more rounded and ancient, buffeted by wind and ocean spray and the searing heat.
“They’re dying to set eyes on you, Carlos, after such heroic efforts.”
I scraped my shoe on the front stair to remove a clump of grass. She’d spoken lightly yet the words went directly to my heart. I could imagine these heroic efforts: who had been bought off, what layers of officialdom had been bribed or threatened, and what other worthy men had been overlooked because, I, Carlos, had been selected. If only my clothes were finer, my jacket tailored, as they would be at home. I wanted to make a good impression, but something was happening; I felt a clumsiness in my body as I arranged myself to enter the house. A smile had popped on my face, but it was too soon.
“We’ll go through to the patio.” Rita pushed open Sydney’s front door without knocking. The foyer was dark, lined in varnished wood, and smelled of lemon polish. Directly inside was an umbrella stand holding a single canvas umbrella, alongside it a bench made of cane. The tile floor gleamed. A mirror, oval-shaped within a gold frame, held not a smudge. Above, a chandelier dangled dozens of crystal teardrops which twisted in the breeze of our arrival, speckling the walls in light.
“His place is always like this,” Rita whispered.
I followed her through the front room, which was a small cube, barely containing the heavy dining table and leather-seated chairs. I wondered if all rooms in Vancouver were so cramped. How odd that in a land with so much space the rooms were meanly proportioned. Perhaps in a northern climate it was easier to keep such spaces warm.
“William Morris paper.” Rita indicated the walls with their pattern of foliage.
She’d told me earlier how our host was an expert on the French Enlightenment philosophers and had named his thirteen-metre sailboat Rameau’s Nephew after the novel by Diderot. I spotted a photograph of this craft on the cluttered surface of his fireplace mantle.
We travelled through a miniature sitting room, rimmed by glass-fronted bookcases and framed posters of Impressionist painters from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and on toward the back of the house.
“Is he homosexual?” I said, gazing at the art nouveau lamps.
Rita touched my shoulder. “Shhhh. Of course he is, but old style, very discreet.”
The kitchen was large and bright, oddly spacious in comparison to the rooms we’d just passed through, with built-in pine cupboards and terra cotta tile. Every surface was immaculate, as if this were a showroom, not a workplace. There wasn’t a trace of food preparation and no encouraging smells. Where was his maid, his cook?
Rita slid open the glass door at the rear and poked her head out.
“Sydney?” She trilled his name. “Your guest of honour has arrived.”
The chatter of the small assembly abruptly stopped and seven people rose to their feet as one.
So I entered their world, the smile now taking over my face, and with it came the realization that this smile could never be broad enough, or warm enough, that my existence was an automatic disappointment, even to myself.
“Welcome, Carlos, welcome.” A handsome man of about fifty with a thatch of grey hair embraced me. “I am Sydney Baskin, president of this little cadre of radicals.”
I bobbed from the waist, grinning, a parody of the grateful refugee. So alert was I to any hint of dismay that when I spotted a tightening of my host’s smile I wanted to say, “Be patient, I am not yet sure where I am.” Wicker chairs were set in a semi-circle around a little pool made of flagstones and cement. The bottom was painted blue, and darting through the water were delicate fish, orange and black. I thought of the irises back at Rita’s house, and the flaming bird of paradise. Perhaps these were official CAFE colours.
Sydney introduced me to the half-dozen people in his garden, and each shook my hand with boisterous enthusiasm.
“Welcome, my friend!” Professor Daniel Rose, a stooped man with unruly hair clapped me hard on the shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for this moment!”
There was a strong whiff of gin and I recognized the giddy smile of an amateur boozer.
“Daniel,” a woman, surely his wife, reached for the back of his shirt and tugged.
There was an awkward pause until Syd said, “Please make yourself comfortable,” his voice a fraction too loud, his gesture just a little theatrical as he pointed to the empty chair.
Obediently, I sat down on the blue cushioned chair next to the fish pond, my spine erect, an awkward pose, so I swung one leg over the other in an effort to look casual, but it still didn’t feel right; there was no space with the pond in the way.
So I placed both feet flat on the flagstones, hands on my lap. I never sat like this, not since I was a child at Sunday school. The little group stared expectantly, and I thought, do they want me to sing a song now? Perhaps there will be a speech and a salute to my health. Something was anticipated, but what it was, I had no idea. I eyed the tall pitcher full of pink liquid, creaking with ice cubes.
Finally a woman with pale cheeks said, “Thank God it stopped raining. You must have gotten a terrible first impression of our city, Carlos.”
“Yes,” I said, then added quickly, “no.” I felt myself redden. Sydney poured drinks from the pitcher into tall opaque glasses. A slice of lime plopped into my glass followed by a sweet fruity smell. Sangria? After a slug I felt instantly better.
“The patio is very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Syd replied.
I felt proud of myself, this simple exchange perfectly rendered.
“You are staying at Rita’s?” a woman called Sandy Peeple said. She wore a sleeveless tunic over tights, like a medieval courtier.
“Just for the weekend,” Rita answered. “Then he’s into the university.”
“Yes,” I pitched in gamely. “The Chair of Exiled Writer. At least I will have a place to sit.”
Their laughter was a little forced.
“Where will he live?” Sandy continued.
“I organized a spot at the married students’ housing, right on campus,” said Sharon, the full-breasted woman who was the wife of the slightly bombed Daniel Rose. “He’ll be sharing with Rashid.”
“Good old Rashid.” Syd glanced at me. “A lovely guy. Pakistani. He wrote incendiary essays that were taken to be anti-Muslim. Had to get the hell out.”
“Married students?” I reached for a dish of peanuts on the low glass table. “But I am not married.”
Everyone laughed again. They thought I was making another joke. My coordination was off and the peanuts tipped into the fish pond. I lunged for the dish, but it was too late.
“Oh my God,” Sydney cried. “If the fish eat nuts, they’ll die!” He leaped off his chair to begin the rescue.
The next five minutes we spent trolling the floor of the pond, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, plucking nuts one by one. The water was cold, yet toasted lightly on
