Exile. Ann Ireland

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      The two women saw me off to the Departures gate, both of them in a state of high agitation. I saw that Marta hadn’t applied her makeup, and the neck of her blouse was open, showing a glimpse of freckled chest. Her eyes roamed the foyer, scanning each passenger’s face, each official’s badge. She couldn’t wait to get out of there.

      “This is the best thing Rosario kept saying in that high-pitched voice, which is always too excited or too sorrowful.

      “Do you have your ticket? Your passport?” Marta chimed in, equally nervous.

      I felt entirely exposed, convinced that my newly shaved face was fluorescent, that any idiot could see what I was up to, and who was that man with his nose in a magazine? A plain-clothes member of the Special Forces, trained to sniff out criminals like myself? The General’s own agent? Even a child, a girl of no more than ten banging the side of a vending machine, was a possible plant. When she turned around I would see that she wasn’t a child at all, but a midget, a dwarf-policewoman, toting not a harmless O’Henry bar but a cocked handgun.

      Goodbye dear country, goodbye dear sister, goodbye Marta, a fast embrace then their brightly coloured dresses danced toward the exit, leaving only a light fragrance of cologne.

      The colour of the airplane was navy blue: this is a sensible and reassuring hue, and the pilot’s voice was so calm he appeared to be on the edge of falling asleep. I’d been in airplanes before, of course, but never to penetrate the skies above northern lands. How cold would it be, and how dark?

      I fiddled with the sealed package of Canadian cheddar cheese. I picked at the plastic with both fingers, sawed at it with my teeth, then gave up, pocketing it for later. I’d been drinking since takeoff; the liquor was free and plentiful and I was, I confess, nervous. Not of flying, but of arrival.

      “I can never open those things, either my seatmate said. He glanced at the pocket where I’d slid the cheese.

      My face reddened, as if I’d been spotted boosting the cutlery.

      “You headed for Vancouver?”

      “That is so.” I nodded. My mind flooded with endless English drills from preparatory school: I did see, I saw, I see, I will see, I would see…

      He looked like an explorer in his tan fatigues with dozens of deep pockets and flaps. His hair was thick and orange, his face freckled, yet lined. He was a young man, and I suspected he’d stayed too long in the sun for his pale complexion.

      “What kind of business are you in?” he said.

      I slugged wine from the plastic cup. “I am a poet.”

      His mouth stayed open. “No kidding.”

      “And what business are you?”

      “I’m a sand broker. Right now I’m working on a shipping deal from Vancouver to Hawaii.”

      I couldn’t think of a word to say.

      “Actually he confessed. “I think I’m the only one in the world who does this.”

      “Alas, I am not the only poet.”

      I pulled out a copy of Insomnio.

      “I don’t read much Spanish he said, politely leafing through the pages. “Just enough to get by in the field. What brings you to B.C.?”

      I should have been alerted by his inquisitiveness. Instead, giddy from the wine and the altitude, I began to tell him the story in fractured English.

      “My situation is funny, “I said, “and more than a little tragic.”

      He closed the blind over the porthole so that he could see me without the coating of sunlight.

      “I am about to become a writer-in-exile I began, using the phrase for the first time.

      “Really?” His eyes scanned my face. “In exile from what?” The question was a surprise. “From anyone who might know me.”

      My seatmate waited for more, feet stretching as far as possible in his heavy boots, perhaps to avert the possibility of thrombosis.

      “This is all I am able to say.” I enjoyed the tinge of mystery, but his stare continued, so I added with a philosophical shrug, “We are all in exile from our authentic lives: it is the state of modern man.”

      He gave a little laugh and said, “I can tell you are a poet.” Then he pulled out a black eyeshade from one of his many pockets and slipped it over his head.

      Perhaps with his eyes covered he thought he’d disappeared, like the famous ostrich. To my surprise I felt a tug of loneliness and hurt.

      When, hours later, the plane began to dip towards ground, I leaned over my dozing seatmate, lifted the blind and peered down at the patchwork of buildings and highways below. The sun had disappeared and a faint drizzle coated the airplane’s wing. Mountains rose in the distance, just as at home.

      He pulled up his eyeshade and smiled. “There she is he said. “Vancouver. Your new life.”

      Suddenly I doubted him. A sand broker? Selling sand to Hawaii? It was absurd, a transparent cover. Yes, but for what?

      The wheels hit the glazed tarmac and there was a deafening screech of brakes.

      “Someone will be waiting for you Rosario had told me with full confidence that our operation would unfold according to plan. “Just look for the CAFE sign.”

      Yes, but first I must make my way through Customs and Immigration with my documents, and I felt that instinctive terror at the sight of agents whose job it was to sniff out liars, cheats, and anyone whose belongings didn’t match his story. A blonde woman in a white shirt peered at my passport with its four-year-old photograph, then my envelope of documents, and asked a few questions which I had to ask her to repeat. I felt myself growing red with strain, but perhaps she was used to such a reaction, because suddenly she slid the papers back into the envelope and said, “That’s fine. You may go.”

      For several seconds I stood under the lights, unable to move. It was too easy, almost a miracle. The automatic doors popped open and I arrived in Canada to see a small mob of greeters waiting on the other side. I searched for those eager well-wishers who would be holding the CAFE sign, yet all I could see was a banner reading, “Welcome Home Mormon Brothers.” I made my way to a curved vinyl seat, set my bag on it, and waited to be discovered.

      The Vancouver airport looked much like the one I’d left hours earlier. Its air contained the same layered perfume of disinfectant, stale coffee, and fuel, yet here a hard rain drilled the plate glass windows. Outside on the grey tarmac, the plane I’d so recently departed hummed with sweat. In an hour or so, cleaned out and refuelled, it would return to Santa Clara.

      Finally I spotted her, a woman wearing a yellow rain slicker, still dripping wet, racing towards the Arrivals door, holding a soggy cardboard sign. I lifted my bag, about to rise, but then I stopped myself. My heart was hammering so hard I could barely breathe. She would think me high strung, out of СКАЧАТЬ