“If there was a time when I wasn’t responsible for you, I don’t remember it. From now on, Paul, I’ll be responsible for myself. No Jonathan or Janet. At least not before I’ve caught my breath and find out who Jay is and what he wants from life.”
Paul stared at me, attentively, silently.
“I’m not blaming you for any of this. And I don’t want you to blame yourself either. None of this was your choosing. Not even your cruel behaviour here.”
Paul looked away, his head hung low.
“All I am saying is that I want space in which to catch my breath and grow; that now you must assume responsibility for your own life, for your decisions, for your behaviour. In retrospect, your trip away wasn’t a bad thing, just that you handled it badly.”
Paul nodded slowly, stared ahead of him, pressed his lips, and pulled at his chin. “Funny” — he was looking away from me — “I always took it for granted that you’d be always there — always, but I never wondered what it meant for you . . . That time when you gave me the money to cut loose from Nine Lives — I never even paid you back — and you hugged me and cried and begged me not to disappoint myself and Grama — you didn’t include yourself — you won’t know how important it was for me. You pulled me out from a current that was about to drown me.” He paused, glanced sideways at me. “Afterwards, it was like, I can’t disappoint Jay; I mustn’t disappoint Jay. That’s when I began turning my life around. That’s when, Jay.” He fell silent and stared at the floor. “You are right. You must be tired. I see that now. In your place, I would be too.” He walked toward me, put his hands on my shoulders and looked up into my eyes. “Just promise me that you won’t ever abandon me.”
“I promise.”
Two days after this conversation, Paul found a studio apartment on Fort and Tupper, a few metro stops from my own place near Maisonneuve and Champlain.
***
I’ve known since April that this September I’ll begin teaching college-level history. I shared the news with Paul the day I got the appointment letter. Paul was sitting in the armchair in the living room.
“So you’re going to teach.” Paul stood, walked to the living room window, and stared out on to Linton. “Going to teach history, you are. Whose? You think you’ll like it?” He turned his head to make eye contact with me.
I shrugged. I was standing in the dinette with my buttocks leaning against the table, the appointment letter in my hand. “Time will tell.”
“Teachers,” Paul resumed staring onto the street. “The civilian corps, doing with books what armed forces like NATO do abroad with guns and bombs. Most teachers aren’t bright enough to know how they’re being used.” He smiled cynically and a long silence followed. “It’s one of the reasons I revolted in high school. Most humans, more than 90 percent, will never be more than tools, quincaillerie, in the hands of the powerful. In university you studied Howard Zinn. He got it down pat about the powerful, how they pay — I say bribe — the executives they hire with enough of the spoils to buy their loyalty while they screw wealth out of everyone else. You must read Las Venas abiertas de América Latina, Eduardo Galeano’s book. And if they allow you to, teach it to your students. It’s been translated into English. I read somewhere that the wealth of the world’s 300 richest people exceeds that of 40 percent of the world’s entire population.” He walked to the sofa and sat down. “In Latin America they use troops, corrupt politicians, and assassins to insure it. Here they use teachers, politicians, and the media; of course, they own the media.”
“So, are you preparing yourself for a career on Wall Street?” I asked him.
Paul put his left hand behind his neck, his right on chin, and smiled his smile of embarrassment, all the while slowly shaking his head. “I’m going to write. Books like Zinn’s, Galeano’s, and Rodney’s. I’ll be like Thoreau’s rooster. I’ll wake sleeping humanity up.”
“And the capitalist press will help you?”
Paul crinkled his nose, bit his lower lip, and was silent for a moment. “I’ll publish them myself.”
“Naiveté, Paul. You’re naïve. Zinn, Galeano, Rodney, their ideas are out there because they don’t threaten anybody. In any case most people are already programmed to cooperate in their own oppression; some even promote it. It’s why capitalism is so successful.”
Paul nodded almost imperceptibly, brought his right hand to his lips, and bit the nail of his index finger. Lowering his hand, he said, still nodding: “Humanity is in deep shit, Jay. Deep shit . . . But we have to find a reason to go on living. Teach your students to think, Jay. Do like Bill.”
