Luis de Faria lives on the street. He keeps his possessions with him at all times, piled high on a finely balanced cart, beneath a billowy tarp; the cart is heavy, and he will not leave it unattended.

He is a few years older than I am. I look at him, and I imagine me. It’s not a stretch, it’s a set of circumstances.

All I know about the street is this: it gets old when you are young, and it’s a killer if you are old. Luis is fit — he was an athlete, and a soldier in his youth. But he said, “Look, I’m a 69-year old guy.”

How does he stay dry? “When it rains I go where it is dry, or I put on a poncho.” What does he use for a bed. “I have two portable chairs, feet on one, head on the other.” Where does he eat? “I have meals at 40 Oaks; lunch, I never have dinner.” 40 Oaks is a community resource centre in Regent Park. Luis is also able to shower there, and launder his clothes.

How he came to live on the street is a complicated story. All I know is what he tells me. And all we really have are the stories we choose to tell.

I take him at his word.

He is Portuguese, born in Angola. His ties to Portugal are both real and strong and broken. He said, “I was a rich man. All I have left is the preservation of memory.”

He had been working in Mozambique, as a pilot, when there was a coup in Portugal in 1974. He immediately left and went to the United Kingdom, where he began looking for work somewhere, anywhere in the world.

He had several job offers — he was a skilled pilot — and he chose to immigrate to Canada.

“My papers were to follow.”

They did not.

Nevertheless, he began to fly helicopters on the massive construction sites in Labrador, in Newfoundland, and in northern Quebec.

And then?

“In 1980, I had problems with my fishing company in Portugal.” He returned to attend to his business.

“I had to close the company. There were problems with the police; the police were following me.” I’m not sure why the police were following him. Perhaps the police do not need a reason to follow anyone.

After he sold his fishing company, Luis worked for a time in Portugal, in the port wine business; that job soon disappeared. He said, “I lost control of my life. So I came back here as a refugee.”

He endured some complicated, ongoing problems with immigration. I’m not sure I understand all the twists and turns. He said, “I could not work. I was not allowed to work. If I worked, I would be sent back. I could not make a cent. I had some cash in the bank.”

He stayed at a hotel near the airport as long as his cash lasted; eventually he moved into a bed and breakfast.

When he could no longer afford the bed and breakfast, he showed up at a church; there, he was fed and from there he was sent to a shelter.

He did not last long in the shelter. Why? “Look, I was a pilot, used to giving orders.” Along the way, his computer was stolen. He blames the police. It contained many important documents.

At some point all the misery and the humiliation, the confusion about work, and the grinding poverty and his pride collided, and he began to sleep outdoors.

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He has been moved along by the police more times than he cares to remember. At one point, someone set his dolly on fire. I cannot understand or untangle all the knots of his life. I don’t know who can. I wish he would let someone try.

Perhaps he wishes this, also.