Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

“It’s time to go to class,” he says, and pushes me in the direction of the school.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I ask.

  “I have to skip school today. For a small job. So I can earn some money for my mother and little sisters. My father’s dead, you see, murdered by soldiers from your country.”

  “That’s awful!” Maybe he blames me, since I’m from there. But that’s kind of paranoid.

  “You’re good in math. Meet me after school with the homework.” Gabriel says.

  “OK. I can help you with the math, but not the French. I’ve decided I’m not gonna learn French at all. So my father’ll have to send me back to New York.”

  Gabriel laughs. “Bon. Puis, à plus tard?”

  “À plus tard.” It’s only when I get to school that I realize I’d answered him in French.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Janie

  “Jane Wolfe,” I say, reaching out my hand. I hope I haven’t gotten it wrong and that this isn’t another time I’m supposed to greet a relative stranger by kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Pierre-Ryan Corcoran-Gagnon, at your service.”

  He shakes my hand firmly while I look him over: medium height, slightly paunchy, curly, light-brown hair, but what stands out most are his remarkably red cheeks. A cheerful-looking fellow, especially for a refugee lawyer.

  “That’s quite a name,” I say.

  “A mixture of French and Irish ancestry isn’t uncommon here.”

  “And this is Laek.”

  “A pleasure,” the lawyer says, shaking Laek’s hand and ushering us towards two large wooden chairs. The chairs have the rough solidity of something manufactured in an earlier century. They inspire confidence, making me wonder if a parent or grandparent of Pierre-Ryan—a Corcoran or Gagnon perhaps—might have sat behind the same broad, scarred desk, reassuring refugees as they grasped the padded armrests, telling their stories of persecution and escape. The flowery seat cushions, on the other hand, seem a bit out of place.

  “I’m going to tell you right off the bat that Laek prefers to speak in French, but he’s agreed to let us have this interview in English for my sake,” I tell him.

  “I understood that you’re both from the U.S. Is French your first language, monsieur?”

  “No. Just my preferred language,” Laek says.

  “Ah! Well, let’s get started with some preliminaries. Your full name, nom de famille?”

  “Laek. Laek Wolfe.”

  “So Laek and Jane Wolfe. I should mention that in Québec, by law, a woman keeps her birth name.”

  “I didn’t take Laek’s name. He took mine.”

  “Oh! Well, that’s unusual. The authorities will certainly ask if there are any other names or aliases that you’re known by, monsieur, Monsieur Wolfe …”

  Laek remains silent. He looks like he’s thinking. After a few minutes, when he still hasn’t answered, the lawyer says, “You understand that whatever you tell me is confidential?”

  Laek finally responds. “Yes, I understand. But I don’t have any other name. My mother named me Laek and that’s it. Now I’m thinking of going by Luc. If I’m allowed to stay here.”

  “Maybe we should wait on any name changes for now. One legal issue at a time, no?”

  “OK, d’accord,” Laek answers, smiling shyly. I watch the lawyer’s expression soften as he looks from Laek to me. I feel a familiar combination of wonder, mild frustration, and relief as I realize that, without even trying, Laek has already managed to win him over as a protector.

  “So your intake form states that you have no income right now. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right. I was a lawyer in New York, and Laek was a teacher. I worked for legal services, actually. I never thought I’d see myself on the other side of that desk. Frankly, I feel funny about this, like we shouldn’t qualify for free legal help.”

  “We all find ourselves needing help on occasion.”

  I nod and he asks me if we have any other financial resources.

  “Not much,” I tell him. “Laek was badly hurt before we left the U.S. I had to use all of my sick time and a lot of vacation time too. I’m owed about five weeks pay, though. A friend’s getting it for me. Unless you think that could be dangerous?”

  “Why don’t I hear your story first. Then we’ll talk about safety.”

  “Laek’s written an account of things right here.” I hand him the refurbished screen we just purchased, feeling suddenly uncertain. Although I worked with Laek on the account, making sure it clearly showed how he meets the legal standards for protection as a refugee, I wonder if there’s anything Laek wrote there that I don’t know about.

  “A lot of refugee-seekers find it easier to write about their experiences than talk about them,” the lawyer says to Laek. “But you do understand that you’ll need to speak of things at the hearing, answer questions and so forth?”

  “Yes, bien compris.”

  “I see you’ve written it in French.”

  “Yeah. And I’d like the hearing to be in French too.”

  “Even though your first language is English? You risk not communicating your story as well as you could.”

  “There are other risks if I do it in English.”

  “What kinds of risks?”

  “That I’ll blank out.”

  The lawyer seems startled by the bluntness of Laek’s response, but hardly misses a beat.

  “Alright, I understand. But the hearing won’t be right away, so you can make your final decision later. Meanwhile, I can direct you to some services. Therapy, support groups, food banks, temporary housing … Some resources are only open to permanent residents and accepted refugees, but there are municipal programs, too. As well as less official help.”

  “The International Solidarity and Sanctuary network,” I say.

  “Good, you know about that. Let me take you two next door to speak to my colleague, Mélissa, while I read what you’ve written. She can go through resources with you in detail.”

