The Invention of Exile by Vanessa Manko Page B

building.
    â€œOut here,” he says, walking to the door, eyes on his shoes. He is annoyed by her impudence. To come at such an hour. He sees her flinch, spring back, and, in her surprise at a voice behind instead of in front, outside rather than inside, she swings around to exit, but not before banging her forehead on the lowered grill as she steps out to the sidewalk.
    â€œÂ¡Ai!”
she says, wincing, her hand raised to her forehead, walking back and forth, as if in the walking the pain might go away.
    â€œKeep pressure on it,” he says. He looks the other way.
    â€œWhy do you have that down so low? You could hurt someone.”
    â€œI’m closed.”
    â€œI dropped off a radio here—”
    â€œA good one too.” He remembers. He remembers writing down her name: Anarose, 1 P.M . “You’re late.”
    â€œIs it fixed?”
    â€œI believe I told you in a couple of hours,” he says.
    â€œIt works?
Funciona?
” she says, abrupt, almost curt.
    He walks to the door, passes in front of her close enough to have brushed the starched cotton of her dress, inhale the citrus, astringent scent of her hands. He raises the grill and it clatters upward, clicking into place. He watches as she furrows her brow from the sound.
    â€œI would be here earlier, but the day—” She is tripping over her English. “We’re having guests this evening. It was my fault. By accident. I lost my balance and it broke.” Her words are disjointed. They don’t seem to fit together. He is looking for the radio, which sits on his workbench. She is still talking. She has followed him inside.
    â€œI forgot. It was so quiet. Very quiet. And then I remembered. And they wouldn’t let me go with so much to do. Imagine? So, I climbed out the back. Through the window.” He is gathering his drafting papers, placing the pile on the shelf behind him. He turns back to her.
    â€œYou climbed out the window?”
    She shows him proof—a small scrape like skid marks along her upper shin, just beneath her knee.
    â€œAnd now you’ve bruised your forehead,” he says, his hand rising, outstretched fingers drawing an arc in the air, as if tracing her brow with a touch, a questioning stroke.
    â€œHave I?” She raises her hand to the red spot above her eyebrow.
    â€œUn poco,”
Austin says. It is the longest he has ever spoken to a customer, he realizes.
    He sets the radio on the table. He reaches down for the cord and plugs it in. He is moving too slowly for her he knows. Static blares through the shop and they both jump, his forearm grazing the back of her hand, a delicate but calloused hand adorned with a tarnished silver ring.
    â€œPerdón,”
he says, lowering the volume, moving the dial through first a man’s voice, then more static, guitar, drums and horns. His cigarette is still burning and the ash now drops on the smooth top of the radio. He wipes it off and then looks at her.
    â€œIt works.”
    â€œYes.”
    Silence.
    â€œÂ¿Se puede?”
She picks up his pack of Faros, leaning against the counter, using her arms for balance. She sighs and reaches down to rub her shin. He can smell a waft of orange blossom. A bright, slightly sweet scent.
    â€œI am closed. So, if you don’t mind,” he looks outside to indicate that she should leave. He does not like when someone lingers. It’s not a rudeness, though some have mistaken him for that; his evasion is his protection. He keeps an arm’s length lest they ask questions, figure him out, bring the Soviets or the FBI to his door. He cannot have come this far only to be sent back. That would not happen to him—kidnapped, questioned, killed. The dirty Soviets with their questions, these men and their power, the Americans too really:
What is your name? Where were you born? What is your country of citizenship?
    â€œNo, no,” she says, frowning, arms at her sides, a