The Invention of Exile (24 page)

 • • • 

O
N
A
T
UESDAY
,
Vera
took a day off work and brought him on a picnic, out of the city. She saw that he could not stop smiling. “I can't get over that you are here,” he kept saying. He'd brought his sketchpad and removed it from his satchel. She watched as he sharpened the pencil to a fine tip, printing out equations, numbers and symbols. She had prepared pepper-and-egg sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs.

“You know, Father, Mother has tried to help you in every way she can,” she said, offering him a sandwich.

“Yes.”

“I can't remember a week that she didn't send you a letter or go to the lawyers or the congressmen. She was always at it. And they'd given her such hope too. It was always only to be a month, a year away, and then you'd be able to come home.”

He sat still, looking not to her but straight ahead.

“We'd get a lead, a senator would give Mother some hope and look into the case for her,” Vera continued. “And, of course, that takes time, you well know. A few months would go by and we'd hear that it was possible, that some other office was taking care of it. Then a few more months would go by and we'd learn it was impossible due to your subversive activities, as they refer to it.”

“I've had no activities!”

“We know this, but the government doesn't. They see your file in Washington and you're automatically denied entrance. No exceptions. But listen here. I've made an appointment with the embassy. We'll set this all straight. I have enough letters of support and Mother's letters and proof that you'll be an upstanding citizen.”

“I'm an applicant for American citizenship.”

“That doesn't qualify as being a citizen.”

“Well, it must count for something. I've filled out all the documents, all the required papers.” Silence. And then he turned to her. “Your mother. She's never come to visit me.”

“She's had to work, Daddy. She's had to raise us, you know.”

“If you'd all sent in my inventions to the patent agencies, I'm telling you, you'd all be taken care of. She wouldn't have to work.”

“The patent application fees are an expense.”

Silence.

“Does she have a house and garden?”

“No.”

“Where does she live then?”

“We live in a small two-bedroom apartment, with other families. In the same house.”

“In the same house?”

“Yes.”

“And no garden?”

“No.”

“Don't be too upset, Father. It's not so easy to have a house and garden in America.”

“And why not?”

“Mother does not have enough for those things.”

“I see.” She watched him absorb all of this, a strain in his eyes, his jawline tense. “If I were there, she'd have a proper house.” He stood up, paused a moment, and then, without a word, walked ten or so paces away from where she sat.

 • • • 

L
EO
.
T
HE
YOUNGER
OF
the two siblings. He has far fewer memories of his father. He is more uncertain of what to expect, his only contact since a young boy being letters he received, the same letters that made his mother begin to peck and poke at the typewriter and made him and Vera share a complicit look that said, “Father.” The memories he did have were vague, dreamlike—hanging off his father's solid neck, laughing. Sometimes too a certain cast of light as it fell through the doorway or a smell of oil grease, copper. Sounds could conjure a moment of the familiar that even he did not realize meant—father.

 • • • 

F
IRST
,
THE
Z
ÓCALO
.
Broad
shot, from a height, to give the impression of how large it is. This city square, which takes—watch him—one full minute to cross on foot. Next, settle on a figure in the crowd. The shoes first. The shadow he makes. Other footsteps surround him. Music. The sun bright. It causes confusion. Shapes are indistinct. He is still walking across the Zócalo, crossing the street and about to enter the courtyard of the Palacio Nacional. The Palacio Nacional, which sits on the western side of the Zócalo like one side of an ornate bronze frame. His first day in the city, in some shade-of-gray suit, his Baedeker guide in his front pocket.

He walks now through a wrought iron gate, the sun throwing thin lines of shadow along his suit. He had not expected the sun to be so harsh, and he skirts the palace courtyard by taking the long way, walking the perimeter of the sun-drenched square, staying beneath the arcade. On the opposite side, he can see the interlinking arches, the empty spaces like blackened mirrors—pleasant in their symmetry; eerie in their darkness.

Inside, he is flanked by other tourists. Exclamations, loud and soft. His head aching from the change in altitude, so high up, the pressure mounting. He follows other viewers up the staircase (wide), the grayness of the stone at his feet in contrast to the Rivera murals, the chaos of all that color, and the faces, bodies commingled in clashed arms, struggling embraces. One had to love these faces, wise, solemn faces, with a whimsy and mysticism he longed to understand. He lingers over the eyes, the hats, the animals, even the fire and the blood.

“There you are,” Vera says as she walks up to him, her heels clomping against the stone floor. “Almost took you for a distinguished gentleman,” she teases.

“How are ya, kid?” he says, arms open. A hug, a kiss on the cheek.

“And Mother?” she asks.

“Your letters—she reads them over and over,” he says, looking over her shoulder then up to the top of the ceiling, settling back down. “How's Father?”

“I've told him you're coming. He seems to understand.” She raises a hand to her forehead, pressing her temple before tucking her hair behind her ears.

Silence.

Almost without his realizing it they are walking, he following her for two paces before they are side by side. The whole history of Mexico at his shoulder. The dryness in the air causes him to cough, his head aches still, a tight pressure that the guidebooks say could last ten days or more. He will need to drink water, lots of water. He may be tired, listless even. He cannot tell if this sudden tightness is a claustrophobia, altitude sickness, or the disorientation of seeing his sister in an unrecognizable setting.

They have walked back out of the palace, falling onto the square, and he can feel the Palacio Nacional at his back, panoramic in its breadth. Vera has been talking as they walk, and he finds himself nodding in agreement, but he's not sure what she has been saying. He is trying to focus now, can see her peering at him, surveying how he's taking it all in, what his reaction will be. He winces, looks to her and offers a semblance of a smile. Now, back out amid the city, he finds that he is caught between two sensations, a surge of adrenaline, taking in the new—the light, the dust, the sounds, the dirt, trying to connect or feel some sense of his father—and a sinking feeling, a low drumbeat of his heart, slow. He continues walking next to his sister. They will meet their father in less than ten minutes. He has not seen him in fourteen years. First, though, he will need a drink.