  When we come back to his office, the lawyer is looking a lot less cheerful than before, although if anything, his cheeks are redder. “It’s a compelling story,” he says.

  “But what do you think about our chances … Can I call you Pierre? Please call me Janie.”

  “Pierre or Pierre-Ryan is fine. What I think is that your case for asylum poses some very …” I feel Laek go still beside me and I take his hand, simultaneously trying to catch Pierre’s eye. He meets my gaze and nods slightly. “Some very interesting legal challenges,” he continues, even managing to sound enthusiastic about these challenges.

  “I know there will be a political problem. Canada’s official position is that the United States is a safe country,” Laek says.

  “Yes, that’s probably our biggest challenge. But there’s some recognition of the fact that the U.S. uses torture in certain contexts, like in military facilities and detention centres, particularly with undocumented immigrants and political prisoners. And less officially, of course, in the criminal justice system.”

  “What about the problem of my … my activities when I was younger?” Laek asks.

  “Unfortunately, if they decide that you were involved in certain illegal activities or that you pose a security threat, you can be denied refugee status on the grounds of exclusion. Even if you can prove that you were tortured.”

  “How about the fact that Laek was so young? He was a minor then, only fifteen.”

  “It’s definitely an argument I plan to make.”

  “So you’ll take our case?” I ask.

  “Yes. Yes, I will. But I don’t want either of you to think it will be simple.”

  Now it’s Pierre who’s giving me the significant look.

  “We understand,” I say quickly. “But if we lose …?”

  “If you lose, there are other things we can try, but as a good friend of mine used to say, we’ll burn that cross when we’re nailed to it. In the meantime, the important thing is for you to g
et established here.”

  I know he’s right, but it seems so overwhelming. Work, housing, French classes … where to start? And with the hearing hanging over us. “At least we found schools for the kids,” I say.

  “I see that your oldest is twelve. Neither one of you seems old enough to have a child that age! In any case, it’s great that your children are already attending school. The next thing to concentrate on would be housing.”

  “Mélissa explained that without legal status, we’re not eligible for government housing.”

  “You could try low-income co-ops, though. Some will take undocumented immigrants who seem like good candidates. There’s a large, relatively new one in Griffintown that’s still looking for residents, and the subsidies are interesting.”

  “Griffintown? That doesn’t sound very French. Where is it?” I ask.

  “I can show you on a map,” Laek says brightly. “It’s not far from Simon’s school, actually.” This talk of maps and places suddenly has him sounding much more like himself.

  “And the question of safety?” I ask, reluctant to change the mood, but needing to know.

  “I think you made a good decision, coming to Montréal rather than to another Canadian city. Our sanctuary and solidarity movement … it means it would be harder for the U.S. government to recapture a political refugee here, notwithstanding our close proximity. They couldn’t count on the cooperation of municipal authorities, not even the SPVM—the police.”

  I smile at Laek. I wasn’t so sure about his analysis of this. It’s a relief to be wrong.

  “What about contacting friends and relatives in the States?” he asks.

  “That’s harder to say. Clearly, they could track you if they were willing to expend the resources. It’s a question of how badly they want you,” Pierre concludes.

  “There’s also the danger of our friends being harassed. And of their safety too,” Laek says, with a rare flash of anger. I put my hand on his arm.

  Pierre seems unfazed. “Frankly, you’re in a better position than I am to judge how far your government is willing to go in these cases. But what I can do is point you to some network groups that offer scrambled and anonymous communication services. They can still be traced on the other end, of course.”

  “And the money owed me from my job?” I ask. “Any reason not to pursue that?”

  “Legal Services, where you worked, are they funded by the federal government?”

  “Yes, in part.”

  “Hmm. Well, there’s no harm in trying. It will be informative to see if you succeed in getting your pay. Let me know what happens. We’ll talk again next week.” He stands up and we understand that this is it for today. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions or concerns. Laek, Janie, my best advice to you right now is to concentrate on building a new life here. We’ll meet the legal challenges a step at a time.”

  Once outside, I try to draw Laek out.

  “How you doing, sweetheart? Did you like the lawyer?”

  “He seemed nice.”

  “You OK?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I’m not convinced. Understandably, his mood darkened when the conversation moved from co-ops and maps to possible pursuit by the government. If only he’d talk to me about it!

  “So what do you want to do now?” I ask him instead. “I’m thinking about trying to see what I can find out about my cheque.”

  “I’m gonna look for work.”

  “We don’t even have our work permits yet.”

  “Something informal, maybe. I’ll just look around. See what I can turn up.”

  “OK, but can you also contact that co-op in Griffintown?”

  “I’ll bike over in person if you like.”

  “That’d be great, love. You make a good impression, especially in person.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just unlocks his bike. I walk over and rub his back.

  “It’s gonna be fine. Try not to worry too much.”

  He turns to me and I reach up to kiss him on both cheeks. He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Janie, for me, it’s the lips, not the cheeks. But if you want, you can kiss my lips and my cheeks. And anywhere else you can reach.”

  “Sorry.” I feel embarrassed, my cheeks probably as red as Pierre’s. How am I going to adapt to a new country if I can’t even get straight when and where I’m supposed to kiss people?

