Her child was getting heavy, almost too heavy to carry, though she
wasn’t yet three. How fast she was
growing, as was her yet unborn sibling growing inside of her mother. They had passed through customs
smoothly. Now she had only to find Mr.
and Mrs. Bertholdt, who had offered to sponsor her. Thank God she had money. She could never imagine what it would be
like going without money. The thought
was inconceivable to her. She had never
done without. The weight of her
pregnancy made her back ache. They
didn’t know that she was pregnant.
Neither had she known. Richard’s
parting gift, if it was indeed Richard’s and not Jose’s who had always taken
precautions. Now she was twice
widowed. Hating the Sandinistas as much
as she did, he had joined the Contra rebels.
Richard would have been appalled.
He was garrotted in a small village near Managua, during a dawn
raid. She was the daughter of a Samosa
diplomat. No one could vouchsafe for her
or for her children’s safety. In Canada
she would find refuge, a new husband, and a future for her children. Her eyes strained to find two people who
would resemble an older version of her dead husband. There were too many people in this
terminal.
Winter was
approaching. It was already November,
the dry season in Nicaragua. It would be
no different from England. She had felt
the cold there and elsewhere in Europe.
At first it was horrible, then it became strangely invigorating. And rather sexy. She always fell in love during cold weather,
as she had with Richard, who was doing post-doctoral work when she first me him
in Oxford. She was merely killing time,
performing the duties of a diplomat’s clever child, though she excelled in
English literature, specializing particularly in the Romantic poets. They met again in a street market in Managua
four years ago. She wanted another
husband.
Where were
they? She could not handle her luggage
on her own. They said they would be
here. The plane had arrived on time. She had been very specific with them. They could not have misunderstood her. There was nothing at all wrong with her
English. Her arms were starting to
ache. Why did the child have to fall
asleep in her arms like that? Clearly
this was the only place where she’d ever feel safe. And now she, the mother, was starting to
weep, as she stood by the carousel. How
could she weep? She was usually so
strong. She watched and waited for her
luggage to appear, as well as to catch sight of Mr. And Mrs. Bertholdt. Had she been duped? Was this yet another Sandinista plot against
her? She hated them. They had ruined her country, they had ruined
her life, and they had tried to take her money, calling her a thief, that she
was robbing her own people. It was
hers. Her father had given her this
money. It was hers by right. She was almost stopped from taking it out of
the country. She had left in time, only
just in time.
There they were,
her three suitcases. That was all that
she could take. She didn’t want to think of everything, most of her earthly
belongings, she had had to leave with her mother in Managua. She would never go back. She would remain in Canada, this cold
November country for the rest of her life.
She gently eased her sleeping child onto an empty chair, and as she woke
up howling, made a quick valiant grab for her suitcases. “Maria Gonzales?” She heard a man’s voice call,
and looked up to see a kind-looking elderly man smiling tentatively in her
direction, the shyly welcoming face of Canada.
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