Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think my father ever loved me. I mean, like, ever, even before the brain damage.’ He wishes she’d say of course he did, he just didn’t show it. That’s what Annie used to tell him.

  ‘Did your father love you?’ he asks. ‘I mean, before they took him to Siberia?’

  ‘He loved politics and vodka.’

  ‘Did he love your sister?’

  ‘She was a baby, what’s not to love?’

  ‘The thing is, I was his only child, how could he not love me?’ This perplexes him even more now that he has felt his innards shifting and his emotions gushing in regards to his daughter.

  ‘Some people don’t know how to love.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There are no rules. Many people grow up without fathers. They do okay.’

  Is this the preamble to banishing him from his daughter’s life? Already he can feel the lightness leaving him. He is circling the drain. In seconds he will be sucked into slick, dark hell. ‘Please don’t take her away from me. I don’t think I could stand it.’

  ‘You said you thought she was somebody else’s.’

  ‘I was an idiot. Please forgive me.’

  He can hear her radio in the background. She listens to the all-news station to improve her English.

  He treads water, spluttering. ‘I’m so sorry, I mean about everything, and I … I didn’t realize how late it is. Were you sleeping?’

  ‘I don’t sleep much anymore.’

  ‘Me neither.’ There must be something insightful, or at least amusing, to say. He tries to sound easygoing, as though he is not about to expire. ‘Are you okay, Zoz? You sound beat.’ She doesn’t respond and he feels himself dissolving. ‘Please talk to me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything. What you’re feeling, what you ate for lunch, anything.’

  He waits as the radio spews news of oil prices, floods and Third World ­uprisings.

  ‘Everything is impossible now,’ she says. ‘I used to think anything was ­possible.’

  He can’t assure her that anything still is possible, knowing that it isn’t.

  ‘I thought it would be different here,’ she says.

  ‘It is. There is much here. You said that yourself. I mean, you don’t hear about human trafficking.’

  ‘You don’t hear about it.’

  ‘Maybe the trick is not to think about whether things are possible or impossible. Maybe the trick is to just go ahead and do whatever it is you’re doing. Deciding that something is possible or impossible might just be a waste of energy. I mean, who knows what’s possible? All we know for sure is we’re going to die.’ There’s insight for you. What an asshole.

  ‘What is it that you are doing, Milo?’

  ‘Well, I’m … I’m thinking of going into the construction business, small stuff, you know, patios and decks.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I don’t think it would hurt to have some steady cash coming in.’ He is hoping to impress her with his new no-coasting policy, and his determination to protect his organ living outside his body. But he can no longer conceal the truth for fear of disappointing her. ‘Zoz, I did a terrible thing.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘I roughed up a kid who bullied Robertson. He body-slammed him and stole his cell and kept hitting him in the head with a basketball. He called him a fag and a retard and said online that Robertson wanted to do perverted things to a girl he had a crush on. Then the bully sexually assaulted the girl.’

  ‘Not a nice boy.’

  ‘No. The thing is, after I roughed him up, he fell down. He died two days later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He had a brain aneurysm. I might have caused it to rupture.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By roughing him up.’

  Zosia doesn’t speak and he feels the pull of the slick, dark drain.

  ‘Do you often rough up little boys?’

  ‘Never. I mean, not since I was a little boy. I wouldn’t have done it except Robertson was miserable. He was getting worse and nobody was helping him.’

  ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Better. He’s building a patio, and his mother’s home-schooling him.’

  ‘There will be more bullies.’

  ‘I realize that, and I won’t touch them, I promise. I could never, ever, assault a child again.’

  The radio rambles.

  ‘I’m going to eat something now,’ she says. ‘I have nausea. I have to eat small portions regularly.’

  ‘Of course, okay, well, can I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  He sits stranded by the phone not knowing what to do other than wait until tomorrow when he can call her again, plead with her again.

  Gus appears from the shadows cradling the rabbit. ‘Wszystko dobrze?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Milo mutters, understanding that the rabbit, like every one else, prefers to be with Gussy.

  ‘Miłosz,’ Gus says. ‘Chcesz ją potrzymać?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Fine. I’m okay. I’m glad you didn’t kill it.’

  ‘Rah-beet,’ Gus says. ‘Królik. Potrzymaj ją. Rah-beet, królik.’

  ‘Kroo-leeck,’ Milo repeats.

