Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

  “I had a dream,” he says. “About Al and—”

  Laek stops abruptly and pats his jacket. He fishes out his screen and peers at it, calling up a message. I push myself up, a feeling of déjà vu creeping over me, as I read Laek’s screen.

  You have kept faith with us. We have done what we could. The rest is up to you. —A

  A moment later, the screen explodes in brightness, like a thousand tiny stars bursting at once, the letters from the message dancing over the screen and then seeming to break free into the air. The screen goes dark and blips out. Laek passes his hand over it gently, like the head of a small, faithful dog. He looks up.

  “I think my screen is dead.”

  Just then Pierre says: “I’ve just received word. You’ve passed the security check. Now your application can move forward.”

  “Already? Is it normal to get an answer so fast?” I’ve blurted this question out in my surprise, but on second thought, I’m not really sure I want the answer. Not if it confirms my suspicion about who’s behind this quick decision. “Never mind,” I say.

  Pierre purses his lips, as though thinking about answering me anyway, then turns to Laek.

  “Even though you’re not home free yet, this is excellent news. Now, all we need to do is convince the Québec Ministère d’Immigration to let you remain here. You have a number of important factors in your favour. The children attending school, hopefully doing well …”

  Well, one out of two, anyway.

  “… and your community involvement. The fact that your French is good is also a big positive. You seem to be doing well now with your French too, Janie.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can add supplementary information to the application. Like Janie’s plans to go to school in the fall. Other things could strengthen your case.”

  “Like if I had a regular job,” says Laek.

  “Yes, that would be very helpful. Or if Janie did.”

  “But Janie’s going to school. It’s up to me.” As Laek says this, I see him unconsciously rubbing the screen against his chest.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I ask him.

  “Get rid of it. It’s broken,” Laek answers.

  “Well, it’s been a long, full day,” says Pierre.

  “Yes. It’s time we were going,” I say, gathering our things. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for us so far.”

  I remember the first time we came to his office and I wasn’t sure whether to kiss or shake hands. This time I just hug him. Laek does as well. “Thank you, Pierre-Ryan,” he says gravely.

  “Take care of yourself, Laek.”

  As we leave Pierre’s office, Laek takes my hand and leads me up to the street, instead of through the underground network to the métro. I don’t ask where we’re going, just follow along. When we’ve reached a small park, he takes me in his arms and kisses me.

  “Janie, I have a favour to ask.”

  “What is it, baby?”

  “Can you get rid of my screen for me? Take it to an éco-quartier. Where they can recycle the parts. But not the éco-quartier in our neighbourhood, OK?”

  “OK. But you’re going to need a new screen.”

  “I’ll buy a used one. But I have another favour to ask. Turn all our screens off tonight.”

  “Why are you asking me this? Where will you be?”

  “I’m going to walk around the city a little.”

  “I think you should come home with me. I don’t think walking around alone is a good idea. It’s been a rough day for you. You need to rest.”

  “What I need to do is to take some time alone to think about what’s happened. And what needs to happen next. Please, Janie. I won’t be able to relax or sleep or anything right now.”

  “But why do I have to turn off the screens?”

  “So you don’t wait for me to call. I’m not gonna call. I’ll just walk around for a while and come home when I’m done. If the screens are off, you can relax. And I won’t have to think about you sitting by the screen all night waiting for me to get in touch.”

  This is one of those things that Laek will say that has the form of logic, but when you probe it, even a little, it collapses into utter nonsense.

  “Laek, picture me doing whatever it is you want to picture me doing, but the last thing that’s going to make me relax is being disconnected from you right now.”

  “We won’t be disconnected. Not in the way that counts. I’ll be thinking about you all the time I’m walking around. And you can think about me. We’ll be connected that way.”

  I shake my head, not at all happy about this. We’re in the centre of the park now, near a set of benches. Laek pushes the snow off one of them with his arm and sits down, pulling me onto his lap. For a few minutes we just sit there, his face buried in my hair, his warm breath against my neck. I look at a statue in the middle of the park, formless under soft mounds of snow.

  “Listen. When I was sleeping on the couch in Pierre-Ryan’s office, I had a dream. Or … or a memory. I saw that night, with Al, the dry lightning all around. What I was most afraid of was that Al was dead. And that it was my fault for not killing the other man. You see, Al had given me a knife. But I couldn’t do it, even though Al said that, otherwise, he’d be in danger. Worse, I gave Al’s knife to the other man, so he could escape. Maybe he used it to kill Al instead.”

  “But you know that’s not true. Al didn’t die.”

  “What did happen, though? After I saw Al that night in Red Hook, I began to think about it again. Since Al was alive, did that mean that he’d killed the man? That he was a killer? I hadn’t seen the other man come out.”

  “You hadn’t seen Al come out either.” I say this to be fair, though I have no desire whatsoever to protect Al from Laek’s judgment.

  “I don’t know what to think, Janie. You saw that message. You know what it implies.”

  “What it implies scares me.”

  “Me too. And now, when I think about my time with Al, I realize just how far out of my depth I was. Maybe everything I did …”

  “You were just trying to do right. Regardless of what Al was up to.”

