The Invention of Exile Read online

  A solid crack of the bat against ball like a firecracker. He shielded his eyes, trying to follow the flight of the ball. It had been struck far back to one of the men in the field. He could smell the clean scent of grass as he continued walking.

  He thought more about Anarose. He had not wanted to hurt her, hardly knew himself what his intentions were except that she was a soothing balm to a long struggle. He didn’t expect her to understand, but her words lingered with him—a loss of his own making. He was looking at his life in reverse, wondering if she was right.

  An hour passed. He’d found he had traversed nearly the entire park, wandering back the way he’d come in, by the ballplayers, watching the last of their game.

  “They do this every evening,” Austin heard a voice behind him. “In Cuernavaca too. Poor guy. That would’ve been a home run.”

  The men were running in from the field, all drawn together like beads on a string, and the others ran out to take their places, forming the outer and inner half circle. Austin turned to see Jack approaching, stepping up behind him.

  “But it’s good for them, I guess. A little diversion, a little leisure.” Jack shrugged his shoulders and then kept talking. “Fear of blacklisting just about destroyed some of these men.” He shakes his head in reflection. “I admit, I do feel a bit sorry for them. Can’t even do the work they love in their rightful country. Just hanging out, ‘waiting out the political climate, waiting out the climate,’” he said. “They’ve been here not even a year yet, some of them. But you, Austin. How have you done it?

  “Work,” Jack said, answering his own question. “I mean you work all the time. Can’t tear you away from it, those damn drafting papers and always on the lookout for more. Your inventions and letters. It’s like building a fortress only to realize you aren’t protecting yourself from anything, you’ve simply locked yourself inside.” Shouting and laughter came from the field and they both looked up. Cheers erupted among the players.

  “Someone just ran into home,” Jack said. He grew silent and continued watching the game, then sighed. “Not sure what’s got into me, thinking about all of this. Suppose watching them all this time, and you too, not knowing if you’re coming or going, or staying, and meanwhile the years truck on by, and before you know it—” He broke off.

  “Oh, God, I’ve made you upset and I didn’t mean to.”

  Silence. They watched the game. The light continued to fade and the men were now mere dusky outlines on the field. Austin could make out the white ball, could hear the sound of the bat as it hit the ball—sometimes a solid, full sound like splitting wood, other times more of a light snap.

  When the game was over Austin, without a word, turned away from Jack and began walking toward the park’s exit.

  “By the way, we know your daughter is here,” Jack called after him.

  “What? What did you say?” Austin said, circling back.

  “Your daughter. We know she’s here. Vera.”

  “And?”

  “She’s involved in your goings-on, I have to watch her.”

  “She’s not involved in anything. You leave her alone.”

  “Orders. I don’t have a choice. We know she’s going to try to help you, work on your behalf to get you reinstated, but it won’t do any good.”

  “You don’t know that. She’s an American. She’s my daughter.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We both know it will be a waste of time,” Jack said, hands in his pockets as he turned on his heel and began walking away from Austin, past the players who were gathered in small groups, talking, laughing, the sun now down, the evening rising so that as Austin stood there he saw Jack, a faint trace of blackness in the growing dark.

  • • •

  SHE COULD HEAR THEM all filtering in through the front foyer, voices echoing against the red flagstones. The click of all those heels. Everyone, she could tell, was talking at once. Greetings. Kisses. Slaps on the back. Clapping hands. Laughter. Trilling voices. Shrill. Combined, it was a distant din that traveled to the back of the house, gliding down the dark, shadowed hallways and swirling around her like a threatening gale.

  The Zaragoza family and their guests continued to gather. Some, she could tell, had filtered through the dining room to the back garden—their voices coming to her through the window. The mariachi band started to play. Its chords and refrains adding a layer to the laughter and talk, the cries of recognition and embraces. She started for the door then stopped, her hand falling away from the doorknob. She stepped backward and sank to the floor, lying down, first on her side, head nestled to her arm, and then on her back. She needed just a moment.

  Her body relaxed into the wood floors. She could feel the night air through the windows, the smell of something burning. Voices continued under the drums and horns. Out the window the garden’s ivy clung to the walls, the leaves large and sinister, like winged creatures. If you’d sent my designs to the patent agents, she’d have a house, a garden. His words angered her. She felt guilt too. He’d lost the ability to know what it meant to have a house and garden.

  She knew where to find him now. He’d given her the address of his boardinghouse, his shop, and she had planned to meet him again, though she had to admit she was spent by only their first meeting. Why had she come here again? She had to remind herself—out of obligation to her mother, to her father too. But she’d try to help him in some way. All her life she’d felt pulled backward, toward Mexico—a thread tied her to it while another self pressed forward, trying, striving to build up her own life. She could see the sky purpled like a molding above the adjacent homes’ rear façades, doors and windows, walls and landings, these shadowed, silent witnesses to her determination, which she’d keep secret from all of them. She would get her father back into the United States.

