by Bruce Geddes
Even with my senses so full of temptation, I found my mind drifting. A storm of images swirled around: Inés and Manolo. Tony. Gord and Forzante, the latter delivering the eulogy at the funeral.
With mics from local radio and TV planted before him, Forzante recalled the life of Gord McKitrick, his trusted advisor, his best friend. Tales of the early days—the Krull’s strike, certification, the long, difficult negotiations led by Gord—gave way seamlessly to a different, darker kind of speech, one marked by threatening demands for unity.
“The consequences of this union divided against its own are grave,” he said. “Our work, my brothers and sisters, our cause, our basic survival depends on our solidarity, on our ability to speak with a single, strong, and unified voice, the unmistakable voice of fairness, the clear ring of justice, the voices of the workers, undivided and unbowed.”
I remembered the details of the speech. It had been reprinted the next day in the Echo and I’d clipped and stored a copy in a tattered file box together with other assorted tributes, notes from friends, obituaries, and articles about Gord. In light of recent revelations and accusations, that speech was taking on new meaning. I removed my hand from Drew’s breast and lifted my head from the smooth nest made by the meeting of her neck and shoulder and turned over and sighed. Drew propped herself on an elbow and ran her hand along the edge of my collar bone and down, inserting a finger between the buttons of my shirt to touch my skin. She took my hand in hers and traced a line across the palm with her fingernail.
“I should probably be home by no later than one,” she said. “Gus has never been the jealous type, but I don’t like to push my luck.”
Ahh, Drew. She had always known how to look after herself. She never really needed Tony to quit school for their baby. If only he’d been the fifteen-year-old and she the near-adult, things would have turned out differently. I tried to kiss her then tried again and then let my head fall back into the pillow.
“Don’t let it kill you, Richard.”
“Okay.”
“Tony’s Tony. He’s just not all that well equipped to deal with a lot of things.”
“I know.”
“Do you? You’ve been away from here for a long time. There’s only so much you can hope to do.”
She stood, gathering her overcoat under one arm, picked up the receiver, handed it to me, and asked me to call a cab.
26
At the townhouse, Inés had already transferred some of my clothes to the guest room. I did the rest. In the end, dust rimmed outlines on the bedside where the clock radio, table lamp, and three books I had been reading for the past year once sat. It looked like we’d been robbed by an oddly particular thief.
While all that shuffling back and forth was happening, the tense silence interrupted by the slamming of drawers and closet doors, Sagipa sat in the den, watching television, cycling through the channels with caged-hamster mindlessness. He told me later that Inés had delivered the news to him the night before as she readied for a date with Manolo. Long jangly earrings draped from her lobe to the shoulder of a sequined top. “It’s important for us to live together,” she told him. “As a family.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed his arms. “It’s going to be good,” she said. “It’s the right thing. For all of us.”
When I arrived home from the office the following Monday, Inés was folding clothes on the couch, humming a bolero. For the first time in all the years of our marriage, I wondered if her dark moods and chronic pessimism were not, as I had always assumed, genetic. Rather, it was something less permanent and actually reversible when given the right circumstances. Well then. If that was the case, I ought to be happy for her, too.
I wasn’t, of course. But neither was my anger any more stirred than expected. I could have thrown things, shouted obscenities loud and late enough into the evening to prompt calls from the neighbours to the police. I could have torn up the frilly bras and silk panties I had paid for or emptied her warming lube into the toilet (if you don’t use it with me, you don’t use it with anyone!). I did none of these things. When I stopped for a second to take everything into consideration, I found I didn’t much care.
But for Sagipa.
On most nights, even with his homework done, he was likely to devote several concentrated hours to his Mandarin lessons or to catching up with the latest editions of the Chinese Journal of Strategic Studies. But now, disinterested in language lessons, too distracted for the sludgy prose of scholarship, he sat like a house plant in front of the television, smoking his girlish cigarettes, fiercely thumbing the remote. Fixed to the sofa when I left for the office in the morning, he was there again when I came home after my pub dinner and a couple of drinks at The Barrington. One night, my tie loosened, the tails of my shirt like two crinkled bibs over my trousers, I sat beside him on the sofa. In the otherwise darkened room, the light from the television screen flashed blue and white across his face.
“How are you able to understand anything, changing the channels all the time?”
“I’m not really trying to understand,” he said. He lit another cigarette.
“Well, what’s the point of watching?”
Sagipa answered with a shrug and changed the channel, unconvinced by the news anchor’s plea to stay tuned for what was coming next.
The next day, a Wednesday, I called Amanda Lu and asked for the firm’s third-row seats for the baseball game that night. I called home, but Sagipa wasn’t interested.
