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Exile. Ann Ireland
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Rashid came strutting down the stairs of our house one morning, yawning, buckling his belt around his narrow waist, wearing, as always, a white short-sleeved shirt and dark poplin pants. It was a timeless uniform, which indicated he had his mind on higher pursuits. He looked around the living room with distaste. Early sun barely cut through the heavy curtains, and our furniture, such as it was, was shabby and too big for the room.
“Clean this shit up,” he said, motioning towards one or two ashtrays and some empty beer bottles.
I was barely awake, having sat up late into the night writing in my new notebooks, composing fast verses that surprised me by their acid tone.
“You could at least try,” he said, frowning after I’d reluctantly tidied up. Meaning I hadn’t placed the bottles in the correct place, in the recycling box, and that the ashtrays had been emptied but not washed.
A very nervous man. We would cohabit, but we were not destined to become friends.
One evening I was invited to dinner at the house of the President of the university. This impressive building, with its circular drive and row of dormer windows, sat on a secluded crescent just off campus. Arbutus trees lined the front walk, creating an arbour, and a uniformed maid greeted guests at the door and pointed us towards the back yard.
This garden was almost a meadow, half an acre in size, and the patio area was immense, shaded by a flat green awning. Our host, a thin, almost gaunt man in a tan suit with an apron tied around his waist, stood turning meat on the grill. I was astonished, of course, to see such an eminent man prepare the meal, but I said nothing. His wife coasted around in a beige linen suit, touching here an elbow, there a shoulder.
“So you’re the one!” she announced, spotting my approach. “I’ll tell George.” Immediately she spun around, perhaps afraid that I might start to speak in Spanish, and went off to fetch her husband.
There was a whispered exchange over the eye-searing barbeque, then the President removed himself from his post, wiped his hands down the front of his pristine apron, and made his way towards me.
“Greetings!” he said with a hearty smile, hand outstretched.
People turned to see who this new important guest was.
“You’ll find we’re pretty informal around here, Carlos.” He slipped a hand across my back and began to guide me effortlessly through the throng of guests who parted to make way. Cordial smiles emerged on the sternest of faces. I was being propelled by the President himself, being introduced in a booming voice to “Ed Moses, associate dean of arts; Leigh Cronin, poly sci; and of course Nancy Savigneau, dominatrix of those late Romantic German philosophers.”
The President laughed at his little joke and I observed the others joining in a beat later, except for Professor Savigneau, who remained stony faced. She stood very still in a boxy grey jacket and tied-back hair, high heels digging into the grass, and I was astonished by her courage. At home I would be the first to join in with an ingratiating laugh, a despicable response to authority which is, nonetheless, necessary. When the publisher of La Voz swanned through our offices I readied myself to admire his vulgar witticisms.
The President’s booming voice was at my ear. “I insist that each guest sample my special concoction.”
We strode across the fine-toothed lawn to a portable bar set up under a tree. This was tended, it turned out, by the President’s own son, a gangly youth of perhaps seventeen, who didn’t smile or otherwise acknowledge our approach.
“Mix our man a Virtual Pion,” his father commanded.
Without a word, the boy pressed the lever on a chrome-plated, industrial-strength blender and a foamy concoction, almost phosphorescent, leapt to the sides of the machine. This was poured into a frosted glass and presented to me with the sparest of nods. I tipped it towards my nose and sniffed; a distinct smell of lime aftershave lifted into my nostrils. The President waited impatiently as I tasted the brew.
“Well?” The fuzzy eyebrows formed a chevron.
“Excellent!” I beamed.
He made a little grunt of satisfaction. “Extremely potent, I must warn you. Pions keep the stars burning and power nuclear bombs.” He squinted into the crowd before lifting his arm and pointing towards the area where the lawn began to slope.
“I shall introduce you to one more person,” he told me, then barked “Lu-cía!” in the direction of his pointing finger.
A buxom, small-boned woman quickly approached, wearing the native dress of some small southern country, an embroidered cassock with long tassels. Her type was instantly familiar, the academic who adopts the folklórico uniform of the countryside.
“Lucía Hammond Cruz, acting head of Latin American studies.” The President’s voice softened as he spoke her name, and I understood that he had feelings for this woman. “A small department, but notably active.” His voice rose again. “I leave the two of you to embark on a voyage of discovery.”
The President swiftly returned to his post behind the giant winged barbeque. Invisible waves of heat rose before him, turning his erect form rippled and dreamlike. I looked at him for as long as possible before returning my gaze to the newly introduced guest.
“Call me Lucía.” Her small plump hand withdrew from the voluminous garment and reached for mine. She spoke in a crisp and cultivated Spanish. “I have been most eager to meet you.”
I bobbed my head to acknowledge this fact. Her head, tilted upwards, reached only my chin, a welcome change amongst this race of Amazons.
“There is so much we might speak of,” she said, and I felt a cramp of nausea. Perhaps it was the foul drink. “You must tell me your story.” At last her hand released mine. Hers disappeared under her mantle while my own flopped uselessly to my side. I guessed that Lucía was fifty years old or more.
“Begin wherever you wish.” It was the voice she might use with a shy student who was about to deliver his views on the emerging peasant movement of some barbarous country.
I eyed her but picked up no sign of mockery. Perhaps she had heard about the exile’s famous stories. My gaze fell to her feet, which were encased in blue plastic sandals. What a peculiar vanity, this marketplace garb in a woman from the intellectual class.
“Your family?” she prodded.
What on earth did she want?
“My family is healthy,” I assured her. “Although my father suffers from diabetes.”
“He is still working?”
“At the district tax office.”
“So he is, in effect, a civil servant.”
I nodded to the truth of this fact.
It seemed to make her think. “He is still in this position?”
“To the best of my knowledge.”
“I see.”
What did she see? I sipped at the merciless drink. Why was she so interested in my father?
“He has no concern for politics,” I assured her.
“Of course not.”
I found myself growing anxious. In my country we are not inquisitive. It is considered rude, perhaps because most of our old and respectable families have something to hide. It is why they have succeeded in remaining old and respectable. “He is a man of the nineteenth century,” I insisted. “Interested only in archaic cultural matters.”
“You are sure?”
“Entirely.”
She peered at me, squinting