  “I just want to understand. When you can’t make sense of the past, how can you know how to act in the future? Maybe that’s why I try so hard to live in the present. But living that way … It can be like walking a tightrope, sometimes.”

  I sigh and lean back as he wraps me more tightly in his arms. It’s starting to get dark and colder. It’s time to go home. Thinking about this, I realize I’ve decided to let him go, because even though the idea of Laek wandering the city alone in this mental state alarms me, the kids need me too, and I can’t force Laek to remain within four walls. I can see how it would be—him, agitated, pacing, full of desperate energy, even though he is, in fact, very, very tired. I can almost imagine how he feels, though all I want to do right now is to go home where it’s warm, cook a nice dinner, and talk about school and everyday things with Siri and Simon. And then make love with Laek. But that part’s going to have to wait until he’s ready to come inside.

  FORTY-THREE

  Laek

  The city’s too quiet. I need it loud. Loud enough to drown out the voices in my head. It was OK in the store where they had the music pumped up. I stayed longer than I had to, looking at the refurbished mini-screens that all cost more than I could afford. The middle-aged woman who owns the place followed me around. Explained the advantages of each model. I watched the beautiful, fluid movements of her hands. Finally selected a screen. The young clerk in retro clothes was swaying to the music as I paid. He let me borrow some tools. I removed the GPS chip and handed it back to him. Left the store reluctantly. The smell of coffee and hashish is still lingering in my nostrils, but the music has faded from my memory.

  I pull up my collar. Keep walking. I haven’t worked out yet what to do. The rest is up to you. Al’s words. Even the simplest meaning of this sentence weighs on me. We�
��re so close now, so close to being safe here. But I know Pierre-Ryan is worried. If only I could find a job.

  At the homeless encampment near Champs de Mars, the nearby court and government buildings stand like sentinels. The hospital parking lot in the distance backlights the scene. There aren’t many people out tonight. They’ve mostly gone inside. To a shelter or, if they’re lucky, some other place where they can crash. I remember the time I spent living on the street after coming east to New York. When it was cold and I was feeling lonely, I’d be looking for someone who’d let me stay the night. It’d usually be someone older. A man or woman living alone. After the sex, they’d want to hold me. If I fell asleep, sometimes they couldn’t bring themselves to kick me out and I’d get to stay until morning. I was good at finding someone kind. Usually, anyway. There was that one bad mistake. My mind shies away from the memory. And in the space that’s left, Al slips in again. The rest is up to you. Up to you, Laek …

  At Parc Émilie-Gamelin, people are shooting up. I lean against a tree, imagining the rush of the drug hitting my system. That feeling of warmth and well-being. I force myself to keep walking. A group of people are drinking from bottles wrapped in plasticized bags. They’re laughing, seemingly oblivious to the dropping temperature. Someone calls out to me half-heartedly. I smile but keep going.

  I’m tired and hungry but still keyed up. I enter a dépanneur, thinking about coffee and maybe a bag of those squeaky cheese curds. It’s self-serve, so I make it half milk, half coffee. That’ll fill my belly better. At the counter, a girl, maybe eighteen years old, is buying a big sack of dog food. I stand behind her. I see she’s probably closer to fifteen or sixteen. The dark rings under her eyes made her look older. She’s counting out coins, to the obvious impatience of the cashier. I look at the figure cashed up and then at the money on the counter. Not enough.

  “Je peux payer le montant qui reste demain. Ou même ce soir,” the girl says.

  “No credit here,” the cashier answers. Or maybe she’s the owner.

  “It’s for a sick dog. Like I said, I’ll come back with the rest tonight, later on.”

  “Take your sous,” the woman answers, pushing the coins away from her in disgust. “You and your types not clean. I don’t want dirty money.”

  The girl runs out of the store, leaving the dog food behind. The merchant moves to put the dog food back, but I put my hand on the bag. Return the cheese curds to the rack. Hand her the money for the dog food and my coffee. I then hoist the bag of dog food onto my shoulder and hurry after the girl. I find her about a block away, looking more angry than upset.

  “Voilà,” I say. “The woman gave it to me.”

  “I don’t need her maudit hand-outs. Or yours.”

  “It’s not for you. It’s for the dog.”

  She looks me over. “You like dogs?”

  “I like all animals.”

  “Even cockroaches?”

  “Well, they’re not my favourites. But I won’t put out poison for the mice. My neighbours aren’t happy about that, but I have my own methods.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I catch them using cheese and peanut butter as bait and bring them to the park.”

  “I like that. OK, I’ll take the dog food,” she says.

  We stop in front of a group of street kids sprawled along the sidewalk. Keeping company with two dogs. An old screen-board with a message asking for money is propped up near an extra dog food bowl. There are some coins inside.

  “This is Blatte,” she says, as she pours dog food into a bowl.

  Blatte! So now I know why she asked me if I like roaches. I kneel down, hands open, in front of the dog. A mixture of German shepherd and something else, and not yet full-grown.

  “There are nicer names for a dog,” I say.

  “He’s not my dog, really. He’s Trevor’s.”

  I hold the dog’s head in my hands and scratch behind his ears. He seems a bit listless.