Now I look across at Paul stretched out on the sofa reading La Presse. That’s the Paul I love, the one Grama sought to mould, the one, had she been alive, she would be proud of.
Tomorrow, Paul leaves for his second trip to see Carlos. I hope Carlos has a good sense of humour because it would be difficult not to call him Maria. I laugh. If all goes as planned, they will come back together. On Paul’s trip in February, he wasn’t allowed to re-enter Guatemala because he’d overstayed his time on his earlier visit. At least that’s the story he gave me. He went to Mexico, to Comitán, and Carlos joined him there. The “sissy exercises” he’d spurned before, he now pursues enthusiastically. His body looks better, firmer, and he has lost another four kilos.
I recall our conversation on the back porch in St. Vincent. I hope Paul doesn’t have impossible expectations of Carlos. “I am beginning to feel afraid,” he told me the day after he bought his ticket for this trip. We were in the dinette wrapping dishes and putting them in cartons. “I’m worried about all the things that could go wrong.”
I was too, not the least that for Carlos Paul might be no more than an immigrant visa to Canada. “You’re wise to worry a little, but why paralyze yourself with fear? Just be there for him. You don’t have to win all the battles. I know you on that score. You and Carlos have been apart for some time. You’ll need to readjust to each other, and you’ll be discovering parts of him you don’t yet know. You haven’t seen him outside of his family and his culture. And he’ll be learning new things about you and about himself as he faces new experiences. That takes a lot of energy, creates a lot of anxiety, and can unleash a lot of ugliness. You know what I’m talking about.”
“So you think it will be difficult?”
“Think back to how lost you felt when we first arrived. Try to imagine Carlos with no support community and having to accept minimum-wage work. I suspect he held your hand a lot when you were in Huehuetenango. Be prepared to hold his when he comes. As to competition from other guys, what can I say? Gays aren’t famous for fidelity.” I chuckled. “Your forehead’s wide; has space for many horns.”
“Go to hell!” He balled his free fist and waved it at me. He put down the plate that he was wrapping and fell into deep thought. Then he moved to where I was on the other side of the table and embraced me. Smiling and staring intensely into my eyes, he said: “If things go sour, you’ll be there for me, right?”
I nodded.
He squeezed me tightly. “That’s my brother.”
Now, recalling all this, I would like to tell him that at times nothing fills the sort of emptiness he felt in San Jose. It’s our attempts to avoid it, to erase it, to flee from it that turn some people into alcoholics, drug addicts, or religious fanatics; and, rather than face it, many people endure abusive relationships. Feelings of emptiness are a part of life and have to be understood, struggled with, and borne, even as we try to forget how easily life could wow us one minute and shred us in the next. But Paul must know this. He rides the waves of turbulence while I’m a mere step from stagnation.
29
THE FOOD DELIVERYMAN is buzzing. Paul goes to the door and pays him.
“Come eat, Jay. I ordered for you too. Our last meal together in this apartment. It seems epochs ago since we moved here. So much has happened since.” H
e purses his lips and avoids my eyes.
We sit at the table, the Styrofoam containers spread out in front of us, paper napkins serving as trivets.
“Oh,” Paul says, “this is what you’ve been eagerly waiting for: the last revelation.” He stands, pulls a sheaf of papers from his seat pocket, and puts it on the table in front of me. “Eat first. You won’t want this soup to get cold.” He’d ordered cowheel soup along with jerk chicken and rice-and-red-beans from a Caribbean restaurant. I had taken him and Jonathan there for lunch one Saturday, and Paul fell in love with the food. We eat in silence.
I get up, take the sheaf of papers, go to my bedroom, and sit on the edge of the bed. Now that the drapes are down the sunlight hits me full blast. I go to the armchair, move it out of the sun, sit in it, and begin to read.
