Read Online Cities of Refuge by Michael Helm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Helm
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to the true story, and he couldn’t give it up.
And when he began to tell it, he saw that he’d been wrong, that it was the true story she wanted. She nodded at what was familiar to her from the version he’d presented to the tribunal, and she seemed to hang on the details he just remembered then in the course of this new telling.
When he was done he said he understood that he couldn’t stay with her for much longer but that she was for him the person who brought together his life past with the life yet to be. He couldn’t guess where he’d be if she hadn’t helped him. They had never before spoken so well with one another, and never since.
His cellphone rang. Luis said they had a job and he’d come by in twenty minutes. It was past ten. Rodrigo collected his clean work clothes from the laundry room and got into them and went upstairs and packed a little lunch. He didn’t put on his workboots yet and wouldn’t unless they got the job. They had been someone else’s boots once.
Hours later he and Luis were standing in a dining room, looking at a chandelier somehow left undamaged by the fire and water. It had hung just below the smoke in a room that had been saved. But it was a hazard to them and they’d have to take it down anyway and when they put it on the floor, a little cut-glassball separated and rolled to his feet. When Luis turned away, Rodrigo picked it up and put it into his pocket.
Luis dropped him off at Rosemary’s house at five in the morning, and they were to be back on-site by one. He went in quietly. He took his boots off and shed his dirty work clothes in the entranceway and carried them downstairs. On the table beside his bed he found one of the envelopes of money Rosemary sometimes left for him. Before he moved into the house, the envelopes had come to him through Luis. He understood that she didn’t hand these to him directly out of respect for his dignity and because she wanted him to feel that it was from the church and not from her alone.
A hundred and twenty dollars. Seeing the cash always made him feel a little worse. After one more paycheque he would tell her to give the money to another.
He set his alarm for noon. As he began to nod off he pictured the clothes he’d dumped in the laundry room and remembered that he had no clean ones ready for the afternoon. He got up and put the clothes in the wash and looked out his window at the early sun drawing along the neighbour’s brick and the grey plastic garbage bins and he felt a weakness in his hands from work. He then sat watching the muted TV until the clothes were done. The second time he went to bed, it was to the sound of the dryer, and the fresh images from the local morning show of traffic and weather and yesterday’s news from some Arab land in ruin. No one understood the world, he thought. Not even the quietest, smallest part of it.
H arold turned off the lights in the condo and stood at the south-facing window, looking out at the city from twenty-one storeys. The place was in one of its prosperous phases that tended to come in decades of bland Western architecture. As in Buenos Aires, San Diego, Kingston. Marian used to find the mornings in Vancouver deflating. It was a line of theirs, “Blame it on the architects,” whenever things got tough and they’d grown tired of blaming each other. Some resentment or small cruelty conducted along a maze of pathways, of past arguments, betrayals, hoping for some surprising new light on things. They’d been lost for so long, they couldn’t even find the door they’d come in through.
Commanding views made him feel ridiculous. He removed his reading glasses. He was thinking about culling his books. He’d done it badly for the move, tied up in sentimental attachments to histories and festschrifts that marked out his life. But if he counted the ones he’d actually look at again, there were fewer than fifty. The other three hundred or so along the walls were merely sound baffles.
And when he began to tell it, he saw that he’d been wrong, that it was the true story she wanted. She nodded at what was familiar to her from the version he’d presented to the tribunal, and she seemed to hang on the details he just remembered then in the course of this new telling.
When he was done he said he understood that he couldn’t stay with her for much longer but that she was for him the person who brought together his life past with the life yet to be. He couldn’t guess where he’d be if she hadn’t helped him. They had never before spoken so well with one another, and never since.
His cellphone rang. Luis said they had a job and he’d come by in twenty minutes. It was past ten. Rodrigo collected his clean work clothes from the laundry room and got into them and went upstairs and packed a little lunch. He didn’t put on his workboots yet and wouldn’t unless they got the job. They had been someone else’s boots once.
Hours later he and Luis were standing in a dining room, looking at a chandelier somehow left undamaged by the fire and water. It had hung just below the smoke in a room that had been saved. But it was a hazard to them and they’d have to take it down anyway and when they put it on the floor, a little cut-glassball separated and rolled to his feet. When Luis turned away, Rodrigo picked it up and put it into his pocket.
Luis dropped him off at Rosemary’s house at five in the morning, and they were to be back on-site by one. He went in quietly. He took his boots off and shed his dirty work clothes in the entranceway and carried them downstairs. On the table beside his bed he found one of the envelopes of money Rosemary sometimes left for him. Before he moved into the house, the envelopes had come to him through Luis. He understood that she didn’t hand these to him directly out of respect for his dignity and because she wanted him to feel that it was from the church and not from her alone.
A hundred and twenty dollars. Seeing the cash always made him feel a little worse. After one more paycheque he would tell her to give the money to another.
He set his alarm for noon. As he began to nod off he pictured the clothes he’d dumped in the laundry room and remembered that he had no clean ones ready for the afternoon. He got up and put the clothes in the wash and looked out his window at the early sun drawing along the neighbour’s brick and the grey plastic garbage bins and he felt a weakness in his hands from work. He then sat watching the muted TV until the clothes were done. The second time he went to bed, it was to the sound of the dryer, and the fresh images from the local morning show of traffic and weather and yesterday’s news from some Arab land in ruin. No one understood the world, he thought. Not even the quietest, smallest part of it.
H arold turned off the lights in the condo and stood at the south-facing window, looking out at the city from twenty-one storeys. The place was in one of its prosperous phases that tended to come in decades of bland Western architecture. As in Buenos Aires, San Diego, Kingston. Marian used to find the mornings in Vancouver deflating. It was a line of theirs, “Blame it on the architects,” whenever things got tough and they’d grown tired of blaming each other. Some resentment or small cruelty conducted along a maze of pathways, of past arguments, betrayals, hoping for some surprising new light on things. They’d been lost for so long, they couldn’t even find the door they’d come in through.
Commanding views made him feel ridiculous. He removed his reading glasses. He was thinking about culling his books. He’d done it badly for the move, tied up in sentimental attachments to histories and festschrifts that marked out his life. But if he counted the ones he’d actually look at again, there were fewer than fifty. The other three hundred or so along the walls were merely sound baffles.
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