by Su J. Sokol
“That’s a great idea. Only problem is that right before supper, I’m cooking supper.”
“Oh yeah. OK, I’ll make my own breakfast.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“I don’t need breakfast. I’m gonna eat at school,” Siri says, coming into the kitchen.
“Take something at least. You shouldn’t go to school without eating.”
“There’s nothing good to eat here, anyway.”
I take a deep breath, trying to control my temper. Every cent we have is used to provide the kids with healthy food and the things they need. Laek doesn’t even have a decent winter coat.
“Siri, there’s plenty of good food here. There are eggs, there’s bread, there’s cereal, there’s yogurt. There’s even some leftover quiche from supper.”
“I’m tired of cereal and you know I don’t like yogurt. And you just told Simon you didn’t have time to make us eggs.”
“Quiche is eggs. It’s a fancy gourmet egg pie.”
“Do I have to eat last night’s supper for breakfast? Do I have to eat the same thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner, like in prison or something?”
“Eat what you want, Siri, but eat something. Meanwhile, we need to talk about your grades. I don’t understand how you can be failing French but acing math.”
“Would you rather I be failing math too?”
“Of course not, but don’t you need to understand French to do the math?”
“Not really. Listen, Mommy, I’m gonna be late. Can we talk about this some other time?”
“Yeah, we’ll talk about it tonight. Here, catch.” I throw her a cereal bar. She snatches it out of the air and stuffs it into her pocket.
“OK, thanks. See you later, Simon.”
I continue scanning articles at our small kitchen table, trying to choose one for my essay. Well, one thing’s for sure. You may not need French for math, but you sure as hell seem to need math for French. Maybe one of the sexual statistics articles would be fun. There seem to be no shortage of them. Aside from the one I just saw, there’s another that says forty-seven percent of the men surveyed wait for their female partners to achieve orgasm before having one themselves. And there was that other one … here: “Statistics show that 39% of women fake their orgasms.” OK, so if forty-seven percent of the men wait, but thirty-nine percent of the women are faking it, how many women are really getting their orgasms first? And are eighty-one percent of them actually feeling sexually satisfied this way?
My eye falls upon another article, also with statistics. It shows how many refugees have been accepted by Canada in the past five years. The percentages vary between fifteen and twenty-five percent. Not great. It’s organized by country of origin, with the countries having the most accepted applicants listed on top. I can’t even find the United States on the list.
Laek comes up behind me and kisses me on the neck. I pass my hand quickly in front of the screen to blank it. “Hey, you shouldn’t do that,” I complain.
“What, kiss you on the neck?”
“No, sneak up on me.”
“I just came down to walk Simon to school. T’es prêt, mon grand?”
“Oui, Papa.”
“Oh shit! What time is it? I gotta go. I’m gonna be late for class!”
I throw on coat, hat, gloves, boots, and scarf, and burst outside to start jogging to the community centre. Suddenly, I find myself flat on my ass. I stand and my footing slips again. What the fuck? Someone seems to have turned the sidewalk into a skating rink overnight. I get up more slowly and look around. Block after block of white and grey and black ice, smooth or wavy or textured, but equally frozen solid.
One thing you have to say about the weather here, it keeps life interesting. First, all those weeks where it snowed every single day, the milky sun distant and ephemeral in the grey sky. Then a break in the routine, with temperatures climbing well above freezing, so relatively balmy that we were all leaving hats and gloves at home, our coats flapping open. Next came the rain, turning streets and sidewalks into icy lakes. My winter boots that had withstood mounds of snow were defeated by thick, soupy puddles. I brought extra socks to class, leaving the drenched pair on the radiator, guarded by my dripping boots. And now this, the freezing overnight temperatures giving everything a hard, unforgiving surface. The seven-block walk to my class has become an arduous trek, fraught with danger. How the hell am I going to get to class without breaking my neck, let alone on time?
