The Invention of Exile (8 page)

A backhand sweep and the pictures scatter. The click and flutter of them as they fall to the floor. His palms press against the table's edge, banging the wall once, twice. The day's clouds pass over the sun and the room grows dark and then light, and then dark again. In periphery, he can see the branches stretched across the window, full and pulsing on the little wind. A bus passes, exhaling its exhaust through the window. Below too, men and women walk past like the steady flow of days. He wishes, longs to be one of them.

The floor is littered with the photographs; white squares facedown. He sighs and he picks them up—first one, then another. He stares into a younger self, and he can tell by the eyes, his eyes, that he had been a happy man.

He'll write to her now. He puts the photographs back in the envelope, years falling through hands.

They'd fared better than most. That he knew. Lives broken, but still lived. They could, after all, do just this—write to each other. To look at a map and point to where each resided. Others had no geography, lost to each other and the world. After everything, a name, an address, a place to be found—these were precious, fortunate things.

And yet.

He is a man who can calculate the mass of a water glass, the circumference of an apple, the velocity of a pencil's descent. He knows the seven kinds of energy, can measure the potential and kinetic energies of an object at rest, an object in motion. He knows the formulas for entropy, inertia. He can tell one how light travels, sound. His world, days are a landscape of equations. He can build a radio out of wire and magnets. He can disassemble a clock and make a metronome. He knows Ohm's law, Fourier's law, Newton's laws. He knows energy could neither be created nor destroyed.

He sits at his table again, picks up his pen this time, a clean sheet of drafting paper that he's folded into quarters.
Dear Julia
, he begins. He is finding it hard to write more, to find the words.
Dear Julia
. That is as far as he can get.

But there are other letters that he can write with no effort at all.

Commissioner of Patents

Washington, D.C.

United States of America

To Whom It May Concern:

Be it known that I Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov, applicant for citizen of the United States of America of Bridgeport, CT—my present, temporary residence being Avenida Sonora, Mexico City, D.F., Mexico—have invented a new and useful boiler fire box surface by way of increasing the conduits, or tubes. The following is a specification:

D
RAWING
N
O
.
1
is a full perspective diagram.

Below,
N
O
. 2
and
3
are cross-section drawings of the water conduits, tubes, attached to the front face of the firebox by phalanges with metal joints, described here in
No. 4, 5,
and
6.

N
O
. 7
is an oil burner atomizer, and illustrates how the flame embraces the water from the conduits.

N
O
. 10
shows two additional, parallel conduits.

I claim therefore that such improvements to the boiler firebox allow the steam to move rapidly through the boiler pipes using less fuel consumption.

Inventor's full signature

Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov

O
ATH
OF
A
S
INGLE
I
NVENTOR

I Austin Voronkov (American), Ustin Voronkov (Russian), Vustin Voronkov (Ukrainian), who applied for citizenship to the United States of America in the county of Fairfield, in the town of Bridgeport, state of Connecticut, born in Selo Varvarovka of Ukrainia, Russia, hereby swear that I know of no other invention or device that works to such a degree. The above-named petitioner, being sworn and affirmed, deposes and says—that he is an applicant for a citizen of the United States of America and his present, temporary residence is Avenida Sonora, Mexico City, Distrito Federal, Mexico, and his correspondence address is
lista de correos,
D.F. He hereby believes himself to be the original, first, and sole inventor of the hydraulic propeller described and claimed in the annexed specifications; that he does not believe that the same was ever known or used before his invention or discovery thereof, or patented or described in any printed publication in any country before his invention or discovery thereof.

Inventor's full signature,

Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov

 • • • 

G
RAN
H
OTEL
DE
M
EXICO
.
Its sidewalk café filled, bustling. The sun gleams off the dusky lens of sunglasses, the blade of a knife. The patrons gathered today are the same as usual. The requisite table of lawyers in their white, starched shirts and dark eyes. Two tired American women, in matching orange espadrilles, wide-brimmed sun hats and binoculars, sit over glasses of
agua fresca
. Behind them are American businessmen. Cuff links, watches, briefcases. They've pulled several tables together, the surfaces littered with coffee cups, half-eaten plates of pastry.

Austin walks beneath the hotel's canopy, its shade like a hallway. The American businessmen are unmistakable. It is in the way they take up space, not just with a body, but with a presence that announces itself like a ship berthing in port. To be so lucky, Austin thinks. To know so assuredly one's place in the world.

He sits down adjacent to them. One man has silver hair. The other is the younger of the two, shaven, smooth. The sun is strong on his forehead and he repositions his chair to avoid its direct blaze. He is closer, can hear their conversation—something about refineries, labor, stock shares. He listens. He orders a coffee, a glass of water. He opens his satchel and removes his papers and notebook. Why he feels nervous, Austin does not know. He has done this so many times before, and his confidence has waxed and waned, though today he is feeling more bruised, more shy than ever, hardly able to place his order. They will think me ridiculous, surely, are probably now noticing my shoes, he thinks.

He waits. A lull in their conversation. His chance comes.

“Excuse me. I can't help but overhear,” Austin says, leaning toward the men's table. It takes a moment for the men to realize he is speaking to them. The man with the silver hair looks at his shoes, or so Austin thinks, and he flinches, shamed. He tucks his feet under his chair, hoping the man does not spot the scraps of rubber he uses to reinforce the soles, soles as thin as newspaper.

“Please, will you allow me to—?” Austin says, rising half out of his chair, his voice wavering.

“Of course,” the man says. Bemused smiles, an exchange of furtive glances. They think he's a Mexican. He'll be a story they can bring back to their wives, some curio. He can hear it now, how they'd explain him, describe him—this stranger inviting himself to their table.

