The Honest Truth

Running shoes in the hall. Red bucket beside them at the bottom of the stairs. It’s Friday, and Floutora’s coming to clean the house.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when she busted in, a sweaty mess of a big woman with greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. But her face had a glow to it, the kind that comes from having a strong soul, the kind the most middle-class people don’t have. She wore pink sweatpants that showed every bulge in her stomach and a brown t-shirt.

“I don’t think I will clean today,” she said, looking at me for approval in a thick Armenian accent. “It doesn’t look too dirty, and I’m very tired.”

I’m house sitting for my boss. We have the same boss. I work for my boss in an office while Floutara cleans her house.

 “Um,” I say, unsure. “Did Pam say that?”

 I felt conflicted, her cheque was tacked onto the board and my boss told me to bring down the vacuum for cleaning. On the other hand, this woman looked exhausted and I was willing to give her any break she could get.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” she tells me. “Pam says I can just come next week. It’s the boy who makes the mess anyway.”

Floutora may not have wanted to clean, but she did want to vent. She’d been up the night before with her five-month old baby, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

She leaned against the granite counter top, and told me her history.

Seven years ago Floutora immigrated to Canada when a civil war broke out. She knew she wanted to raise a family and thought Canada would be the place to do it. She’s been working here illegally since, and just got her visa.

Back in Armania she designed men’s clothes. She moved to Germany to work for a company and learn the language. When she moved to Canada she couldn’t speak a word of English but managed to get a job as a cleaner. “But such is life,” she says. 

She started cleaning houses, but it was only temporary. Just enough to support herself and send a little back to her mother. She never found other work, and now she’s got a baby to take care of and needs the income more than ever. “Baby’s are precious but everything changes,” she tells me. “It’s not just for you anymore.”

She doesn’t like cleaning. “Look at me. I’m fat and I’m on my foot all day. I put on all this weight when I came to Canada. These winters, there’s nothing else to do but eat.” Ehen she gets home she’s so exhausted that all she can do is flop on the couch.

Floutora’s also upset about her pay, and rightfully so. It takes her three hours to clean a house, top to bottom and whatever other surprises are waiting for her (dirty fridge, dirty stove). She gets $55. On the other hand, the job is flexible and the families she works for let her take time off in the summers to visit her mom in Armania. Still, they won’t raise her pay.

She misses family. This is what’s important to her and she wants her daughter to be surrounded by community. Her best friend lives in Greece, her mom in Armania, her aunts in Italy. “It is so far,” she says.

Floutora prefers Europe to Canada, or at least Halifax. “In Europe, they enjoy things more,” she says. “My aunts work hard. But not like this. They enjoy life more and take time with things.”

When she finds out I’m leaving she says, “good.” “There is nothing to do here. When you have a day off, what is there to do? The streets are dead. At least in big city like Toronto there is something to do.”

Floutora doesn’t have much free time anyway. She hasn’t washed her hair in a week. She has a partner who is not the father of the baby and he doesn’t have a job. “Such is life,” she says again. I want to reach out and hug every sweaty pound of her.

“I’m sorry, I interrupt your work,” she says, looking at my computer, and becoming self-conscious of her story telling.

“It’s ok,” I tell her. I’m enjoying this.

There’s some bustling at the door, and Floutora goes to check it out. It’s the parents of the homeowners who’ve come to take their dog to the cottage for the weekend.

“Anyway,” she says, getting a little flustered. “I should be going. You are very cute. Thanks for talking to me.”

She leaves, and so does the sweaty smell that comes with her, but that undying spirit that keeps cleaning houses to support her five month old and mother will stay with me. Such is life.