Simon and Laek come out. “Careful!” I yell. Laek takes Simon by the hand, sharing a mischievous smile. Then the two of them take a running start and glide several feet down the block on their boots, laughing and whooping the whole time. Simon glances up at Laek with a look of adoration on his face.
I take a few old-woman steps in the opposite direction. At this rate, I’ll miss the whole first part of my class. I try to move with more confidence and keep this up for a good half block, until I arrive at a driveway, and the downward slope brings me to my knees. Slipping and sliding, I get down and crawl until I’m clear of the driveway. Laek ought to be proud of my dedication—crawling to my French class. I finally figure something out that I should have thought of at once, as a cycling advocate and participant in so many “take-back-the-street” campaigns. I get up and walk to the centre of the roadway, where it’s clear of ice and snow, and continue my commute from there. Sure, there’ll be some traffic, but I calculate that the risk of getting hit by a car is statistically less than that of my falling and fracturing a bone on the sidewalk.
The first half of our “francisation class” is taken up by a lesson from our monitrice, a young woman from Québec City who’s here to teach us about culture as well as language, to help us “integrate.” For today’s discussion, she asks us to talk about what we find here that is most different from home. This should be fun, judging from other discussions of culture shock we’ve had. A man begins:
“Why do persons here wait on line to enter upon the bus? Why do they act like sheep?”
Next, a woman says, “I don’t understand why to buy products that are equitable. They are more expensive and not superior. Are the people who buy these things, are they ignorant? Or does the government force them?”
I smile at the young teaching aid as she tries to answer these questions. She does a reasonably good job, although I’m not sure if the responding nods from the questioners show understanding or merely politeness and respect for the instructor. She calls on me next. I ask something that’s been bugging me even more than French numbers.
“I find it bizarre that ordinary objects can be masculine or feminine in French. And countries. How can a country be male or female? And why do countries have different names in French and English? Shouldn’t there be just one name, like whatever the name is in the language of that country? And, and …” But then I stop myself, seeing the put-upon expression on the poor teaching aid’s face.
“You must not look for logic in these things, Madame,” she answers. “Of course words do not have real gender attributes. There are also rules in your own language that are not logical, such as English spelling, which seems to be a way to confound non-English–speakers.”
“It confounds some English-speakers too,” I admit. I feel bad about my little diatribe. I think she was counting on me, as a fellow North American, to understand things here better.
A woman in the back raises her hand.
“Here is my question, or my surprise. Why do people here make a riot during your hockey games, but do not protest when your politicians accept that the U.S. government should dictate Canada’s foreign policy and domestic security measures?”
Now there’s a good question.
During the afternoon, we work on our essays. After that last comment, I decide to choose a political article, like the one on refugee acceptance rates. I wish I knew more about what’s behind those figures. I scan through the journal that Laek reads. They, too, have an article on Canada’s refugee policy. I ad
just my screen and begin to read.
On my way home, I navigate the ice slowly—not because I’m afraid of slipping, but to give myself time to absorb what I read. In fact, they’ve sprinkled something on the ice to give the surface more traction. It’s not salt or gravel but a type of sugar, supposedly much less harsh on the environment. Certainly it’s more attractive— neon purple grains, glowing softly now as the sun sets. I look up at the sky, marbled blue and grey and white, dissolving into an expanding rim of pink. The trees are sparkling, their branches trimmed in a thin layer of ice.
Each day, I walk to class with the sun coming up behind me, then return home with it sinking down at my back. When I imagined winter here, I wasn’t bothered by the idea of cold and snow. I never considered the shortness of the day, though, the depressing absence of sunlight this far north. Yet I find that there’s something about the darkness of the season that makes me feel my life more intensely, like every minute counts, like every bit of light and warmth is precious. I think I’m beginning to fall in love with this city. But will they let us stay?
