Exile. Ann Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ and long, pasted to her skull by the rain, and yet I could see that she was pretty. A slash of lipstick coated her mouth.

      She scanned the clumps of arriving passengers, men in raincoats and flustered mothers with children and toppling mounds of luggage, her eyes fastening for a moment on the so-called sand broker who heaved a leather satchel over his shoulder and marched down the hallway. One wave of passengers came and dispersed, then another. The smile on her face grew strained.

      Still I waited; I was not yet ready to enter my new life. It was the last few seconds of being unseen. Whenever the double doors sprang open, she lifted her wet sign and smiled in anticipation. Over and over again she was denied her pleasure. I was being cruel, yet it was inevitable. I had to watch her without being watched myself. My knees popped up and down, a nervous rhythm. Then it was time. I gripped the satchel and began to rise again, but stopped and watched as something curious happened.

      A tall, thin man had pressed through the automatic doors, wearing a sweater-vest under his dark jacket and a pair of loose corduroy pants. He looked around, brow furrowed, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other. He was about my age and even had a thatch of dark hair, but his eyes were huge and he held himself erect. Even from a distance I could see the high cheekbones, the fine features that were almost girlish.

      She smiled encouragingly and went up to him, the sign raised to her chest level.

      “I am Rita she said very clearly, then, “Welcome to Vancouver.”

      I felt my heart flex in excitement and for a few seconds even thought, there has been some mistake, he is the exile, the real one.

      His eyes settled on her. “Not me, sweetie.” He tapped the soggy sign. “I’m waiting for the wife, wherever she may be.”

      Rita flushed, mortified. She’d been so sure. Then, stepping back, she was faced with the question: if this man was not Carlos, then who was?

      I slowly advanced, carrying the athletic bag that held all my precious belongings, and felt the oversized jacket engulf my shoulders. My sneakers, a last-minute purchase, were held together with Velcro tabs instead of laces. Rosario had bought these for me. Thank you, dear sister. I slid an unlit cigarette between my lips and let it dangle.

      I spotted a tiny flash of disappointment as I held my hand out.

      “I am Carlos Romero Estévez.”

      She could hardly speak, perhaps feeling some tumult of emotion at my arrival. She ignored my hand and rose on tiptoes to kiss me, not on both cheeks, but on one, like a mother greeting her child. I felt the shroud of wet plastic press into my chest.

      “I’m so glad you’re here she said. She shook her hair, sprinkling more rain. Her skin was soft and unlined, although I could tell she was over thirty by her eyes and the leanness of her face.

      “I am Rita Falcon, from the CAFE board of directors.”

      I smiled and said, “Thank you.” And when she looked puzzled, added, “Thank you for my arrival, thank you for my existence.”

      She laughed, perhaps embarrassed by my sincerity. “You must have more luggage.”

      “Just this.” I hefted the nylon bag Rodolfo had given me. Rita kept staring, eyes shining with pain and perhaps approval. I thought of the other passenger, the one who was waiting for his wife. Why had she been convinced that he was the exiled poet?

      “Welcome to Canada she remembered to say, but the phrase was rushed this time, an afterthought.

      “Yes I agreed, and inhaled deeply to show her that I wanted to know this place, to feel its air swell my chest, and that I was unafraid.

      We drove into the city in her old Toyota, rain sputtering against the windshield and the wipers not working properly. We passed rows of stark concrete bunkers on the outskirts of the city, their roofs cradled by fog. And Rita talked.

      “I work part-time at the university she told me. She had removed the bulky slicker, and I saw that she was a slender woman, with muscular arms and a long neck, and dark hair that brushed her shoulders.

      “You are a professor?”

      “Goodness no. I just work in the Grad Centre. Admin.”

      She sifted through traffic, changing lanes twice, and laughed. “Sorry. Graduate Centre, administration. We all talk in short forms. But you understand now?”

      “Yes, thank you.”

      “You will have a position at the university, too.”

      “Yes.” I had heard about this.

      “Writer-in Exile. Nice office. You’ll be able to work, to write.” Rita rolled down her window, thrust an arm out into the drizzle, and the roar of traffic crammed into our little car.

      “Over there are the mountains.” She raised her voice to be heard.

      I stared but saw nothing, only the deep, phlegmy greyness, steam lifting from the earth.

      “Wait till the clouds clear she said, cranking the window back up. “It’s a knockout.”

      She didn’t look at me once during the ride, as if she couldn’t bear to. Instead she pointed to the rain-slurred buildings as they appeared through the fog: this was her old high school, this was the theatre, the important café, while I kept wiping the fogged-up window with my sleeve, trying to see this place where I’d landed.

      We spun through downtown Vancouver and the buildings were like holograms, untouched by age or wind or neglect, apparitions of buildings that might be, shedding water from their shiny surfaces. The Toyota took a sharp turn into an area of small stucco houses and leafy trees, perhaps the famous national maples. We passed a soccer field where men and women were kicking a ball through the bog, their bodies entirely coated in brown sludge.

      My own body gave a jerk.

      “I am a poet I declared suddenly, ridiculously.

      Rita smiled, stroking her hand over the wheel. “I’ve been taking Spanish classes all month, since we knew for sure you were coming.” She took a breath and recited, “Yo tengo mucho respeto para los poetas.”

      I sank back into the seat. The windshield wipers sliced the view, back and forth, back and forth.

      “Good I said. “I am glad.”

      We pulled up in front of a large brown building, six storeys high, with a green door and many small windows set into the prickly facade. Its roof was flat, like a factory, and the rust-coloured chimney belched steam. Across the street was a school, its concrete yard deserted, twin basketball nets torn from the backboards.

      “This is your house?” I was puzzled. There were many buildings like this in Santa Clara, containing nondescript flats for the factory workers and maids. I had rarely set foot in one. “It is big.”

      “It’s not just my place Rita said, giggling. “I have a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor.”

      I must have hesitated, for she pressed me forward and we entered the building, passing through a modest foyer lined by mailboxes. It was the size of the anteroom to my father’s office. СКАЧАТЬ