  Gus nods, carefully placing the rabbit on Milo’s lap. ‘Okay?’ he asks. ‘Pogłaszcz ją.’ He gestures for Milo to stroke the rabbit. Milo does, astonished by the softness of its fur and the feeling of life in the creature that looked lifeless only hours ago. ‘Podrap ją w uszko.’ Gus gestures for Milo to stroke Patches’ ears, which he does. Gus nods, smiling. ‘Ona to lubi. Goot.’ He leaves Milo alone with the rabbit and Patches doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t immediately hop off his lap in pursuit of Gussy. It twitches its nose and tail and keeps an eye out for predators, but it stays with Milo.

  mmediately after the security guard unlocks the door, the Mexican and Cuban soon-to-be in-laws swarm the wedding chamber. Armed with masking tape, the women hurriedly stick plastic flowers on the concrete block walls. Several of the men struggle with streamers that tear easily and are caught underfoot. A fleet of Mexicans puff out their cheeks as they inflate heart-shaped balloons. Pablo, wearing a pale blue rented tux, struts about offering decorating tips. Maria, for no reason that Milo can understand, is tearful, although she looks fetching in a flamenco-style dress, with ruffles at the hem and a mantilla veil. The rumpled officiant, Mr. Gunby, waiting to perform the service, watches the Latinos with some apprehension, periodically stroking his goatee. Milo is unclear as to Mr. Gunby’s credentials but Pablo has assured him that he is ‘legit’ and not too expensive and ‘totally Canadian.’ His Canadian pedigree was of great importance to Maria, who has recently been granted Canadian citizenship.

  Gus, with Vera’s assistance, takes over in the streamer department and within minutes the beige walls are aflame with scarlet, lemon yellow and magenta – colours chosen by the bride, which complement her dress. Wallace, in his too-small blazer, kicks a ball around in a corner with some small ruffians. Tawny, as per Pablo’s instructions, is in charge of the boom box, playing tracks from old John Travolta movies. The noise level in the windowless room is rising as is the aroma of body odour. As expected, Zosia is nowhere in sight and Milo’s ‘hot’ jacket, donated by Val, is making him sweat.

  Several stocky grandmothers herd the crowd into seats, scolding and slapping the non-compliant ruffians. Finally Pablo and Maria stand before Mr. Gunby, who has been instructed, according to Pablo, not to mention God.

  ‘In the presence of God,’ Mr. Gunby begins.

  ‘No God,’ Pablo protests, which causes Maria to gasp and the guests to titter. ‘We agreed, cariño. Didn’t we agree? No God.’

  She nods meekly, her expression hidden by the veil, and Mr. Gunby ­continues: ‘Do you, Pablo Suarez, take Maria Ortega to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for r
icher, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do you part?’

  ‘Totally,’ Pablo says.

  ‘Just say “I do,” please.’

  ‘Totally. I do.’

  Mr. Gunby asks the same of Maria but she falters under the veil. Pablo tries to console her with gentle embraces and quiet words until finally he looks at Mr. Gunby and says. ‘Okay, say God in her part.’

  Mr. Gunby pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. ‘In the presence of God do you, Maria Ortega, take Pablo Suarez to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do you part?’

  ‘I do,’ she says and the crowd ignites, throwing streamers and cheering. Maria has insisted that Pablo memorize a vow she wrote in English to prove that they are Canadians. Pablo has been rehearsing it in front of the bathroom mirror, omitting the references to God. Maria speaks the vow first: ‘I will never leave you, and you will always follow me. For where you go, I shall go and where you stay, I shall stay. And my family will be your family and this new country our country, and my God your God, and we shall never be parted, even in death because where you lie dead, so shall I. And may the Lord punish me if anything but death parts you from me.’

  All this sounds ominous. Milo looks around again for Zosia, a dull throbbing overtaking him.

  Pablo manages the first part of the vow but stumbles over the God word, forgetting that he had chosen to omit it. Sweat appears on Mr. Gunby’s upper lip. He dabs it with his handkerchief.

  ‘And we shall never be parted,’ Pablo improvises, ‘because when you’re dead, I’ll be dead too, and we’ll be buried together because nothing but death will part you from me.’

  So much death.

  Jorge, the best man, hands Pablo the ring purchased with a high-interest loan from Wallace. He slides it on her finger and the in-laws vibrate with ­anticipation.

