He’ll write to her now. He puts the photographs back in the envelope, years falling through hands.
They’d fared better than most. That he knew. Lives broken, but still lived. They could, after all, do just this—write to each other. To look at a map and point to where each resided. Others had no geography, lost to each other and the world. After everything, a name, an address, a place to be found—these were precious, fortunate things.
And yet.
He is a man who can calculate the mass of a water glass, the circumference of an apple, the velocity of a pencil’s descent. He knows the seven kinds of energy, can measure the potential and kinetic energies of an object at rest, an object in motion. He knows the formulas for entropy, inertia. He can tell one how light travels, sound. His world, days are a landscape of equations. He can build a radio out of wire and magnets. He can disassemble a clock and make a metronome. He knows Ohm’s law, Fourier’s law, Newton’s laws. He knows energy could neither be created nor destroyed.
He sits at his table again, picks up his pen this time, a clean sheet of drafting paper that he’s folded into quarters. Dear Julia, he begins. He is finding it hard to write more, to find the words. Dear Julia. That is as far as he can get.
But there are other letters that he can write with no effort at all.
Commissioner of Patents
Washington, D.C.
United States of America
To Whom It May Concern:
Be it known that I Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov, applicant for citizen of the United States of America of Bridgeport, CT—my present, temporary residence being Avenida Sonora, Mexico City, D.F., Mexico—have invented a new and useful boiler fire box surface by way of increasing the conduits, or tubes. The following is a specification:
DRAWING NO. 1 is a full perspective diagram.
Below, NO. 2 and 3 are cross-section drawings of the water conduits, tubes, attached to the front face of the firebox by phalanges with metal joints, described here in No. 4, 5, and 6.
NO. 7 is an oil burner atomizer, and illustrates how the flame embraces the water from the conduits.
NO. 10 shows two additional, parallel conduits.
I claim therefore that such improvements to the boiler firebox allow the steam to move rapidly through the boiler pipes using less fuel consumption.
Inventor’s full signature
Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov
OATH OF A SINGLE INVENTOR
I Austin Voronkov (American), Ustin Voronkov (Russian), Vustin Voronkov (Ukrainian), who applied for citizenship to the United States of America in the county of Fairfield, in the town of Bridgeport, state of Connecticut, born in Selo Varvarovka of Ukrainia, Russia, hereby swear that I know of no other invention or device that works to such a degree. The above-named petitioner, being sworn and affirmed, deposes and says—that he is an applicant for a citizen of the United States of America and his present, temporary residence is Avenida Sonora, Mexico City, Distrito Federal, Mexico, and his correspondence address is lista de correos, D.F. He hereby believes himself to be the original, first, and sole inventor of the hydraulic propeller described and claimed in the annexed specifications; that he does not believe that the same was ever known or used before his invention or discovery thereof, or patented or described in any printed publication in any country before his invention or discovery thereof.
Inventor’s full signature,
Austin Alexandrovich Voronkov
• • •
GRAN HOTEL DE MEXICO. Its sidewalk café filled, bustling. The sun gleams off the dusky lens of sunglasses, the blade of a knife. The patrons gathered today are the same as usual. The requisite table of lawyers in their white, starched shirts and dark eyes. Two tired American women, in matching orange espadrilles, wide-brimmed sun hats and binoculars, sit over glasses of agua fresca. Behind them are American businessmen. Cuff links, watches, briefcases. They’ve pulled several tables together, the surfaces littered with coffee cups, half-eaten plates of pastry.
Austin walks beneath the hotel’s canopy, its shade like a hallway. The American businessmen are unmistakable. It is in the way they take up space, not just with a body, but with a presence that announces itself like a ship berthing in port. To be so lucky, Austin thinks. To know so assuredly one’s place in the world.
He sits down adjacent to them. One man has silver hair. The other is the younger of the two, shaven, smooth. The sun is strong on his forehead and he repositions his chair to avoid its direct blaze. He is closer, can hear their conversation—something about refineries, labor, stock shares. He listens. He orders a coffee, a glass of water. He opens his satchel and removes his papers and notebook. Why he feels nervous, Austin does not know. He has done this so many times before, and his confidence has waxed and waned, though today he is feeling more bruised, more shy than ever, hardly able to place his order. They will think me ridiculous, surely, are probably now noticing my shoes, he thinks.
He waits. A lull in their conversation. His chance comes.
“Excuse me. I can’t help but overhear,” Austin says, leaning toward the men’s table. It takes a moment for the men to realize he is speaking to them. The man with the silver hair looks at his shoes, or so Austin thinks, and he flinches, shamed. He tucks his feet under his chair, hoping the man does not spot the scraps of rubber he uses to reinforce the soles, soles as thin as newspaper.
“Please, will you allow me to—?” Austin says, rising half out of his chair, his voice wavering.
“Of course,” the man says. Bemused smiles, an exchange of furtive glances. They think he’s a Mexican. He’ll be a story they can bring back to their wives, some curio. He can hear it now, how they’d explain him, describe him—this stranger inviting himself to their table.
“You work in American industry, correct?” Austin asks. He sits down at their table.
