Friday, 30 January 2015

Thirteen Crucifixions, 85


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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