Okay. Here’s the lowdown on what happened. You know I needed my pot. At the very least a couple joints each day. Well there was this guy — clean-cut, sort of friendly — who used to supply me in Antigua. A fellow in his early thirties, short — about my height —olive complexion, bright, brown eyes. Rarely looked me in the eye when he spoke. He didn’t live in Antigua. In fact, I don’t know where he lived, most likely in one of the upland villages surrounding Antigua. He’d come in on a Saturday. He had a large clientele. A student at the school had put me on to him. He met us at different hours, each person in a different place. My meeting place was the Central Park on a Saturday.
I used to wait for him around 11 am at a park bench on the southern side. He’d come and sit beside me. We’d pretend a casual conversation. After a while I’d pass him the payment for my week’s supply. He’d walk to a coffee shop across the street, presumably to count it. Then he’d come back with a paper bag, take a candy out of it and pass the candy to me; next he’d take one out for himself and put it in his mouth, and pass the paper bag to me. He’d wait around for a minute, then leave. I would leave a few minutes after.
But for two weeks he didn’t come. I panicked because I needed the pot to control my asthma, or thought I did. The third week someone else came and sat beside me and asked me how much I needed. I told him a gram. He handed it to me and stretched his hand for the money. As soon as I gave it to him, he flashed me his police badge. Seconds later an older cop, holding a camcorder, came. They handcuffed me and took me to the police station.
I’ll cut a long story short by saying that after threats, etc., we settled for a bribe of $1,000: nothing less. They insisted. I paid them $500 that Saturday and said I would let you send me the money to pay them the remaining $500 on Monday. They asked for my passport then. I said it was locked in the school’s vault and the school was closed until Monday. They stared at me sceptically and I held my gaze.
They said that at 5 pm Monday they’d come where I lived to collect the remaining $500, and if I reneged, they’d re-arrest me. There was no point, the older cop said, in my trying to leave Guatemala before paying them because they’d already put the information into the computer, and it would show up if I attempted to pass through Guatemalan emigration before they erased it. Every phone call I make would be monitored (all overseas calls have been, he said, since 9-11). From my ID cards they already knew everything about me in Canada “even your address and telephone number.” Letters addressed to me would be intercepted. I wouldn’t be able to hide because my picture with the caption “fugitive” would be posted everywhere and printed in the newspapers. He asked me if I understood. I nodded. He said I had two hours in which to contact you — he lifted two fingers to emphasize it — before the system began monitoring me. Then he made me sign a blank report, and winked at me. If I had been thinking straight I would have left the country in those two hours.
My passport was not in the school’s vault. I went back to the family I boarded with, packed as much as I could in a backpack, left everything else, and boarded the next bus for Quetzaltenango. You know the rest of the story.
For five hundred dollars! This defies logic. For five hundred dollars you put us through 14 months of hell! Angry, I go to the living room to confront him. A lot of this is poppycock. Why couldn’t he write us using a false name? That canard about telephones being tapped and letters intercepted. Not credible. Paul’s too intelligent not to have seen through that.
I meet him lying on his back on the sofa, both arms propping up the section of La Presse he’s pretending to read. “Paul, assuming that what’s written here is true, the police gave you two hours to contact me. We have an answering machine. Why didn’t you?”
“What can I say? My brain was addled. It’s as simple as that. Couldn’t think clearly. The whole thing sucked. I think it was my desire to win, to beat the bastards at their own game. They thought they were in for duck soup, cauldrons of it.” He breathes deeply, looks up at me guiltily, and then lowers his eyes. “And I didn’t want Ma to judge me. She already saw me as some sort of criminal. What would she have thought if the report came to her that I was arrested on drug charges in Guatemala? Put yourself in my shoes — my phoning, her picking up the receiver; my saying: ‘Ma, I’ve been busted for marijuana and I need 500 US dollars to bribe my way out of trouble and $500 more to replace what I’ve already paid’; her giving me an earful, her turning the guilt churn as fast as it would go, not to mention vilifying me with Madam J and all those muttonheads in her church.”
I want to say, Paul, I don’t know how you ever got to believe the things you do about Ma. “So you had to keep this from me until now? It’s another one of your power games, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not. I wanted you to see first that I’d changed, that I’m no longer the scoundrel — isn’t that how you and Ma saw me? — that left here in March 2005.”