  Vera stood up and clicked on the lamp near the window. She bent to tug at the hem of her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. Vera had changed into her faux silk dress and watched now as it changed from burgundy to an iridescent pale green, to copper in the full glow of the lamplight. With a firm hand, she worked on the back of her skirt. She liked the sound of the pleated silk, like billowing, starched sheets—thrash, thrash, thrash.

  Vera wondered what her father would be doing now, if he would be okay without her. She’d promised she would come the next day and he nodded his head and frowned again and then pinched her on the nose and she said oh, but he just laughed and reminded her he used to do that when she was a little girl. Yes, she remembered, she’d told him, though she didn’t. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d forgotten. He clung to such shards of memory so fiercely. Why not allow him to have at least that?

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll have a proper meal,” she’d said, and she turned away and began walking, looking back after him as he stood on the post office steps watching her walk away. In his own world, she thought. But she shook off the tears she felt brimming, fixed herself a bit in the mirror, refastened her hair, and was ready to join the other guests.

  While the house was large and of many rooms, the rooms themselves were small. There was a cozy warmness to such small rooms—the wood beams, the adobe walls thick as torsos made it cool in the summer and warmer in the winters. The food was set out on silver and copper platters. The candles were lit, reflecting off wineglasses, ruby red tequila glasses, and the several oval and round ceramic plates that covered the walls. The room smelled of tobacco, bitter coffee, vanilla musk perfume, grilled corn. Someone was calling for a toast. “Ssh,” people said. Glasses clinked. Quiet settled as if someone had cast a mesh blanket over the room. Last-minute footsteps could be heard in the hallway and foyer. She could hear early clinks of glasses. Sighs. Humming. Little quiet moans. A welcoming toast. How she loved this family. She looked at the father in his navy blue sweater, a white and blue striped scarf tied around his neck for warmth. His hair was thick and white and his silver cu
ff links and wedding band shone in the candlelight. He was a kind, dignified man, like all the Zaragoza men. Why couldn’t her father be this way?

  Some of her older friends back home—employers and teachers—told her that it wasn’t her responsibility, that there was no need, and that the loss, the feeling of absence, would dissipate, that, in time, it would leave her almost when she least expected, and that she really need only worry about her own life now that she was an adult. In an act of defiance, she made sure not to forget, but rather to take it upon herself to come to Mexico City, find out what happened to him, and how she might get him home. She couldn’t bear to think he had not a soul to help him here.

  She was there, at the party, but distant. Back and forth between two states, two positions—guest and spectator—until she found the right balance, hovering on the edge, balanced, so that she could be both at once. When she felt this liminal state she had an urge to rush away, go to a room by herself and close the door. But she willed herself to stay still. She would not run away.

  • • •

  “I AM HERE ON behalf of my father—,” she began.

  She had been at the embassy for two hours. Ushered from one waiting room to the next. Told to take a seat until her number was called. Repeating her predicament to a blank-faced, pale clerk—three times in total. She now sat in a larger room filled with the gentle, muted rattle of typewriters and phones ringing, the line of clerks behind a glass that stretched the length of the room. She sat in the first row of wooden benches and prepared to wait, running over exactly what she’d say, letters and papers all fastened together securely in her bag. The woman seated next to her made pleasantries, explained how she herself had lost her passport and was worried that the embassy might not be able to replace it in time for her to leave on her next trip. Vera had smiled and reassured her that it would be fine.

  “Let me stop you right there,” the man said to her now, placing his hand up. “Is your father with you? We need to see the person in question.” The clerk had a weary look, one of exasperation. Vera had not finished her planned speech and her pulse throbbed at her temples. She faltered a moment, tucked her hair behind her ears, once and then another time. The clerk grew impatient.

  “Miss. If you’re here on behalf of your father we need to see him.”

  “No. I’m afraid he’s not here. It’s just me. Of course I can return with him, but I wondered if I may speak to an authority on immigration matters.”

  “You can speak to me.”

  “I have several letters here explaining our case.” She began to pull out the bundle of papers. “You see, my father was deported from the U.S. on incorrect charges.”

  “Incorrect?”

  “Yes. He is not, that is, he never was, an anarchist.”

  “Anarchy?”

  “Yes. It’s quite a difficult, complex situation, but, well, you see, my father has lived alone here in Mexico City now for fourteen years. We have tried to get him reinstated to the U.S., and he’s tried himself, but nothing has come of it. I’m now here and would like to try to work on this in person. On behalf of my father.”

  “You’re on a tourist visa.”

  “No. Work visa.”

  “I see. I’m afraid I can’t look into this any further without the subject.”

  “The subject.”

  “Your father, miss.”

  “Right. Yes, of course. Well, I can bring him with me.”

  “I suggest you do that. You’ll need to gather what documents you have there. You’ll need forms. This packet here,” he said, handing her a folder. “You say he was deported, on anarchist charges?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s quite a serious offense,” he said, all this while looking down at his paperwork. “If you’re saying that it’s incorrect you’ll have to request an appeal on the deportation, a waiver.”

  “How do I begin an appeal?”

