes the overworked phrase, but it fit how she was thinking.

The figure finally speaks in an indescribable voice with an up-and-down lilt that Lavinia so loves:

“We’ve got something that about which we want your opinion.”

Then the figure turns toward the door, back to Lavinia, tugs on the old iron latch, and enters. Turning around slightly, the figure signals to her to enter as well.

The room is large and does have windows, just none facing the street at the level of passersby. The old, rough-hewn walls are clean. Some areas have been smoothed out and painted white. This is not a run-down eatery nor a soup kitchen. It’s not a large enough space. 

(But wait! Wasn’t the original locale very dingy and cramped? Maybe this new version is sufficient after all?)

It doesn’t really look like it’s planned for a restaurant at all, nice as it looks. 

(Something’s up. The last time I got involved when a place was being renovated. Now i show up just after the renovation is complete.)

She asks herself what is the purpose of all the suspense, although it’s not the most creative. Why not just ask me if I can help resolve a question because I speak English?

(Something doesn’t seem right.)

She considers that this might bethe work of some of her friends who really believe She can help after the box from A Tertulia that led her to the Graystockings? 

(N.B.: The Graystockings are a clandestine, monochromatic group of women charged with protecting valuable information.)

On the other hand, those accidents I’ve had and a few odd glances could mean something. Is it some persons or persons who dislike me, who wish I would leave? Almost everybody has been so generous with me. It’s probably my PTSD from work that’s giving me this idea, but I can’t help it. 

She waits for about five minutes, sitting in a smooth chestnut chair beside a table of the same style. Then someone returns with several folders thick with contents the clearly ar different in size and shape. The library studies side of Lavinia is immediately aware that there is no turning back, that she needs to see this project or problem or puzzle through to the end.

The contents of the portfolios are carefully removed and placed on the smooth, dark, chestnut table. Lavinia notes how well-preserved and cared-for the items are. She does not have a way of knowing what they are, but she is soon told:

“These are letters supposedly written to Rosalía from English-speaking women writers who were contemporaries of hers. We want to know if this is a true collection or if they are forgeries. We think you will be better informed about the persons who wrote the letters than we are, and can also work faster than we could because they’re in English.”

Lavinia is speechless. This has to be some sort of ruse, inspired by the a nosa biblioteca/our library case that had just been resolved. It has to be a cheap imitation of that. There is no way that letters from numerous women writers to Rosalía de Castro can appear out of the blue. Somebody knows me too well and wants to trap me in some dealings that can get me into trouble, especially since I’m a foreigner.

Yes, Rosalía might be a major writer, revered by all Galicians everywhere, but she left no indications of letters other than the ones already published. What would the nineteenth-century have done with letters in English? The scholar, the searcher, hasn’t a clue as to the answer. The problem is, whoever has organized this rather rustic plan to entice her to this spot, then present her with incredibly valuable documents, wants answers, maybe is even desperate to get answers.

If Lavinia takes the letters in their folders, she can be accused of stealing them. It would not be easy to prove her innocence. There is no way to prove the door opened and she went in. She knows this is entirely possible. This is extremely valuable artistic property and she can only say she doesn’t know where it came from? Not smart.

If she refuses and the plan has been crafted by her friends the Graystockings or even by a well-intended person from a totally different field, will this be a lost opportunity to feed her curiosity as well as an insult?

If she agrees, how does she even start to look for information she is supposed to be able to access easily? She’s not an art historian and certainly not trained in forgery, although her mother has had some experience in certifying archival materials through her work at the Historical Society. Problem is, she’s not in the States nor does she want to be there right now. 

Lavinia asks for a day to think it over. She doesn’t dare look closely at the letters, refuses to seek out name, titles, signatures. She needs to have a clear head and not be led by a curious heart. Her request is met with an affirmative nod, and she turns quickly to leave. She has bought herself some time.

Even so, as she passes through the old door and retraces her steps from the new site of The Assassin back to the old, she knows what her decision must be, and is sad.