“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re as intelligent as your school performance made you out to be. There are areas in which you’re completely daft. You left here a pothead.”
“Don’t call me that!” His eyes are squeezed tight, and his cheeks retracted in explosive anger. He snorts to relieve the tension. “See? That’s what I mean.” He tosses the newspaper onto the floor and sits up with a sprint.
“Let’s get this straight. You had to have your pot every day: morning and evening — and I’m sure midday too — and you object to being called a pothead?”
“Yes. It’s a putdown the way you say it. See? That’s why I’d have preferred to rot in jail than have you and Ma sit in judgement over me.”
“Jail? Paul, you said, ‘preferred to rot in jail!’ Quite frankly, parts of your story aren’t credible. Any blithering idiot could have seen through what you claim that cop said about intercepting your letters and phone calls.”
“Yes!” He strikes the sofa angrily with both hands. “I’ve left out parts. Now, seeing your reaction, I’m glad I did. I’ll never tell you.”
I stare at him hard.
Paul turns his head away.
“As you wish. I hope the RCMP or CSIS never shows up at your door or mine. Does the Canadian High Commission know about your being arrested for drug possession?”
“I don’t know. If those cops recorded it, the answer is yes. It’s international protocol. Every time foreign nationals contravene the laws of the country they are visiting, the diplomatic services of the visitor’s country must be notified. Is that all?”
I could tell you, that not knowing your whereabouts exhausted me to the point where I abandoned my studies, but what purpose would it serve? And for all I know, you might find pleasure in the anxiety and trouble you’d put us through. For a few seconds I resent him; then I recall the inquisitive 6-7 year old busybody at Cousin Alice’s, and I’m flooded with the conflicting emotions of care and resentment I had back then. Drop it, Jay. Let him be. Let the past stay in the past. “You are right, Paul. We are as we are, and nobody should judge us because nobody can truly know who we are. But I want you to set aside your silly views of Ma. Earning a living prevented her from giving you the attent
ion you got from Grama, Aunt Mercy, and even Lucy. It wasn’t her fault. And I don’t care if you think I sound like an uncle.”
Paul stands and comes to where I’m leaning against the dining table. “You’re angry with me. I’ve been waiting for you to curse me out. You’ve always choked back your anger.” He puts both hands on my shoulders and looks up into my eyes. “I caused you to give up your doctoral studies, right?”
I look away, then turn to face him, and force a smile. “It’s okay, Paul. Don’t worry about it.”
Paul pulls me closer and begins to cry.
“It’s all right, Paul. It’s all right. You’ve come a long way. I’m no longer worried about you.”
He swallows, says nothing for a while. “Glad to hear it. I could have told you long ago not to worry so much. Greedy, ugly caterpillars become beautiful butterflies.”
“I know now that you won’t throw away your life. That’s worth more than a PhD. Besides, I can return to it in the future.”
There’s a long pause. Paul ends it, speaking slowly. “I spent a night in jail. That’s what I left out. I only agreed to the bribe on the Sunday morning. The younger cop came back to ask me if I’d changed my mind and I told him yes. Bedbugs, fleas, and mosquitoes bit me all night. Four of us were in a cell that’s a third the size of my bedroom . . . The morning before I boarded the plane, they beat me up. They slammed me against the wall and slapped me several times. Three of them held me down while one held a cushion over my mouth and nose until I started choking. I hadn’t planned a story for them about why I’d overstayed my time and didn’t know about the ads — they knew about them, and wanted answers, and I didn’t have any. I was waiting for them to tell me about the arrest. They didn’t and I would have been a fool to tell them. They made me give them all the money I had on me; said they’d keep me in custody if I didn’t. $90 that Carlos’ mother had lent me. It pissed them off that I didn’t have more. That US$8-story I gave you the evening I came back was pure fiction. Luckily, I had a toonie in a pocket of my carry-on, or I’d have had trouble calling you from the airport.”
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