  “We’ll look into the file on our end, and then you’ll need an appointment. We will review the file with the subject. Of course, he’ll need to submit to some questioning. All normal procedures.”

  • • •

  SHE LEFT THE EMBASSY, walking down the steps and standing on the sidewalk, her eyes fighting to adjust to the bright light. She stood still for a moment, thinking of what to do now. Return to the Zaragozas’? No. She couldn’t do that. She needed some time to herself. To her left she saw the woman who had sat next to her greeting a friend she saw approaching. She then waved to Vera.

  “They’ve replaced my passport for now. What a relief,” she said. Vera congratulated her, smiling. She watched the two women laughing and speaking in loud American voices, clomping away in heavy heels, sunglasses cut in slim, cat-eyed ovals. She turned away, her smile dropped. To her right, a bus careened past, overcrowded with men clinging to the outer windows and back bumper. It left a strong stench of gasoline in its wake. She looked back at the embassy, its sleek modern structure, all that silver chrome, and she felt a sudden contempt for her country. The brutes, she thought. They’d kicked him out. An appeal? She’d not known of this, but it seemed promising. She’d have to get his documents of course, and if she brought him to the consulate would he manage? She felt the vast city around her, all these buildings and people and her father tossed among them like a pebble among the waves. And he was not bearing up, was he, she had to admit. Not bearing up at all. She crossed the street and sat on a park bench in the shade, now wondering about what distances of mind and heart he could have traveled to be here, in such deep, desolate solitude among the inhabitants of this city that it made her feel parched and spent and herself nearly on the brink of despair. She took a deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ears, and stood up.

  The walk from the embassy to her father’s boardinghouse took a good half hour, but she’d resigned herself to proceeding on foot, knowing a good walk, a change in temperature, scenery could prompt a change in mood. She passed some fine stores along the avenida, and she could see her image in the two-paned glass storefront where she paused to look at a dress in the window. Her silhouette reflected in double against a sky traced with cloud formations, which today were large, white, and godlike—a cavalcade of clouds. She soon crossed Avenida de los Insurgentes, having to pay attention as she walked, stepping now into the avenue, the noise and brightness of the sidewalks filled with street vendors, traffic moving at the pace of sludge, sirens. She was eager to step into the calm streets of the Condesa, passing the one lone man standing on the median who was selling wildflowers as cars passed. Vera could feel the heat of the day beginning as the hours tipped toward two.

  • • •

  “BUENAS TARDES,” she called.

  Austin sat forward in the alcove of the front window.

  “Out here,” he said, walking to the door, eyes on his shoes.

  “There you are,” Vera said. “Didn’t you see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t bother to call to me.”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I wanted to be sure it was you.” He smiled.

  “Well, I’m terribly sorry I’m late. I got held up at work,” she lied. “I raced back to change my shoes, my feet hurt so, and then came here straightaway.”

  “A busy young lady,” he said.

  “Now, I promised we’d get you some new shoes. You can’t manage in those shoes.”

  “I do just fine.”

  “Just fine is not good enough.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but I know you need new shoes.”

  “You came all this way by yourself?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I’ve told you lots of people travel nowadays. It’s not like it used to be. And women too. Oh, you can go all over by yourself and it really is no problem. I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”

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p; “Still, you must be careful. I don’t like that you are out at this time unescorted.”

  “Not you too! Please, I’m just fine, you know. The Zaragozas never let me go anywhere by myself, except to work and back of course. I don’t need you telling me the same thing.”

  “I always was the protective type. I can’t help it. When you were small, you would wander off on your own, all the time. Where is Vera, where did Vera go? We’d find you eventually, but the fright of it. In Mazatlán you liked the ocean, always running along the shore, not scared of the waves a bit. ‘Not so close to the water,’ we’d yell to you and to your brother too. We were so frightened. Do you remember?”

  “It’s such a long time ago now. No. I can’t remember that far back. It’s hard for me.”

  “I see it so clear. You came up to my knees then. The water will swallow you up, I used to say. And now look at you.”

  “I think we should get you some lace-up shoes,” Vera said. “Not loafers like you have now because it seems you slip out of them. Lace-ups would do. Some nice new oxfords, if they have them. The Zaragozas gave me two names of stores.”

  • • •

  HE FOLLOWED VERA TO the shoe store off the main avenue. There were racks of shoes outside arranged by colors, browns on one side, blacks on the other, and butterscotch along the rack closest to the window. He stood looking at these when Vera called for him to come into the store. It smelled of leather and coffee. Vera stood talking with the shopkeepers, he could hear—a mix of Spanish and English. They were smiling and listening to her with patience. They took to her, he could tell, with her wide smile and forthright American-ness, curls bouncing on her shoulders as she talked. He slunk in behind her, admiring the shoes of leather, smooth and thick. They ordered him to take a seat and Vera told him to take off his shoes, his feet all misshapen with large bunions that he knew would hurt in the new shoes. He could hear them whispering in the corner, conspiring over something. Vera came toward him, bent down and swiped up his old shoes before he knew what was happening. He watched as Vera threw them into the trash basket.