The NAFTA Blueprint

  * * *

  Helena and I hadn’t been alone since we left the Halifax airport in Canada. We hadn’t had time to clear our thoughts regarding how we fit into the remainder of the story. Her silence conveyed ambivalence about her continuity in the matter. I was impulsive, I lashed out at the airport, and her response was one you would expect from spousal servitude―docile. Perhaps I reminded her of stereotypical men she encountered in her life. Egocentric, abandoner, betrayer, immature, aloof, and whatever else she had experienced with her siblings, father, boyfriends, and husband. But I didn’t care. I fit the prototype of man impeccably.

  She sat slouched in a swiveling chair staring into nothing, “Hey, so…what do you make of all this, huh?” I asked without looking at her, feeling a heavy rush in my chest plate.

  She didn’t bother looking in my direction, she shrugged. “Well maybe we should talk about it, so much has happened since we left Halifax, I can’t speculate what you’re thinking. Do you think we should talk about our next move, if you still want to be part of this story? Helena…are you there?”

  She didn’t respond, the silence in the room sat thick like a cloud of smog over a bowl-shaped valley flanked by mountains and plains. I heard roaring sirens approaching, they would be hauling away Pencho’s body but I couldn’t bear witness, the thought of it forced my heart to pound through my chest plate quicker. I sat on a chair looking in Helena’s direction. My feet tapped the hardwood floor first slow then fidgety, trying to garner responses. My fingers interlocked, my arms rested on my thighs, my back slouched against the chair, and all the time Helena ignored me.

  This continued for at least ten minutes, then she broke her silence with attitude, “I’m hungry, and I want to go to bed.” She walked over to the refrigerator and snacked on vegetables around the kitchen prior to heading towards the bedroom. Before she vanished out of sight, she said, “Can you please wake me early in the morning. I’d like to go home tomorrow. Have a good night.” She shut the door of the bedroom behind her.

  Her behavior was cold…distant. Some women I knew promoted their streaks of cruelty with an aggressive undertone but Helena’s was serene. It was accepted though. It was only in that capacity that allowed me the opportunity to think with creativity, without distractions. I remained in that chair struck with endless thoughts circling around until it was time to carry the torch of the martyred NAFTA opposition. My routine would have granted me the privilege to run a few laps prior to writing, but I was not in a position to leave the apartment for fear of my safety once they realized the murdered victim in the apartment complex was Pencho Slaveykov, not the journalist.

  The window of opportunity had presented itself. The political climate of apathy was ripe to expose government misconduct of a varied type. I would have preferred if Igor Errazuriz hadn’t left though, he had already become like an arc angel slaying the serpents that were destroying the very core of what this country had been founded on. I was ready to play my part. And so I drafted up a proposal.