LOST HIGHWAY

by Zac Funstein

  Miss Munguia viewed her sharply.

  "Not at all! Allow us, Miss Gastelum Ballesteros, to know! Mrs. Santana endures his blunders, because, as Heidi says,no one else will. “Then somewhat spitefully continuing, "But I was not aware, Miss Gastelum Ballesteros, that you were so intimate! The admiration is mutual, I suppose?"

  "There is no admiration," replied Filis, inwardly indignant that anyone should insinuate Holguín was admired—honest, blundering Holguín, who was so clever, but like all clever people, such a dreadful bore. "I have only met him once since that evening you introduced us in the hall, so there has hardly been an opportunity for anything of that kind."

  "You spoke so warmly!" Miss Munguia remarked. "However,"then in conciliating manner, "I don't suppose by any means that you are in love with Holguín! You are much too sensible a young lady for such folly!"

  Filis shrugged as if tired of the subject, after a spasm of sneezing, Miss Munguia continued:

  "As you intimate, H means well, unfortunate fellow! that is more than I should be willing to acknowledge regarding Mrs. Santana's other lodger, Mr. Norton, who calls himself a designer. If ever anything covered a multitude of sins then it must be this catch-it-all!”

  From this beginning, to Filis's dismay, Miss Munguia proceeded to the dissection of their neighbors who lived in the suite above, Celeste Gaona with her father. The former, Miss Munguia declared, was setting her cap for Holguín. Mr. Holguín being an unquestionably disagreeable specimen of the genus homo, with a somewhat startling habit of exploding in short, but expressive sentences—never using more than a clutch of consecutive words—Filis naturally expected to hear him even more severely anathematized than anyone else. But to her surprise, the lady conducting the conversation declared him a ‘fine sensible man!’ At which Filis first stared then smiled, as it occurred to her that Mr.Gaona was a widower might it not be that Miss Munguia contemplated the possibility of his becoming that other self not yet attained?

  Fortunately Miss Munguia did not observe her lodger's looks, so intent was she in admiration of Mr. Holguín's fine points, so soon took her leave.

  Thiago Alves Ferreira was not mentioned again.

  After her departure, Filis changed her inky dress, put on her hat to go out for something neglected until now. As Ballesteros stepped into the hall, a tall young man known as Geremías Ramón Madrigal, seeing Filis, started back in a sort of nervous bashfulness. Recovering himself, Geremías then darted out with such impetuosity that his grip on the surface was caught in a rug, Madrigal fell, went headlong down the stairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which Geremías clutched in a vain effort to save himself, the pair jointly making a noise that echoed through the silent halls then brought out the inhabitants of the rooms in alarm.

  "What is it? Is anyone dead?" shrieked someone from above, a voice, recognizable as that of Celeste Gaona— names that could never by any possibility sound harmonious.

  "What is the matter now?" screamed Miss Munguia suddenly.

  "Have you hurt yourself?" Filis asked, going down to where the hero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing himself violently, but who now picked up his trilby plus the fire-bucket, then rose to explain.

  "It's nothing—nothing at all, you know!" Gaona said, looking upward bowing to the voices; "I caught in the rug, and—"

  "Did you tear the rug?" anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs. Santana, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that Heidi cared for her lodger less, but for the rug more which had a favoured design although it had to be acknowledged this was now worn-its days of being beaten like the washing outside on the line was gone.

  For a moment Geremías pictured the Lodger cover, then was off to find Thiago Alves Ferreira. There could not be many with such an unusual title-moreover the understanding there was an Oestrogen JHW acedia of which there was an A plus a B version might be crucial in some manner as yet undetermined.

  In the great Free Library the December morning insinuated into the reading room, the few readers shivered a little in its cold clamminess. At this early hour (the building had only just opened its portals on this Tuesday morning-a scattered number were to be seen in the environs), those that were there were clustered round the advertisement columns of the newspapers that the assistant librarian had put out for their perusal eagerly devoured the new arrivals. They bore titles like the ‘National Post’, ‘Toronto Sun’ or the French ‘La Presse’ but there were more esoteric titles like ‘Le Journal de Montréal’ or ‘Corriere Canadese’.