“Yes. Copper,” the man says, raising his glass to his lips. And then, as if on second thought, he sets the glass back down. He folds his arms across his chest.
“I thought so.” Austin nods. Silence lingers and then he begins with a lie. “It is quite a coincidence I come here and sit next to you today.” Years ago he would have felt a prick of his conscience. But now, after all the years, he feels his situation allows him to resort to the occasional, sometimes extended, stretch of lies—all white.
“Is that so?” the man asks.
“Yes. I sit here, listening to you talk—forgive me—but I think to myself, well, I must speak up.”
“I’m all ears,” the older man says, this time raising his water glass, drinking full, sloshing the water around in it a bit. He dabs the moisture at his temples with the coolness of the glass.
“I am Austin Voronkov,” he says, extending his hand. The silver haired man does not move. The younger man rushes in to offer a cautious, feeble handshake.
“I am an engineer,” Austin explains. “I know the work you discuss. I think I could be of use to you.”
“You could, could ya?” the man asks, smiling now. He sits forward, elbows on the table. Complicit smiles, a wink even. “I’m Russell Becker,” he says, offering a fleshy palm, damp from the glass. “Let’s hear it.”
“I earned my degree from the Ukraine Polytechnic. I was senior inspector for Remington Arms Company in Connecticut. An engineer with Anaconda, a foreman in Cananea. I am looking for work. With an American company.”
“And you don’t work with Anaconda anymore, I take it?”
“I had to come to Mexico City.” A pause. Austin coughs. “For work.”
“And did you find it?”
“I do repairs.”
Silence. Russell Becker sits back and Austin follows their exchange of glances.
“And I have applied for several patents. For my inventions,” Austin says.
“All you engineers are inventors, aren’t you?” Russell Becker s
ays.
“Where are you from, Austin?”
“Russia.”
Silence.
“Austin. Odd name for a Russian.”
“It has gone through manifestations,” Austin says, with a tired, resigned smile.
“Is that so?”
“Ustin. That is my given name. The Americans, though, they change you.”
“You’re not a Red, are you?” Becker leans forward, his brow lined.
“No. I am married to an American. I applied for citizenship. I was born in Russia and came to America.” Why did these Americans always assume that he was a Bolshevik, a Communist, just because he was Russian? They killed my mother and father, the dirty Bolsheviks, is what he wants to say. They were joking, it seemed, but there was a fear too. He knew that look—a sudden bristling, a closing in of one’s shoulders, the end of direct eye contact and a wish to finish the conversation. It is something Austin has gotten used to, though abhorred.
“And so you want a job with us?”
“In any capacity. Perhaps on the American side of the border.” As soon as he utters the words, as soon as he hears their laughter, louder than their previous chuckling, as soon as he watches Russell Becker slam his palm down on the table, glasses jumping from the impact, he regrets what he has said, and laughs now too, feigning bemusement, hoping to hide what had been his quite earnest plea. But he cannot disengage himself from the request. The words have been said. The question asked. He will have to ride it out, and find a way to simply endure.
“The American side?” Becker says.
“Well, that might be difficult to arrange,” the younger man says. Russell Becker finishes his glass of water, wipes his hands on his thighs. “Listen—Austin is it?—we can’t really help ya, I’m afraid,” he says.
“You might just take a look at my drafts here.” Austin reaches for his satchel, removing his designs, searching for the copper mine cement block lifter. He stands up, moving the plates and glasses out of the way, smoothing out the papers across the clear surface. He can hear his heart beat in his ears. He is flushed.
“You see here,” he begins. “Of course, you need a hoisting crew, but it will work quite well. It can lift heavy blocks. And this is my patent letter,” he says, handing the paper to Becker. “You see, I’ve had correspondence with the United States patent commissioner.”
“Let’s take a look,” Becker says, examining the drafting papers, the letter. Austin watches his face, the slight frown of concentration.
“These here grip the concrete. They can expand with the crank, contract again depending on the size in need of lifting. And this one here—these are rail tongs.”
“Yes. I see,” he says, continuing to look over the papers. “Good, good, but we don’t have use for that, I’m afraid. Have machinery that handles all this now.” Becker folds the papers in half and hands them back to Austin. He pushes his chair out to rise, bumping into the woman sitting behind him.
“If you want to work for an American company, well, I think you’d have better luck crossing the border.” He winks. “Excuse me,” he says, and then forgetting himself, mumbles a deferential perdón. The younger man smiles apologetically as he stands up to leave.
“Good luck,” he says with a wave like a salute. Austin watches them snake out of the café and onto the sidewalk and beyond that to the Zócalo, where they disappear amid the morning’s crowds—bodies walking, halting, standing.
The Herald Tribune lies rumpled on their deserted table.
“JANUARY 4, 1948. 31/2 BILLION ASKED FOR AID TO WORLD,” the headline runs.