“Are you sure?” I said. “Halladay’s pitching.” It was a long shot. Never as keen on baseball as I was, no matter what future hall-of-famer was on the mound, Sagipa had limited use for watching most any sport, and reserved what tolerance he had for Chinese-dominated events like gymnastics and diving. Later, back at the townhouse, I found him back in front of the television. The dark room smelled stale with cigarette smoke and permanent torpor and reminded me of the way my mother’s bedroom used to smell before she packed it in for the white sands and clear waters of the Caribbean. A blotch of spaghetti sauce stained his hazmat suit, a red centre rimmed with translucent oiliness. At least he was eating, I thought.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
“She and Manolo are out looking at condos.”
“Didn’t they want you along? It’s going to be your home too.”
“I wanted to watch something on TV.”
“Oh yeah? What was that?”
“I don’t remember now. It was cancelled, I guess.”
I removed my tie, folded it four times and slipped it into the front pocket of my trousers.
“Well in that case, why don’t I buy you a beer?”
“I don’t really like alcohol.”
“It’s just beer.”
“And I’m only thirteen.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“Too bad though,” he said. “I could really do with getting plastered.”
“I sat down. I guess you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
“Yeah.” He picked up his cigarettes but, saturated, put them down again.
“Big changes ahead.”
“Change is a part of life.” Sagipa said.
“You want to talk about it?”
“You really want to hear about it?”
I took the remote from Sagipa’s hand and turned the television off. “Why do you think I wanted to buy you a beer? To loosen your lips, obviously.”
Sagipa sat forward on the sofa and bowed his head, staring at the floor between his feet. He sighed. “What I’ve been thinking about lately is how I’m pretty much powerless to do anything about it. If I don’t like what’s happening, these changes, it seems that all I can do is sit here and watch it all happen. You ever see those dogs in the park?”
“Sure.”
“I feel like one of those dogs when he flips on his back and spreads hi
s legs to give other dogs full access. They do it to show submission and they do it right from puppyhood, even if it means leaving themselves open to attack. It’s an instinct. It’s like they’re expected to know the rules and stick to them.”
“But no one’s bothered explaining the rules to you.”
“This whole thing with my name. Am I just supposed to accept that? I mean, what kind of a name is Cuxinimpaba?”
“You don’t have to change it if you don’t want to.”
“They say I do.”
“They can’t make you. For parents to change a name without a child’s consent, the child has to be under twelve,” I said. “I looked it up.”
“It’s not just the name.”
Of course it wasn’t. A boy, a young man, really, with Sagipa’s maturity, intelligence, insight and, most importantly, a long and successful track record of taking charge of his own upbringing, was capable of making up his own mind about what should happen next in his life. Where he should be. Who he should see.
I understood, which was rare, and I admired him for it. But I didn’t know how to help.
“But isn’t that what you’ve been saying all along about China? About the forces of history and the shift of values and the need to adjust to the new order?”
“It is,” Sagipa sighed.
“You don’t believe that anymore?”
“No I still believe it,” he said. “Maybe. Either way, that’s why I’m so messed up about it all.”
The following week, seated at the kitchen table, I watched Inés speaking in Spanish with Manolo on the telephone, her eyes brightening at some suggestive phrase. She hung up and turned to me.
“We’ll be moving out on Saturday,” she said.
I nodded. “Found a place already, did you?”
“It was a steal. But only if we agreed to an early close.”
“Where is it?”
“Downtown. Near the water. We need to talk about furniture.” She opened a spiral bound notebook to a list of items scrawled in red ink.
“Take whatever you need.”
Inés ran the pen down the list. “We don’t need much. All of Cuxi’s furniture of course. I’ll take my dresser and I was thinking the sofa in the living room. Which leaves you with the one in the den. We don’t have a dining room table and you never really liked this one so I thought I’d take that—”
“Inés. Really. Take whatever you want. I’m going down to Wanstead on Saturday. I’ll be out of your hair.”
Inés capped the pen and closed the notebook. “You’re being very good about all of this,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
With Inés in the basement sorting through boxes, I picked up the phone and hit the redial button.
“I’d like to meet with you,” I said.
On the other end, Manolo swallowed. “Of course.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not about Inés. It’s about Sagipa.”
“Cuxinimpaba.”
“Can you come to my office today?”
“Your office?”
“It’s downtown. On Victoria Street. The nearest subway is—”
“I’d rather not meet in an office. Is there a more public space?” Manolo said.
Neutral turf. Fair enough. I suggested the Starbucks on King.
“Can you make it for eleven?” I asked.
“Let’s make it 10:30.”
At ten, Manolo telephoned me at the office to change the time to eleven-fifteen and at five to eleven he called again to change the location from the Starbucks on King Street to the cavernous food court at Brookfield Place. There when I arrived, he sat stiff, his back to a marble pillar, something frothy in a cup on the table. Manolo had selected a table an equal distance from either wall and picked an hour when there would be a few customers—enough people to serve as witnesses, but not so many that he couldn’t keep a close eye on all of them.