  All were a sorry-looking crew, the sad words ‘unemployed,’ might as well have been stamped upon them all. They all bore its stigmata like lower-caste devotees of the dole queue. It took Filis to her stint in New Tecumseth with a similar unruly rabble.

  Their clothing bore the marks of much wear/ tear with many hastily sewn patches; they all wore the same strained expression, that rises from much searching for that which never comes. Old / young were there, perusing the columns of the ‘Toronto Star’ or ‘Quebec Times’ for work that might suit their pressing needs; ladies were there too not just machismo navvies—those whose features gave eloquent testimony to their hard fight with fortune—who greedily devoured the printed lines, who tremblingly took the freebie pens that were given then wrote down this or that address, which might by some merciful chance given them, if not exactly what they wanted, at any rate that which would ensure their survival. The euphoria might be false but at least it kept one going. Almost every member of the forlorn group viewed every other member suspiciously, with furtive glances, that seemed to say: ‘If you are lucky enough to get employment out of those columns, then I shall fail to get one. Your success is my failure-we must fight each other even for the most paltry jobs that no one with any private-means would bother to search for much less do.’

  A few were using the computer facilities that gave a wider range of employment agencies.

  As each one finished jotting down the addresses that were likely to be of use, they moved silently away from the library, speaking nothing to the rest huddling under their coats— lest even the small thing they have gained, should be snatched from them greedily. The unkind amongst them even took the bookmaker pens even though it was asked the facilities were shared with everyone-although these thieves blissfully were few.

  The greater number amongst the searchers for work, consisted of those who, for want of a better title, may be described as belonging to the lower bourgeoise. They were neither the very poor—in the recognised acceptation of the words, though heaven knows they were poor enough—but neither could they be classed amongst artisans, engineers or bureaucrats that staffed city-hall ever. Their appearance would lead an objective onlooker to suppose that the men were accustomed to office work of some description, that their female counterparts were governesses, companions, or perhaps housekeepers—all respectable, all possessing a certain propriety, all struggling to maintain the degree of gentility, which would keep them away from the utter degradation that all secretly dreaded. Many had fallen by the wayside so that the prop of each other was sought.

  A girl who stood a little apart from the rest but not so anyone would notice examined everyone so a shudder ran through her watching those who were no longer young, but who were yet still engaged in this fight with destitution despite dwindling faculties. The girl it was impossible to suppose was not more than just post her teens, though the deep shadows plus the undulating lines of anxiety, might have made a casual observer regard her as perhaps someone older. Like the rest of this gang who scanned the advertisement columns, Filis was dressed in clothes which had plainly seen better days—although it hadn’t been that good when new. But, whereas some of the other women had already begun to drift slowly into untidiness with perhaps eventual decline a certainty- this girl was ‘well-scrubbed’-salvation was not out-of-bounds. Her baseball cap, in spite of its age, was well brushed; her threadbare coat/ skirt despite the obligatory repairs that everyone seemed to carry was
tidy, indeed showed no traces of dirt or grease; her gloves although equally threadbare had no punctures or splits there was no sign of neglect or disorder in the arrangement of her makeup.

  As Ballesteros watched the sad string of humanity filing its slow way to the library doric-columns-it was hard not to draw the conclusion that some had been going through this ritual for most of their adult lives.

  ‘Some day I shall be like that, old, tired, yet worn out,’ Filis said to herself.