  “If Blatte is sick, maybe you should take him to the animal clinic,” I say.

  “Not my dog,” she says again, looking over at one of the boys. “’Cause if he were my dog, he’d have good food and clean water and a warm blanket. And I would take him to the vet.”

  The boy says, “Ta gueule,” and the two of them start arguing. The scene depresses me, and my presence is causing tension. I say good-bye and walk further east.

  I find myself at the Jacques Cartier bridge. This is the bridge we would have crossed to enter Montréal if Siri hadn’t chosen the ferry. The bike and pedestrian path is closed now. Locked and gated, too icy to be safe. I climb over the fence. Start walking along the slippery metal walkway. I think about my family. How I’ve dragged them all here. Messed up their lives. The least I could do is find a fucking job.

  At the centre of the bridge, I stop. It’s nothing like the solid, familiar Brooklyn Bridge. This bridge is vast, cold. I shiver, wrapping my arms around my chest. Why did I ever think I could do good in this world? That anyone could? The only way to have an impact is to do evil.

  I lean over the side. Ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. The St. Lawrence River is frozen around the edges, but wild and ferocious in the middle, white caps below where I’m hanging over the railing. I hear a roaring in my head. I let my terror of the water build. Force myself to continue staring down into the depths. The wind is very strong. I imagine myself plummeting over the side, drowning in those frigid waters.

  I let go with one hand. Try to bring myself to the point where I’m as scared as I was that night with Al, thinking I might drown. When Al ordered me out of the building and I complied, was it because of this fear? Or was it my fear of Al’s disapproval, of losing his love? If I let a man die, I’d at least like to know why.

  The wind is buffeting me around. A gust pushes me hard. My gloved hand nearly slips on the metal rail. I think about Janie and grab on with my other hand too, pulling myself back. I suddenly remember that it was windy that night too. The hot gusts blew sand into my face. A desert hamsin. I was blinded for a few minutes. After that, I saw a flash of light. I’d originally taken it for dry lightening, but in my dream today, it was different. I saw the whole scene from an adult’s perspective. Unclouded by the emotions of my fifteen-year-old self—terrified, uncertain, wanting to please, wanting to do right, filled with guilt and self-hate. In the dream, when I skated away from the scene, there was a second small flash of light. Too low to be lightening. Possibly the glint of a knife. Two knives, yeah, is what I think I saw. Two knives moving away from each other.

  A car goes by and beeps its horn. It sounds like an expression of alarm. I start walking back along the narrow path. I don’t think I killed that man. If he was killed that night, it was Al who did it, not me. But maybe Al didn’t kill him either. But then … No. I can’t be sure what happened. I need to just accept this. Move on. Plan for the future. Like Al said: The rest is up to you. If I could do just one good thing tonight, maybe I could face going home.

  I walk all the way back to where I first saw the group with the dogs. No one’s there now. These streets are too empty. I wander towards an area where I know there’ll be some action.

  Looking for a date? Aimeriez-vous faire le party? Any plans for tonight, honey?

  I recognize a voice among them. The girl with the dog.

  “Salut,” I greet her, walking closer to the light where she can see me. I smile.

  “It’s you, the animal lover.”

  “It’s me,” I agree.

  “Do you want … Are you feeling lonely?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t afford to spend time with a pretty girl like you.”

  “J’peux t’faire une pipe pour quarante. Because you were so nice about the dog.”

  “That’s—that’s generous of you, but … Would you like to go get something to eat with me, maybe? I’m hungry and … Yeah, I guess I’m feeling a bit lonely. I can’t promise you anything too grand but it’ll be nice to get inside for a bit.”<
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  She looks around at the empty streets. Shrugs and follows me.

  I find a diner I know around here. Cheap and a little greasy but with tasty, generous portions. We’re served coffees and we both pour in plenty of cream. I laugh. Shake my head when she asks me why. She’s shy about ordering, so I order first—a veggie burger with fries and a side salad. She orders the same but with poutine instead of the fries.

  “My name is Laek,” I tell her.

  “Lila,” she responds, but since I know this isn’t her real name, I don’t call her anything.

  “Have you been on the street long?” I ask, once she’s eaten about half her burger.

  “Long enough to know my way around,” she responds, a little sharply, to warn me away from those kinds of questions. But with a nice smile to show she’s still willing to be friendly.

  “OK.” I won’t push her.

  “Are you a vegetarian?” she asks me.

  “Yes, but I don’t mind if people around me eat meat.”

  “I like veggie burgers. Maybe I’ll become vegetarian too.”

  I smile. “Listen, since you know your way around and I’m new here, maybe you could tell me about Montréal. Things they wouldn’t include in the government info texts.”

  I finish my food, listening to her talk about the city with animated gestures, choosing more and more obscure facts as she gauges my knowledge. I’m surprised at how observant she is for her age. I try to draw her out about herself but she’s closed pretty tight. The only thing I manage to learn is that, along with loving animals, she also loves music.

  “You know, I can see you working for the Ministry of Tourism.” I finally say.

  “Really? But that would be boring, anyway.”

  “How about being in charge of one of those summer music festivals? That’s tourism too.”

  “You think I could do that?”