“You work in American industry, correct?” Austin asks. He sits down at their table.

“Yes. Copper,” the man says, raising his glass to his lips. And then, as if on second thought, he sets the glass back down. He folds his arms across his chest.

“I thought so.” Austin nods. Silence lingers and then he begins with a lie. “It is quite a coincidence I come here and sit next to you today.” Years ago he would have felt a prick of his conscience. But now, after all the years, he feels his situation allows him to resort to the occasional, sometimes extended, stretch of lies—all white.

“Is that so?” the man asks.

“Yes. I sit here, listening to you talk—forgive me—but I think to myself, well, I must speak up.”

“I'm all ears,” the older man says, this time raising his water glass, drinking full, sloshing the water around in it a bit. He dabs the moisture at his temples with the coolness of the glass.

“I am Austin Voronkov,” he says, extending his hand. The silver haired man does not move. The younger man rushes in to offer a cautious, feeble handshake.

“I am an engineer,” Austin explains. “I know the work you discuss. I think I could be of use to you.”

“You could, could ya?” the man asks, smiling now. He sits forward, elbows on the table. Complicit smiles, a wink even. “I'm Russell Becker,” he says, offering a fleshy palm, damp from the glass. “Let's hear it.”

“I earned my degree from the Ukraine Polytechnic. I was senior inspector for Remington Arms Company in Connecticut. An engineer with Anaconda, a foreman in Cananea. I am looking for work. With an American company.”

“And you don't work with Anaconda anymore, I take it?”

“I had to come to Mexico City.” A pause. Austin coughs. “For work.”

“And did you find it?”

“I do repairs.”

Silence. Russell Becker sits back and Austin follows their exchange of glances.

“And I have applied for several patents. For my inventions,” Austin says.

“All you engineers are inventors, aren't you?” Russell Becker says.

“Where are you from, Austin?”

“Russia.”

Silence.

“Austin. Odd name for a Russian.”

“It has gone through manifestations,” Austin says, with a tired, resigned smile.

“Is that so?”

“Ustin. That is my given name. The Americans, though, they change you.”

“You're not a Red, are you?” Becker leans forward, his brow lined.

“No. I am married to an American. I applied for citizenship. I was born in Russia and came to America.” Why did these Americans always assume that he was a Bolshevik, a Communist, just because he was Russian? They killed my mother and father, the dirty Bolsheviks, is what he wants to say. They were joking, it seemed, but there was a fear too. He knew that look—a sudden bristling, a closing in of one's shoulders, the end of direct eye contact and a wish to finish the conversation. It is something Austin has gotten used to, though abhorred.

“And so you want a job with us?”

“In any capacity. Perhaps on the American side of the border.” As soon as he utters the words, as soon as he hears their laughter, louder than their previous chuckling, as soon as he watches Russell Becker slam his palm down on the table, glasses jumping from the impact, he regrets what he has said, and laughs now too, feigning bemusement, hoping to hide what had been his quite earnest plea. But he cannot disengage himself from the request. The words have been said. The question asked. He will have to ride it out, and find a way to simply endure.

“The American side?” Becker says.

“Well, that might be difficult to arrange,” the younger man says. Russell Becker finishes his glass of water, wipes his hands on his thighs. “Listen—Austin is it?—we can't really help ya, I'm afraid,” he says.

“You might just take a look at my drafts here.” Austin reaches for his satchel, removing his designs, searching for the copper mine cement block lifter. He stands up, moving the plates and glasses out of the way, smoothing out the papers across the clear surface. He can hear his heart beat in his ears. He is flushed.

“You see here,” he begins. “Of course, you need a hoisting crew, but it will work quite well. It can lift heavy blocks. And this is my patent letter,” he says, handing the paper to Becker. “You see, I've had correspondence with the United States patent commissioner.”

“Let's take a look,” Becker says, examining the drafting papers, the letter. Austin watches his face, the slight frown of concentration.

“These here grip the concrete. They can expand with the crank, contract again depending on the size in need of lifting. And this one here—these are rail tongs.”

“Yes. I see,” he says, continuing to look over the papers. “Good, good, but we don't have use for that, I'm afraid. Have machinery that handles all this now.” Becker folds the papers in half and hands them back to Austin. He pushes his chair out to rise, bumping into the woman sitting behind him.

“If you want to work for an American company, well, I think you'd have better luck crossing the border.” He winks. “Excuse me,” he says, and then forgetting himself, mumbles a deferential
perdón
. The younger man smiles apologetically as he stands up to leave.

“Good luck,” he says with a wave like a salute. Austin watches them snake out of the café and onto the sidewalk and beyond that to the Zócalo,
where they disappear amid the morning's crowds—bodies walking, halting, standing.

The
Herald Tribune
lies rumpled on their deserted table.

“J
ANUARY 4, 1948. 3
¹
/
₂
B
ILLION
A
SK
ED FOR
A
ID TO
W
ORLD
,” the headline runs.

His coffee has grown tepid. His cold water is now warm, the glass sweating. Crossing. There were years when Austin had considered crossing the border. He'd nearly done it when living in Cananea, when Julia and the children were still with him. He takes a sip of his water, looks at his hands, remembering. A carnival used to come to Cananea once a year. He and Julia had taken the children every night. They'd never seen so many lights, he remembers. The Ferris wheel with its pink and white lights. From where they lived in the mine's barracks houses, they could see only the very top of the wheel. It seemed to hover there in the night, against the stars, only brighter, like a constellation. And he'd walk to the fair with Leo hanging off his neck. The boy liked to watch the lights come into view—one white light, then one pink, one white, then pink. He doesn't remember who loved that fair more—the children or Julia, drunk on all their laughter. They'd never really seen excitement like that. All the toys and games and rides.