Exile: A Novel

Exile: A Novel

Ann Ireland

Language: English

Pages: 300

ISBN: 1550024000

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Short-listed for the 2002 Governor General’s Literary Award for Fiction and the 2002 Roger Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize

Rescued from the dangers he faces in a Latin American military dictatorship, writer Carlos Romero Estevez is given a new life in Vancouver. His rescuers, a benevolent group devoted to aiding oppressed writers, believe they’ve found a poster-boy. Carlos thinks he’s found a new life, new freedom, and new, powerful friends. But soon everyone’s illusions are dispelled, and Carlos finds life in exile to be a new kind of prison.

Now available in trade paperback format for the first time, Exile is the work of an author in full control of her considerable talents. Award-winning author Ann Ireland is the author of two previous novels: A Certain Mr. Takahashi (1985 - now available from The Dundurn Group), and The Instructor (1996). She teaches at Ryerson University, and is a past-president of PEN Canada.

Sonde ton cœur, Laurie Rivers

Mauve Desert

Conséquences lyriques

Anne… La Maison aux pignons verts (Anne…, Tome 1)












frustrated. You make it so hard for yourself, Carlos, by not meeting us halfway.” It was as if I’d just been told I had a terminal disease. “Want to hear more?” Of course not. Yet I must, and so I nodded. “You act above us, as if we were your servants.” I stared. Her nightgown had a series of buttons which led up to the neckline and all were fastened this cool evening. “Didn’t you notice there’s tons of work to do at the cabin, that everyone was busy? Yet you sat on your backside drinking

realized that Andreas would soon be waiting for me at his school. How long it had been since I’d hurried for anyone! As I raced out of the house, dressed in one of Rita’s oversized shirts with my jeans, I liked the way I looked, a man who is expected, a man whose presence is required. I collected Andreas at his playschool where everything was miniature. I loved to fetch him in the bright room with its low tables and tiny chairs, and the damp smell of Play-Doh and poster paints, a place for

screen: Most Wanted Man. Wanted, yes, but never by the right people. On rainy days bicycle wheels splashed through puddles. Car exhaust pumped through my window, making my eyes smart, yet I sucked in the complex flavours of diesel fuel avidly. This was the world, my only world now. There was a man who had a bronchial condition, and when he passed my window he scraped his lungs with a deep, phlegmy cough. The hacked-up mucus landed with a splat, inches from the bars: it was a sound I dreaded. I

scrabbling to answer mathematical questions and watching the boy with stapled huaraches and calloused heels, the whiff of country in his hair. I could enumerate his shoes through the years, beginning with peasant sandals, on to American sneakers while at university, then the cheap prison-issue thongs, followed by the scuffed combat boots of his days in the camp. And what did he wear now? A pair of brown loafers, excellent leather. I crossed the patio, waiting for him to look up so that I could

and Rita, pulling them into a huddle, then he pressed his mouth toward the new exile’s ear, no doubt speaking slow clear phrases of instruction. I do not get stupid when I drink, only more alert. A looked up once and I am sure he was searching for me in the darkness. The rock was cool against my body, and the moss growing in its crevices, which I stroked now with my fingers, was as coarse and damp as pubic hair. No one could see me, but I could see all of them. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I AM

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