The temperature, already very cold, begins to plummet further with the setting of the sun. A gust of icy wind smacks me in the face as I think about what will happen to Laek if we lose the refugee hearing. Tears fill my eyes and begin to wet my lashes. Just before they overflow, the water thickens and begins to solidify. My tears are turning to ice! My eyelashes are frozen! I briefly wonder if this is dangerous.
When I get to the apartment, Laek is there waiting for me. I wrap my arms around him. He bends over and kisses my mouth, the tip of my nose and both of my eyes, warming each place his lips touch. My eyelashes defrost and my tears recede for the moment, along with the coldness of the world.
FORTY-ONE
Laek
I dig my nails into the flesh of my wrist. Janie pulls my hand away. “Stop that,” she says.
“Sorry. Just checking if I’m awake.”
“You’re awake. Just a little nervous.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s only that you’re not letting yourself feel it.”
What I feel is blank, but there’s no point in arguing. I lean back against the wall. Close my eyes. If only I could summon up a little anxiety, some concern for the future. The problem is, I can’t even imagine anything beyond the trial.
I start to drift off. The sound of Pierre-Ryan’s voice brings me back. I open my eyes.
“Nervous, Laek?” he asks.
“No,” I say, answering honestly.
Janie laughs and shakes her head. Pierre-Ryan smiles at her, then turns to me.
“Like I’ve explained, you won’t be expected to tell your whole story. They should already have read your written submissions.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “They’ll just be asking me questions.”
“That’s right. The Crown Officer will do most of the questioning.”
“Et la Protectrice des demandeurs d’asile du Québec?”
“If the Québec Protectrice has anything to ask, she’ll generally wait until the Officer is done. Whoever’s asking the questions, just answer honestly, but as we’ve discussed, try not to say more than necessary. The Immigration and Review Board member will make a decision after consulting both the Officer and the Protectrice. Do you have any questions?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Janie?”
“I have a couple. If I end up testifying, are you sure it’s OK if it’s in English?”
“Absolutely. Everyone involved in the hearing is completely bilingual.”
“And if we lose—”
“Let’s concentrate on today. The Board member has a lot of discretion—more than you’re used to from trying cases in front of courtroom judges. So our testimony today is key.”
“It’s less different than you think. But Pierre, did I tell you I’d like to follow in your footsteps? Become a refugee lawyer? Once I’ve gotten my French up to speed, that is. If all goes well here, I mean,” Janie adds, smoothing the front of the dark blue sweater she chose for me.
“All the more reason for me to work hard today. Ah, they’re calling us in. Ready, Laek?”
Janie jumps up and starts smoothing her own clothes—a maroon-coloured skirt and pants combo and a top with flowing sleeves. I’m thinking about what Janie just told Pierre-Ryan. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak so enthusiastically about her own plans for the future here. It makes me happy. Then I think of what needs to happen today in order for her plans to move forward. My mouth goes dry. I nod and let myself be led down the hall.
Before crossing the threshold, I scan the room for possible exits. An old habit that’s come back. The only door is the one we’re entering from the hallway. There’s a single small window behind the broad platform desk where the Board member sits. It doesn’t look like it can be easily opened. On his desk is a small Christmas cactus, its flowers spilling like blood from the sharp, green leaves. Beside the plant is a gavel that looks heavy enough to bludgeon someone to death with, and ironically, a small replica of the Statue of Liberty. Built into the desk module are scanning and recording devices as well as other tech. I imagine myself vaulting onto the table. Using the gavel to smash the window. Even so, I don’t think my shoulders would clear the frame. I could probably push Janie through, though. And then I could use one of the shards of glass to slit my throat.
Someone is attaching a patch to my wrist. And the side of my neck. I hold very still and will myself not to tremble. Take deep breaths, I hear Al’s voice telling me. Just keep breathing.
I look at Janie to measure her against the size of the window frame again. Janie looks back and narrows her eyes, taking my face between her two small hands. She kisses me tenderly on the lips. “It’s OK,” she whispers, “Just answer as best you can.” It’s then I realize I’m seated at the table facing the Board member, cameras and scanners trained to catch every nuance and bodily response, and that the questioning has already begun.