  ‘You may kiss the bride,’ Mr. Gunby says, clearly relieved. Pablo lifts the veil and they smooch. Celebratory havoc ensues and then Zosia is tugging on Milo’s sleeve. Although Pablo booked the wedding chamber for two half-hour slots, the decorating has left time short. Milo and Zosia sidestep the rejoicing Latinos and approach the altar, not hand in hand but like two prisoners awaiting sentence. Mr. Gunby keeps it very brief as directed and within seconds, despite the mayhem, Milo and Zosia have agreed, metaphorically speaking, to join hands in the state of holy matrimony.

  He doesn’t expect her at his backyard reception where the revellers hastily unfold tables and chairs and a pig, yes, an entire hog with an apple in its mouth, is being roasted on a spit built by Gus. According to Pablo, Gus does not believe a wedding is a wedding without a slaughtered pig. Thanks to the internet, a butcher who sells entire carcasses was found and the corpse bought. It has been roasting for several hours, guarded by Robertson, who, every half-hour, rotates the spit to cook the pig evenly. Milo expects fire trucks to arrive.

  He spots Zosia sitting on a folding chair and strolls, he hopes casually, towards her. She watches sombrely as Pablo and Maria exchange Mexican vows, draping a lazo – a cord decorated with ribbons – around each other’s necks to form a figure eight. This symbolizes, Pablo informed Milo over Shreddies this morning, eternal love.

  ‘Nothing about humans is eternal,’ Milo said. ‘Except, of course, their stupidity. Einstein called it infinite.’

  ‘Oh, stop that rot, Milo,’ Vera said.

  ‘The lazo,’ Pablo elaborated, ‘is a symbol of our commitment to always be together, side by side.’

  ‘More like strangulation,’ Milo said.

  With the cord around their necks, the newlyweds make out while Gus chants, ‘Gorzko, gorzko,’ several times, clapping his hands.

  ‘Nice jacket, Milo,’ Zosia says.

  ‘Thank you.’ In a summer dress, minus the raincoat, she really does look pregnant. ‘Can I get you some sangria?’ he asks. ‘It’s pretty tame.’

  ‘Do you have any orange juice?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, delighted that he can actually provide something she desires. He squeezes past tables and chairs and bodies until he makes it to the kitchen where the grandmothers have taken charge. Even Vera has surrendered her post by the stove and taken her G&T outdoors, where she adjusts the flower arrangements. Patches, however, sits in a corner contentedly nibbling veggie bits discarded by the grannies.

  Orange juice in hand, held high above the crowd, Milo wends his way back to Zosia. Gus, still in congratulatory mode, chants, ‘Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje, syje nam.’

  Milo hands her the glass and sits on the folding chair beside her. The guests who aren’t munching tortillas line up to dance a merengue that looks more like an out-of-sync bunny hop as they grip each other’s hips and quickstep. Zosia’s foot keeps time with the music.

  ‘If they play salsa later,’ Milo says, ‘you and me are going to tear up some grass.’ She snorts. They took a salsa class together but were never able to match the whirling speed of the instructor and her assistant.

  ‘We weren’t that bad,’ he says. ‘We just need practice.’ And then, without warning, as though it were perfectly natural, she takes his hand and holds it against her swollen belly. He feels the pulse of her as she keeps her hand over his, and, for the first time, the startling, soft and swift determined force of his daughter’s foot. The daughter he already loves more than breathing.

  Cordelia Strube has won the CBC Literary Competition for her play Mortal and the Toronto Arts Foundation Protégé Award. She has been shortlisted for the Prix Italia, the Governor General’s Award and the W. H. Smith/Books in Canada First Novel Award. Her eight previous novels include Milton’s Elements, Dr. Kalbfleisch and the Chicken Restaurant, Planet Reese and Lemon, which was longlisted for the 2010 Scotiabank Giller Prize and shortlisted for the 2010 Trillium Award. She lives in Toronto, where she teaches at Ryerson University.

  Typeset in Huronia, designed by Ross Mills between 2005 and 2011. Huronia is a massive type family that pushes the extents of the OpenType format by offering all Latin-based character sets, Greek, Cyrillic, Cree Syllabics, Cherokee and the International Phonetic Alphabet.

  Printed at the old Coach House on bpNichol Lane in Toronto, Ontario, on Zephyr Antique Laid paper, which was manufactured, acid-free, in Saint-Jérôme, Quebec, from second-growth forests. This book was printed with vegetable-based ink on a 1965 Heidelberg KORD offset litho press. Its pages were folded on a Baumfolder, gathered by hand, bound on a Sulby Auto-Minabinda and trimmed on a Polar single-knife cutter.

  Edited and typeset by Alana Wilcox

  Author photo by Ruth Kaplan

  Cover design by Ingrid Paulson

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