  Filis Gastelum Ballesteros believed Lorea said that both herself/ Eber belonged to old families. They had been cut off in their prime by a virulent epidemic of cholera that swept the village like a plague, but this did not alter the fact that they came of races famous for living to a ripe old age; Filis shivered anew at the weary, weary years of struggle that might still lie before her. It was seldom that she was assailed by such depressing reflections; her youth had a way, as youth has, of asserting itself, rebounding from its own despair; but there was an abundance of pluck. But the gloom outside, the chilly atmosphere of the big library, plus the sight of the same unemployed who for weeks past had, as it were, dogged her all combined this morning, to send Filis into depressed mode. Matters had not been improved by the calculations over which she had busied herself before leaving her lodgings with Miss Fuencista Chávez Lara’s. Since her parents' accident, Ballesteros had occupied the post of nursery governess in the family of a Mrs. Garnier, to whom Lorea had once shown some trifling kindness. But without warning the Garnier family had left Canada for Ohio, so had to let go of her services despite entreaties Filis join them —Filis, untrained to any profession, with nothing but a strong personality, plus an innate love for little children, to offer as her stock in trade, found herself amongst the hundreds of other unemployed like these—just a waif in a great Canadian city!

  Relations, as far as Filis knew, there were none. Eber had been an only child. Lorea had cut herself off from her own people by marrying against their consent, indeed was even unaware of who they were, or to what part of the country they belonged. The ex had grasped the fact of being alone in the world, and when the Garnier went away, she had no intimate friends in the old country— life with them had cut her off from the very few acquaintances left, in the Ontario suburb, where her parents died so mysteriously.

  Alone in the world, with no work, with her small stock of resources growing less each day, it was no wonder that on that morning in July, Filis's heart sank in despair.

  Save a few still busily engaged in extracting addresses from the papers, Ballesteros was alone in New Tecumseth library, before beginning her daily search along those monotonous columns, whose lines seemed to run into one another, becoming lost in an infinite haze. So many people appeared to require nursery governesses, companions, and mothers' helps; and yet, as bitter experience taught her, there were many more applicants for the posts than there were posts to fill; and it was with a sense of intense discouragement that she noted down some of the addresses. She even wrote down some that she had hitherto despised —those who offered only a home and no salary in return for services; it was in the middle of this reliving that Thiago Alves Ferreira must have arrived.

  “Ms. Ballesteros I received your message-something about an email from Mrs. Deonilde Loera Zelaya to a Naiara Madrid Archuleta at the Shirley Baca Candelaria Catholic Home For Old Ladies of a Gentle Disposition.”

  “Mr.Ferreira I was miles away I’m sorry.”

  “As far as we can make out Mrs. Deonilde Loera Zelaya has inherited some means of testing Oestrogen JHW acedia. Before you ask JHW acedia is a Chromium tester. We are using it on a

  small piece of denim we believe may contain an dieting supplement.”

  “Someone you are hunting down might have used this.”

  “If you like to put it like that yes you might so claim.”

  “Well Mrs Zelaya is misleading you I’m afraid there is another Oestrogen JHW acedia tester. Might I ask why the Oestrogen?”

  “We use a test known as the ‘Rosales-Test’ which has several compartments all called after various attract substances.

  Munguia had been surprised, not altogether pleased, at the unnecessary cordiality with which Filis had bade their visitor farewell. There was an excitement, an animation, an eagerness in her manner which Wereburga had not before perceived which was deemed at once might be difficult to manage. Thiago was exactly the person whom the landlady did not want Filis to like. The very possibility of her liking him brought out a latent hostility which was hidden under an exterior of politeness even familiarity. Even though the tenant assured that it was only the e-mail that interested him. Munguia did not worry engaging Ferreira herself; was even amused by him; but then it was always with a kind of protest; the room-renter knew exactly how far it was meant to go indeed had no temptation to go any further. But the notion of him in any other capacity but that of a remote member of society, was strange indeed altogether distasteful. Anything like intimacy was not to be considered for an instant; the merest approach to close contact would bring out some discord. All the while Ferreira moved in quite another plane belonged to a different world, his eccentricities might be smiled at for their comicality without the application of any rigid canon of taste or morals. But a person who was at once irreligious/over-dressed, (at least that’s how it seemed to Munguia)—the very idea of his presuming to crossing over to form any other tie than those of the most indifferent acquaintance, filled Wereburga with the strongest repugnance. It was provoking, therefore, that Thiago seemed to take Filis's fancy, indeed impress her more than any other of the many with whom the tenant was now becoming acquainted. It was more than provoking that Ballesteros should let her impressions come so easily to the surface, to be read in signs which Wereburga's experience would everyone knew, have not the least trouble in interpreting.