His coffee has grown tepid. His cold water is now warm, the glass sweating. Crossing. There were years when Austin had considered crossing the border. He’d nearly done it when living in Cananea, when Julia and the children were still with him. He takes a sip of his water, looks at his hands, remembering. A carnival used to come to Cananea once a year. He and Julia had taken the children every night. They’d never seen so many lights, he remembers. The Ferris wheel with its pink and white lights. From where they lived in the mine’s barracks houses, they could see only the very top of the wheel. It seemed to hover there in the night, against the stars, only brighter, like a constellation. And he’d walk to the fair with Leo hanging off his neck. The boy liked to watch the lights come into view—one white light, then one pink, one white, then pink. He doesn’t remember who loved that fair more—the children or Julia, drunk on all their laughter. They’d never really seen excitement like that. All the toys and games and rides.
Round and round on the Ferris wheel. From up top one could see far out into the desert. Austin had liked that view, at night. Looking out across the land, he remembers, was like looking at a dark sea.
The carnival was smack up against the border, the stone cement border pillars like little shrines, or odalisques. They blended into the landscape, particularly at night. Once, coming off the Ferris wheel, the children scattered. In the commotion, he’d lost Leo, who had wandered off beyond the reach of the lights. Dread. That’s what he remembered of it. Dread of the worst kind. He still wonders what made Leo go off into that darkness, at four, maybe even five years old. They’d searched everywhere until they found him out in the middle of an open field. Austin had run and swept the boy up into his arms, scolding him. The boy had looked all stunned and frozen, his face breaking like children’s do, crinkling up into a crying mess. That was in ’32 and it was only on the walk back that he’d realized—he was in the United States. The boy had gone straight across the border.
“Simple as that,” Austin murmurs now. He shakes his head, sips his water and sets it down. “Simple as that,” he repeats. “Wandered off across the border.”
Julia found them and had brought Vera and Aussie with her, the entire family standing in the middle of the open desert leading off into the hills. He watched as Julia gathered them all together, turning back to the fair. He can still see that image, her hair backlit by the lights—golden.
“We could keep going,” he’d called to her.
“Yes, but what will we eat?”
“We’re bound to find some people as we go.”
“Yes. That’s what I’m frightened of.”
“Not Indians. I meant Americans.”
“There are Apaches out there in those hills. Never mind wolves. And the sun. What will we do in broad sunlight? We’ll all get scorched.”
They had crossed the line back into Mexico, leaving the United States and the border behind them.
And later, in the first years without Julia when Austin was alone in Cananea. Waiting. The Mexico-U.S. border so enticingly close, a constant taunt; 1934 to 1936. Then, the risks were present: increased border patrols, enticements by smugglers. And now the consequences still remain. He keeps a low profile with Mexican authorities. He does not have a permanent address. He sends and receives letters lista de correos, general delivery. He works at an unsigned, unlisted repair shop, business spread by word of mouth. And he makes every attempt to avoid the Soviet Embassy and its vicinity, walking two or three streets out of his way so as not to stumble into one of his countrymen—these Soviets, his own people when it comes down to it, one never knew if they were going to slice your throat or embrace you, beat you unconscious and smuggle you onto a steamship or invite you for vodka and caviar. He practices vigilance like a religion. Vigilance, reticence are his now constant companions, for he is not home; Mexico City is not his home. And if he crosses and the Americans catch him, he’ll be deported—and not back to Mexico, but to Russia, or what is in reality no longer Russia, his Russia, but an idea put into practice. He cannot even call it a country, this Soviet Union. Russia was a country, not what it had become.
“A country run by barbarians cannot last,” everyone had then said. Well, it had lasted. And under this Stalin too. No. The risks, for Austin, too great. Shipped off to another conti
nent. Twenty years’ hard labor a possibility. He wouldn’t survive that. Not after everything. It was death. Deportation. Russia. Death. He’d escaped once, twice might be asking a lot. And if he did not cross at all?
• • •
THE DAY HAS SHIFTED from mid-afternoon to late afternoon. The traffic, cars and pedestrians, thin. The waiters gather inside now. Some are seated. Others lean on the bar. The patrons have all left except for a few American tourists who are filtering in at this empty hour, their bags hanging tired across shoulders, their city maps rumpled. It is time for Austin to go.
• • •
AN HOUR LATER and he is in the Alameda. It has always been his favorite park. Its diagonal lanes are long enough for contemplation, but not so overwhelming that his energies are wasted, walking out all his inspiration. It is now close to 4 P.M., and he is walking at a slow, metered pace. His footsteps like a thin pencil trace. These walks allow him to enter a flow of thoughts. One long chain of mechanical processes. He tries to keep them steady in his mind, but beneath it, lurking, lies another idea—crossing. He cannot admit it even to himself. Better luck crossing the border, the American man had said.
He walks absorbed, reluctant to make eye contact, instead allowing the park to offer him the sense that he is an inhabitant of the city with all the aspects of the urban—buildings, concrete, traffic, and city dwellers—bearing down upon this small, central space, situated in the historic center, its poplar trees long gone and replaced now by the canopy of ahuehuetes. He is trying to focus on a design, running it over in his mind—the propeller, curve of blade, engine—but the empty spaces fill, flood over with fear. He is more on guard. A heightened sense of the park. Sounds more distinct, sharpened. Others around him, anyone, at this moment, may be intuiting his thoughts within the vacant spaces of his mind—his hidden intentions, his contemplations of crossing.
The Invention of Exile Page 7