*
“Now that we’ve gone through some general information, I’d like to turn to some specifics. Beginning with the more recent incidents included in your submission. For instance, the beating you received at the demonstration … Did you know the police officer who struck you with the … the phaser stick?”
The Crown Officer, like the other functionaries in the room, is wearing a black suit with a white ceremonial collar. Her hair is pulled back and I think she’s in her fifties, though up until this question, her face was perfectly smooth. Now it’s puckered with a sour look of distaste. I’m not sure if it’s just the idea of these brutal phaser sticks that aren’t even legal here. If so, that would be encouraging. But my feeling is that she’s put out by me, by my claims, my whole story. That it’s somehow my fault she’s being forced to consider such unpleasant things happening, not that far from her own home. I find myself wanting to soften the facts. So she won’t be upset. I stop myself. Try, instead, to explain what I think she needs to understand.
“New York’s a very large city. It’s extremely unlikely you’d end up confronting a police officer you knew. There are just too many of them.”
“Unless, perhaps, they were out to get you.”
“Even so. That wouldn’t mean you’d know the police officer. It’s an anonymous place, New York. Not at all like Montréal.”
“But you have no reason to believe those police officers knew about your past, your political activities. You ran at them in an aggressive manner. Isn’t that why you were struck?”
“I was trying to draw their fire. Away from my students, so they could escape. But even so, I wouldn’t have been hit if I hadn’t been participating in the demonstration. Yeah, it could have been other police officers swinging phaser sticks, or other demonstrators on the receiving end of those blows. But it couldn’t have been just anybody.”
Janie’s whispering in my ear. About the Terror Squad cop.
“There was an officer present with whom I’d
had… a run-in. It’s in my account.” I swallow. “The one who’d sexually assaulted me a few months earlier.”
“So you are saying it wasn’t a coincidence.”
I look at Janie.
“Please answer my question without consulting your partner.”
“At the time, I didn’t know he was there. It was only later, watching footage from the manif, that I saw him. I thought …” I stop, not sure what to say about that moment when I saw the cop on the newsfeed and thought about sleeping and never waking up.
The Officer interrupts my thoughts. “Monsieur Wolfe? Please tell us what you believe was going on and also if you have any evidence for this belief.”
“I … I don’t know.” I pull myself away from memories of my time in the hospital and focus on her question about the cop. “I have no proof he was gunning for me,” I say. “Just a general scepticism about coincidence.”
“There must be coincidence sometimes,” the Officer says. “Even in a big city like New York. But let’s move on to that earlier … incident you mention. The sexual assault. You’d been pulled over for going through a red light.”
“But I hadn’t. Gone through a red light.”
“Yes, well. But concerning that incident, do you have … is there any evidence that you were being persecuted for your political beliefs? That you were being personally targeted?”
Personally targeted. It certainly felt personal. “At the time, again, I didn’t think so. I believed I’d been stopped for being a cyclist. Cyclists in New York City … it’s practically a war between us and the motorists. And the authorities. Again, not at all like in Montréal. Here it’s … it’s like a bicycle utopia in comparison.”
The Québec Protectrice smiles at me. The Officer continues her questioning.
“So then you don’t think you were stopped because of your political beliefs.”
“Being for cyclists’ rights is a political belief. But I understand what you’re asking. No, I didn’t think I was being stopped because of my past. But if not for my past, my beliefs, I wouldn’t have … I wouldn’t have felt so trapped. I would have been able to react differently. And he knew this. He sensed this power he had over me. Knew what threats to make. So in the end, he was able to … to do that to me, and to get away with it, because of my past, because of my political beliefs and activities. And again, the fact that he resurfaced at the demonstration, at the time of the other incident …” Janie moves closer to me. I realize I’m shaking.
