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Exile. Ann Ireland
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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. We rode up a tiny clanking elevator and stepped off, and the first person I saw was myself, reflected in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The man I glanced at was unfamiliar, too thin and poorly dressed, a slump to his shoulders. I touched the corner of my eye where it drooped. At home I am known for a certain style, leather jackets and slim pants, and the casual five o’clock shadow, which here, in the dim light, I noted had thickened to something more sinister.
“This way Rita said, dangling a key. “Eight-B.”
The corridor was long and narrow, carpeted in faded maroon. We passed half a dozen doors, each with a brass number and a fisheye peephole. Reaching the end of the hall, Rita unlocked the door and entered just ahead. I smelled burnt popcorn and watched as a teenaged girl rose from a couch and switched off the television set.
“He’s asleep the girl said. “In your bed, like you said.”
“Good.” Rita pulled out a couple of bills and gave them to her. “Thanks Sandy.”
The girl slid a math text and notebook into her pack and left, without casting a single glance my way.
The room was small, with low furniture and a black lacquered table pushed against one wall. I could hear the clatter of the elevator outside as the doors snapped shut and it wheezed back to ground level. A vase by the door held a single yellow bloom, and another vase on the black table held a quartet of irises.
“Who is sleeping on your bed?” I said.
“Andreas, my son. He’s lending you his room for a couple of nights.”
“May I see him, your boy?”
She paused a second, then said, “Sure. This way.”
We walked through a tiny kitchen and down a short hallway, which held a series of black and white photos. These displayed my hostess wearing a skin-tight leotard, posed in strange theatrical landscapes with oversized objects: a giant clock, a chair built for giants, and a huge toothbrush. I squinted at these as we passed, then at Rita’s firm body as she marched ahead of me now, clad in T-shirt and jeans. In one photo she glared at the camera, her lips tinted bright red.
“This is you?” I touched the image, slid my finger across the posed face.
She hardly looked back. “I’m a dancer, when I get the chance.” She pointed towards the end of the hall. “That’s his room, where you’ll sleep.”
A poster of a fierce-looking Gila monster, mouth yawned open and glaring, was clipped to the door.
“He’s crazy about reptiles and amphibians she said.
“So am I.”
Why did I say this? It was not true at all.
She pushed open the door on the opposite side of the hall and at first, in the dark, it was hard to see anything. Then I spotted the child lying twisted in his sheet, his arms wrapped around a stuffed toy.
“He