 • • • 

T
HEY
ENTER
S
ANBORNS
,
the
lunchtime crowd surrounds them as they sit across from each other.

“Do you want a drink?” Leo looks first over one shoulder, then another. There is no waiter in sight.

“No.”

“Are you sure? One
cerveza
with me. It's after two o'clock already.”

“No. I'll just have a coffee.” Vera, he knows, is already worried about the time. They should stay only fifteen, twenty minutes, she should already be hastening their departure.

“Come on. Just one with me.” Leo sees a waiter. He raises his arm, waves. The waiter's expression—noble, but annoyed.

“Oh, I really don't think I could.”

“It's late in the day already. Just one
cerveza
.”

“All right, all right.”

“Two
cervezas
,
por favor
,” Leo says. The waiter is mute. He nods and turns away.

“Well,
café
,
cerveza
, what's the difference, right? If you want me to, I can change the order.”

“No. It's okay,” Vera says. “We can't stay very long.”

“I know,” Leo says. He is looking around the place, elbows on the table, his eyes now meet Vera's. A pause. “How is he?”

“Okay, I guess.” And then. “Well, not okay. Lives in his own little world really. His damn inventions and paper. And it's difficult to explain to him how the immigration system works. He thinks being an applicant for American citizenship somehow gives him some rights. It's difficult to make him see any different.”

“I see.”

“He's much changed.”

“I don't remember him before the change so—”

“I've told him you're coming. I've told him we'll be there this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“You look like him.”

“Really?” The waiter brings the beers, a bowl of small limes cut into tiny equilateral triangles.

“Yes. Same eyes. Startling, really.”

“Shouldn't be much of a surprise.”

“Yes, well. You'll see. It's a bit of a shock.”

It is here over these limes, and within the crowded, teeming Sanborns that Leo reflects over the word—
shock
. He'd had a shock acclimating himself to this city—dust and sunlight. The dirt, the grime and noise. He'd not been prepared for it. He'd spent the last years on a naval ship, two years in the war. He'd served his country. When he was discharged after V-J Day, he like the other boys thanked Harry for saving his life. Then the G.I. Bill and the promise of college courses wherever he'd like to go. Vera had urged him to come to Mexico. But damn it. He shook his head, looked at his sister, out across Sanborns, back to his drink, picking up one of the limes and crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. He'd served his country and they wouldn't let his father in. The bastards.

“We should just drive him up to the border.” He takes a long sip of his beer, looks away and then back to her. “Just get in the car and go,” he continues.

Silence.

“I've already been to the embassy. I've scheduled an appointment. It's not easy to get one, you know,” Vera says.

“Come on. We've been through this so many times. You know they won't let him in.”

“We can try again.”

“I think you're fooling yourself.”

“Well, why shouldn't they? We're here. We can vouch for him. We have to count for something. We're his children.” Vera has peeled the entire label off her bottle of beer, a pile of gold and brown paper crumpled before her. She sits back in her chair, sipping her beer. She is seated in profile to him now. After the embassy visit, she says. If it doesn't work, if the appeal doesn't work. We'll go then. He listens to her talking, the words,
embassy, appeal
. He looks to her now, his sister. She seemed to run on several cylinders—vigorously alive, Leo always thought, forever in gear and so precise in her attempts, with every
i
dotted and
t
crossed. Just like her mother, really. Relentless. In pursuit of something that he could see was like trying to move a mountain when he'd just as well break the law instead. What help had the law given any of them? That's what he kept trying to show, the damn injustice of it all. The bastards.

 • • • 

T
HEY
TAKE
A
CAMION
to the Condesa, the bus driving through shadow and light, all these trees amid so much dust. It doesn't make sense. Dust on his shoes, a fine dust seemed to have formed on his upper lip. There is wrought iron and green, medians full of plush ground cover, the curving circular streets, the dust. Everywhere there is dust. He had ideas about his father, imagining just what Mexico might be like, but he'd never expected so much green. Or dirt. Crippled street beggars too.
He's worn down his mind, worn down his mind
. He can't get the words out of his thoughts. His mother was the first to have said it. He'd overheard her in what she must've thought was a private moment. She'd read one of his father's letters, instructing her to send his designs to patent agents, to the U.S. patent commissioner. Leo can see the letters now—thick blue ink, drawings for machines with pipes and pulleys. She would say it softly at first, after reading the letter, holding it down by her side, her other hand wrapped around her waist, her gaze off and away and then the shake of her head, her lips pursed and frowning,
worn down his mind
. It's what neither of them now had the courage to say. It's what they didn't want to believe. It's the truth.

The bus drops them on a quiet, tree-lined street. Storefronts open. Rusted tin signs set against sidewalks or hanging from chains. Hand-painted signs on wooden placards of red or yellow. He follows his sister into a small vestibule, open to the street, the floor filled with sawdust and dirt. Lights off. He can see a frail man sitting behind the counter, who now turns as Vera approaches. At once Leo sees the eyes that seem to apologize for themselves in each blink and, my God, how diminished and fragile he seemed. And before he knows what is happening, there are words of greeting. “So tall,” he hears his father keep repeating. “You were my little rolling ball.” He laughs, and there are tears forming in his eyes, the blinking, his hand raised to his forehead. And then the clumsy, uncomfortable hug. The startled recognition. The nervous smiles. An accent unexpected. He is asking him to take off his hat, stay awhile. He does as he is told. His father next to him, nearly the same height now. He keeps opening and closing his eyes, shaking his head. A gesture of disbelief.