Peace — that was the other name for home. ~Kathleen Norris

The man behind me leaned his body into mine. I shifted, trying to make the ascent more bearable but bumped the woman in front. Someone else stood at my side. You are in my space. I wanted to shout it out. Instead, I shifted my focus to getting home. I yearned for that secret place where I could be tucked away from the crowds.

My corner of our high-rise has become my cleft in the rock.

Days later, I was enjoying the sweet evening stillness of home. I hit send on an e-mail and discovered, not only was our internet turned off but half the electrical outlets were not working. I dreaded inviting strangers into my sacred space. But I wanted a sanctuary for myself and my family, not a cave, so the next morning, when we would have been starting our homeschool day, I made the call.

“Ma shang lai,” the repair man said. I knew his claim to arrive immediately could mean anywhere from five minutes to five hours so when I heard a knock at the door, soon after, I was surprised. I reached for the handle. Its sharp edge scraped against the flesh of my palm. It, like most hardware and building supplies in China, was cheaply made. It had snapped off. But I preferred a broken handle to opening my door to a repair man.

As I did just that two men, short and wiry, looked up. Their mouths gaped. “A foreigner,” said one. We stood eye to eye. I stepped back, retreating from his stare and let them in. The other went straight to the electrical box and diagnosed the problem. My friend, Lin, who had come to teach the kids Chinese, joined him – the man I’ll call Mr. Focus.

His co-worker’s eyes darted around our entryway. “What’s this?” said Mr. Intense (aka Mr. I), picking up a lamp. “This?” holding a board game. “And this?”

Keeping an eye on the intruder, I turned my attention back to Mr. Focus, who started explaining the problem. Lin told me, in simpler terms, that we needed to buy a new breaker. I knew from experience they wouldn’t provide it – I had to buy the part. But I wasn’t about to leave my children with strangers. Lin agreed to go to a nearby store. I smiled, thanked her, and hoped for a quick return.

As she left, I positioned myself on a chair near the entryway where I could see my kids and keep an eye on the workers. I didn’t want to join the ranks of friends who discovered cell phones missing. I also didn’t know how far Mr. Intense’s curiosity would go. Would he be as nosy as our neighbour who walked into our home without asking permission, entered every room, then asked how much we pay for rent?

He was nothing like Mr. Focus who sat under the breaker box, on the chair I offered, and looked at his phone. Meanwhile Mr. I poked around. I opened my day planner, wishing more than hoping this day would follow my plan. Magnetic force pulled Mr. I to my side. He leaned close. “What language is that?” He pointed to words I had written.

“English.” I offered a half smile while moving to the edge of my chair so we weren’t touching.

“Where are you from?”

“Canada.”

“Do people speak English there?” I closed my book and looked at him.

“Yes, French too. There are also a lot of Chinese people in Canada.” I thought this might interest him but he proceeded to his next question.

“What kind of food do you like?” I plodded through the familiar questions. I have had this identical conversation many times. In China, small talk is prescribed.

Lin came back and I let out a sigh – too early – the breaker was the wrong size.

She left again.

Come back soon for My Hiding Place – Part 2