  A cynic says that clubs/ circles are for the accumulation of the superficial then unloading it on the populace, without much individuality. This, like all cynicism, contains only a half-truth, and simply means that the general diffusion of half-truths does not raise the general level of anything.

  No one was sure if those involved expressed their real, final sentiments, or that they should be held accountable for what they said. Nothing so surely ruins freedom as to have some matter-of-fact person instantly censure you for some impulsive remark made in an instant, instead of playing with it- tossing it about in a way that shall expose its absurdity or show its value. Freedom cannot be isolated with too much seriousness, the truth is more likely to be struck out in a lively play of assertion and retort than when all the sentiments are weighed. A person very likely cannot tell what they uphold until this is exposed to the air- it is the bright fallacies, impulsive that are often most productive. The talk is always tame if no one dares anything.

  “Nobody, I sometimes uphold, should be held accountable for anything said in private conversation, the vivacity of which is in a tentative play about the subject,” proclaimed Thiago Alves Ferreira.

  It was their ritual get together that any caseload entailed usually called the midway push. The Schreiber events were being given the once over.

  “You should interview Mrs. Zelaya again-I believe this is someone crucial. I’d stake my career on it-as glib as that might sound.”

  It was Jeremiah L. Robitaille who was concerned about Gladys having a daughter of the same age. It seemed to him that Deonilde’s role was greater than presupposed.

  “I don’t understand why this is important Jeremiah.”

  “Let us state my case calmly- without any undue fuss. I am, even by N American standards, an uncommonly prudent person- I know how to keep myself under control. Apart from that, I am a lawyer/parent I do not keep a diary, but my legal appointments books are stored in strict chronological order on my library shelves. First of all I have to tell you that, last year acting on medical advice, because of the ozone my medical-adviser said proliferated there, I found myself on the beautiful island of Cape Breton mor
eover that, while I was so visiting, I made the acquaintance of someone—a quite extraordinary acquaintance. The impression made by, above all, the west wind on everyone who has had to wash off the dust of Vancouver officialdom is a pleasant yet invigorating one. These things did not fail to have the same effect on us either given that the efforts that preceded the said invigoration were no less strenuous.

  I lived on the periphery of reservations, Eskasoni/Membertou, therefore had a walk of late in order to reach the beach with the health-giving air. A not much shorter walk led from there to the good fellow who treated us. As a Canadian civil servant used to moderation I set no great store by domestic bliss or even luxury. As I had taken my collection of meerschaum pipes,despite warnings that it could ruin my respiration fatally- I could have set up home for myself anywhere here but not have felt uncomfortable.

  I lived with a potter who heated his kiln with jetsam that is to say that bought at beach auctions that came from the spars that had foundered on the sand. I helped him from time to time to split this find believing myself pleasantly stimulated here by the task—at home I devote myself to this chore more for health reasons rather than the pleasure of it-but the activity was no less dimmed here because of the similarity.”

  This is partly the substance of what was said one winter evening in the library of a house in Caledon, one of the lesser Ontario cities. The Ontario Highway roared nearby like many roads of its kind, stood in the suburbs northwest of Brampton, isolated- yet near enough together to form a neighborhood; that is to say, a body of neighbors who respected each other's privacy, yet flowed together, on occasion, without the least conventionality.

  “I fail to see how this is relevant to Mrs. Zelaya.”

  “Patience Thiago please I am coming to that. It was getting on towards evening —twilight had or was about to have fallen- there were cogent reasons for supposing that it would soon be night those who would have graciously picked their way over this path so uncommonly beneficial to health had almost gone. I was to all intents/purpose alone with my plans. Stumbling, despite the evening cool, I was quickening my gait in the direction of my evening pipe with its carcinogenic content when the unexpected happened.