Read Online The Invention of Exile by Vanessa Manko - Free Book Online

assassinated. The war ended. The Soviet Union bought the Condesa de Miravalle’s hacienda to house its embassy. And far back the walls of his village—stone by stone—began to disappear, the foundation of childhood now intact only in memory, he now an exile of two countries.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    A S ATURDAY MORNING . Bright, a slight chill. The line stretches along the narrow sidewalk. Women in their floral skirts of rust, lime, black, shifting weight, hips thrust out, a sigh and slump against the brick wall. People hear about it at market stalls, word spreads through women’s whispered conversations, the maids of Mexico City. A secret shared.
    â€œHe can fix anything,” they say. “These Russians. From such cold climates, it is good for the brain. Makes it exact and precise. Like ice. It’s in them.”
    These Saturdays are Austin’s busiest days. The whole street has a different feel, people walking, returning from the markets with their purchases—straw bags laden with avocados, mangoes. There are chickens, feet tied with red string. Cake boxes, hat boxes too. The schoolboys are on the corner, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. The older ladies who gather each morning in the park across the street are joined now by grandchildren, plump hands reaching for a slice of peach, struggling to get a grasp of park bench. The cars glide by with a serene patience for there is little traffic. The maids of Mexico City, rising early, are either dispirited and gloomy or relieved, but several wait in line.
    Already the sun is strong, even for a January morning. He will move inside to his shop soon, but in these midmorning hours he likes to work outside, a table placed on the sidewalk. The surface of it is littered with broken remnants—a wind-up alarm clock; a watch, its face shattered; a knotted silver chain; a clip-on earring, clasp loose; a pocket watch, an egg timer. These objects of the everyday. Gadgets of life and small hours. A cardboard tag is tied to each with twine. “Maria 12pm,” “Constantina 12:30pm,” the tags read. A powder blue telephone hangs off the edge of the table, its receiver dangling above an old cash register; silver keys like sparks in the noon sunlight. His hand aches. The palm holds a dull throbbing and, as he works, he pauses, setting down the wrench, screwdriver, to knead his tired tendons, the smashed nail bed of his thumb. Still, he likes the feel of the tools in his hands, his mind following the logic in mechanics, what bolt needs tightening, what hinge needs loosening to create the correct torque.
    The sun now shines down the middle of the street, shadows underfoot. Austin scans the line—women checking watches, talking. Some stand with arms crossed, bags dangling off a wrist or shoulder. One woman bites her nails. Another opens and closes the clasp of her purse. All are in haste, eager to finish this one of many errands before launching on to the next task, and the one after that.
    â€œThe radio is broken,” a woman says, setting her bag on the table. He looks to her, then to the radio.
    â€œYou see, the knob, the tuner—here, it just spins round and round,” she explains.
    â€œYou use it often?” He turns the radio over in his hands.
    â€œDoes that matter?” she says.
    â€œNot really.” He shrugs. “But you know, usually a woman knows how often the things she owns are used.” He does not look at her when he speaks. He keeps his eyes on his hands.
    â€œA woman, but not this woman.”
    â€œEvery day?” He looks at his nails filled with grime, grease. He is suddenly ashamed of his own, deformed thumb.
    â€œI couldn’t say.”
    â€œIf I had such a fine radio, I’d use it every day.”
    â€œCan it be fixed?”
    â€œOne can tell a lot about a household from the use of its radio,” he says, taking a screwdriver from his back pocket, unfastening