  “I’ll see you at home,” he says. “We’ll practice kissing then.”

  He gives me a mischievous smile and I’m reassured. Not just by the smile but by the fact that he’s referring to the hotel as “home.” I feel the same way. Wherever we’re together is home.

  I grab a cup of coffee at a café and look through the information Mélissa gave us. One of the network groups mentioned is also located in Griffintown. If we end up finding an apartment in that area, it’ll be good to know where the different community resources are. Plus, maybe I’ll even run into Laek. I hop on my bike feeling upbeat as I head over to Griffintown.

  Griffintown isn’t far from the lawyer’s office, so it doesn’t take me long to get there. It’s nothing like any of the other places we’ve been to up till now, more like a small town inside the city than a neighbourhood, and clearly very old, but developed in a hyper-modern way. I ride around to check it out, careful to remember the turns I’ve made so I can retrace my steps later.

  I’m pedalling along rue Notre-Dame on a sweet little bike lane. It’s elevated above the street level and protected from traffic by an artful barrier. The pavement is painted an almost psychedelic shade of yellow. I feel like I’m on my way to Oz.

  Around me, the buildings are a rainbow of rich colours—azure, deep purple, forest green and tangerine—with murals or holo-art decorating the walls. On the rooftops, all kinds of vegetation is growing, flowers as well as vegetables. I can see giant sunflowers and rustling corn. The light rail system running through the neighbourhood passes right by the sky gardens. I stare up, imagining sinking my hands into the rich, fertile earth high above the city streets. I’m so mesmerized that I almost run into the cyclist ahead of me as she stops at a corner and dismounts. I’ve been tailing her for a few kilometres, admiring her speed and fluidity.

  “Attention, Madame!” she says while I quickly brake.

  I smile sheepishly and motion up at the roofs.

  “Ah, les jardins sur les toits!” I shrug my incomprehension. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she asks, switching to English.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “And healthy too. Organic. To improve the health of both the people and mother earth.”

  And with that, she pulls off her helmet, letting loose her thick, white-grey hair. Her wrinkled face seams with laughter as I react in surprise to her obvious age. Yes, I think I might like to raise my kids here, if this is the condition people are in when they’re senior citizens.

  At the community centre, with few preliminaries and even less bureaucracy, I’m led to a screen I can use. Text is less costly than voice, so I decide to go with that. Since I’m paying by the letter, I keep my message to Magda brief:

  R u well? News on my cheque? Other news? We r fine.—J

  I’m not even sure she’s available, but she responds right away.

  Where are you? Don’t recognize message origin. We’re fine. Life crazy, as usual. Bad news on cheque. Money not available. Pay frozen,“under investigation.” Continue to try?

  I stand up and push my chair back, suddenly so paranoid I don’t even want to touch the screen, as though someone’s going to reach through the connection and grab me by the throat. Or worse, grab Laek. I feel almost violated, having them fuck with my paycheque like that. Five weeks of salary! If we were careful, with the lower housing costs here, we could have made that money last several months at least. Fuck them, those bastards! Well, they can have their goddamned money, as long as they leave Laek alone.

  I sit back down, my temper up and my paranoia more or less pushed
under that. I type.

  Dont pursue $.

  And now I’m worried that I may have gotten Magda into trouble. Or our other friends.

  You OK? Other friends OK? I send the message and wait. She writes back.

  No worries, everyone fine. Rebecca and David very upset tho. And Michael, of course. We all miss you.

  Miss u too. Sending love.

  I terminate the contact, thank the staff and leave the building, anxious to put as much distance as I can between me and the building, even knowing that this is irrational. I’d told myself that I never doubted Laek but had I secretly thought he was being a little paranoid? Why else would I feel so shocked right now? I think I finally have a glimpse of how it is to be Laek, thinking about being on the government’s screen, with nowhere to flee that feels far enough from the danger. Nowhere to flee but deeper inside himself.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Laek

  On my back, the trees of the park frame the sky, and my head is filled with blue. Grass tickles me through my t-shirt. I stroke a blade of it with my thumb. My other hand rests on my bike. I finger the spokes, spin my wheel. Yellow and burgundy leaves whirl and fall around me.

  What made me think I’d ever known autumn before?

  I sit up slowly. Take account of my physical state. I don’t mind the slight ache in my back from all the hours of raking. But I’m a little dizzy. Maybe it’s the surreal colours of the leaves. Or maybe I’m just hungry. What did I eat today? Did I eat? I’m thirsty, that’s for sure. I take a long drink from my water bottle. The coolness slides down my throat and into my stomach. It’s flavoured with mint leaves from the community roof garden.

  There’s usually food at the support group meeting. But first I’ll have to get through the counselling session. I’d rather spend my time looking for work. Or taking more French classes. But I promised Janie. I check my pocket. Eighty dollars. Not a lot for all that raking, but with it, we should have just enough to make November’s rent. I feel lucky. The folks at the Griffintown co-op were nice to take us in. I walk by a group of high-school students, hanging off each other the way they do at that age, like my own students did back in Brooklyn. I turn away. Think some more about the colours of the leaves.