Exile by Ann Ireland, Dundurn Press, 298 pages, $34.99

Exile hinges on a brave and clever conceit: What if an advocacy group rescued the wrong dissident? Not a case of mistaken identity, or a sitcom-worthy mix-up, but rather a political prisoner who left many more deserving victims in his shadow?

That person is Carlos Romero Estevez, a South American with the eye of a journalist and the soul of a poet. In the space of a spare first chapter, he is transported from a basement hideout to freedom in Vancouver, tucked safely under an X-Men quilt in a spare apartment bedroom. From here, Exile deals with the varying intensities of guilt experienced by Carlos, as he soon realizes that CAFE (the Canadian Alliance for Freedom of Expression) did not select the foreign wretch with the best torture stories, the most cigarette burns and scars, nor the most daring displays of defiance toward his oppressors.

Carlos never overcomes his unease around CAFE members, always hesitant to share his meagre stories of suffering with them, because he correctly perceives that "they thought that they wanted my story, but it was not true. They wanted their own story of me, in their own words."

If this mismatch in aims was the central tension of the novel, Exile would be merely good. What nudges Exile into braver, bolder, more substantial territory is how Carlos refuses to act appropriately in his new surroundings. Or, rather, what his sponsors deem to be appropriate. Middle class, if not a little more, Carlos can see no reason to stop living in the manner to which he is accustomed. He also has a habit of misplacing gratefulness and grace around his hosts. At one point in the novel, Carlos imagines CAFE informing him, "Too bad Carlos, but we have to mail you home. You have not met expectations; your behaviour leaves something to be desired."

Such silent interjections are numerous, sardonic, often funny. Most memorable are the observations about the Canadian temperament, or lack thereof. Carlos notes our "taut friendliness" and our "fervent lack of sensuality," to name but two barbs. His descriptions of Vancouver, with its "dull grey streets," "polite smiles" and Kitsilano students "sucking wheatgrass from plastic cups" are both accurate and critical.

Carlos suffers less from culture shock -- there is some -- and more from cultural disappointment. He smokes frequently. He eats meat with equal vigour. Worst of all, he likes to tell beautiful women that they are beautiful: "Insulted. That's what they call it here, when you tell a woman she is attractive." Such habits make Vancouver a sensory prison for him.

There are a number of ironies author Ann Ireland could have overworked in this novel, and few would have complained, given the strength of dialogue, pacing and description. Instead, she spaces her moments of revelation and insight, her writing an exemplar of restraint and confidence.

The best passages in Exile combine pulp and poetry, a reporter's observational precision used to describe an emotional landscape. "I knew that this was one spot in this city where I might find an honest human," notes Carlos on his first trip to Wreck Beach. "All costumes must be burnt. Back to skin and bones, water and blood." Carlos is a sensual being who luxuriates in his five senses -- smell, sight, touch, taste, sound -- in that order of importance. Everything in Exile has an odour. A public school emits "the familiar pong of old sandwiches" and his old hometown of Santa Clara emits "diesel-perfumed air."

Ireland is vivid always. Here, Carlos describes the campus residences for married students: "Out front, plastic toys were strewn across the lawn, and in the back a row of cotton diapers danced like seagulls on the line. Impatient mothers howled at their children to get off the road, except these mothers were astrophysicists and medievalists in their spare time."

Carlos is in conflict with identity, memory, relationships past and present, even himself. He can peer through people as if he were window shopping, but cannot see his own faults and missteps. The second half of the book reveals in full his previous life, ending with a measured confrontation between his potential and reality.

It is a reflection of the strength of a novel -- a finalist for the Governor-General's fiction award -- when the only thing worth criticizing is the cover painting. The thick, sloppy, unaccomplished brush strokes provide no hint at the accomplished novel within. The refined, sophisticated Carlos would not approve.