He surveyed me as I approached the table, doubtlessly checking for telling bulges of firearms in my suit jacket or socks. He craned his neck to look behind me and then, convinced that I was neither armed nor accompanied by additional muscle, stood and offered his hand.
“I understand how you must feel,” Manolo said.
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said.
“Inés is a remarkable woman.”
“I told you on the phone. I’m here to speak about Sagipa.”
“Yes. But I thought you were lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“So that I would meet you.”
“I wasn’t lying. I’m sure you and Inés will be very happy together.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Look, how the hell would I know if you’ll be happy? But I’ll say this much: I don’t wish you ill.”
“Thank you.” We sat down and Manolo rubbed the back of his hand, complaining of soreness from a long night of turning Sagipa’s notes and corrections into a chapter of Guerrilla Warfare for Small Business.
“Sagipa,” I said, “is another question. Have you noticed his mood lately?”
“The teenage years are difficult. He will be fine.”
“I hope so. He’s a very good kid. An exceptional boy. But he’s still a kid.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that Inés is a good mother. Her poetry is so full of compassion,” Manolo said. And then, “And you have been a good stepfather, of course.”
“I’m not sure how much either of us had to do with how well he’s turned out,” I said. I cracked the seal on a bottle of water and drank. “What concerns me now is how all this upheaval might be affecting him. He hasn’t been to school in days. He only watches television.”
“An adolescent phase . . .” When he said this, he twisted his mouth and ran the back of his fingers across the table, as though sweeping crumbs from its surface.
“Listen, Manolo.” I put the bottle of water on the table. I pushed my thumb into the plastic and made a popping sound. “I don’t know if Inés ever told you, but my father died when I was about Sagipa’s age. Or at least at about the same level of maturity.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How did he die?”
“He was killed,” I said.
“Murdered?”
“Why would you say that?”
“First thing that came to my mind. Until recently, in Colombia . . .”
“It was an accident. A car accident,” I said. “I wanted to tell you this because I was having a pretty good life until that point. A nice, normal, steady teenaged life. But for a few years after, I behaved in ways that I find difficult to think about now.”
“A normal reaction,” he said dismissively.
“Maybe,” I said. “But the thing is, where we lived, because of who my father was, I got away with a lot of things. Which might have made things worse. But it also kept me out of any serious trouble. No expulsions or suspensions from school. No police records. No trips to the hospital. In the same situation, in this city, neither you nor I are in any position to protect Sagipa.”
“I understand. You love Cuxi like a son.”
I did not hesitate. “Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“I respect that. I have never been jealous of the stepfathers to my children.”
“Children?”
“Well, you can imagine. In Colombia, I was a man of not inconsiderable influence. Perhaps like your father in your home town.”
“I don’t think you and my father have much in common.”
“I meant no offense,” Manolo said, shifting his cup from one hand to the other. “But about Cuxinimpaba, I will watch for any aberrations in his behaviour.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” I said.
That was easy. Maybe. Either way, the conversation was shorter than I had planned. I still
had most of my bottle of water and Manolo was not nearly through with his coffee. Courtesy demanded a natural point of departure. To cut the meeting short now, would be to end things on a bitter note and I certainly did not want this, lest it jeopardize Manolo’s promise about Sagipa. I fumbled for something to say to Manolo that didn’t have to do with Inés, the only other thing we had in common.
“So,” I said. “I understand you were active with the FFLC?”
“For nearly twenty years. I was sub-comandante by the time we made peace.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I joined the movement when I was sixteen.”
“You must have been pretty sick of it all by the end of it. Hiding in the jungles and the like.”
Manolo shook his head. “No, no. The FFLC were urban guerrillas. We slept in homes and apartments. Clean sheets. Daily showers. Good food. Most of us had day jobs. Teaching, working in the arts. We had a few dentists and engineers too.” Now Manolo’s face took on a dreamy look, thinking back to some happy holiday spent with family and comrades, roasted lechón with all the fixings in the centre of a long, communal table.
He continued. “Still, it was an adjustment, making peace. Many of us struggled to integrate into regular civilian life, even those who had normal lives before they joined us. There were problems with substance abuse. Some took their own lives.”
“All that you believed in, all that you lived for. Turned on its head,” I said.
“Reconciliation was a collective decision.”
“Did you support it?”
Manolo waved his hand. “In the end, I did.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Who can say?” Manolo said. “Some days, when I think about my life then and my life now, the way people admired me, the way I got women. More than even the best folk singers, you know? Sometimes, I wish we hadn’t stopped fighting.”
“Do you think you could have won?” I asked.
