Ishmael Reed - Flight to Canada

“Nobody has suffered as much as my people,” says Quickskill calmly.

The Immigrant, Mel Leer, rises. “Don’t tell me that lie.”

The whole café turns to the scene.

“Our people have suffered the most.”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“We suffered under the hateful Czar Nicholas!”

“We suffered under Swille and Legree, the most notorious Masters in the annals of slavery!”

“Hey, what’s the matter with you two?” It was Leechfield. On his arm was a Beecherite who had just come over from Boston. She looked like a human bird, her nose was so long, and she wore old-maid glasses. Her hat was covered with flowers.

“What took you so long? You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” the Immigrant said, sitting down again, looking at his watch. Leechfield just stared at him with those narrow eyes. That squint. And that smile which got him into the homes and near the fire of many a female Sympathizer about town. His arm dangled over the chair in which he’d plopped down. He snapped his finger for a waitress. The cold Beecherite just sat there, looking at him adoringly. The waitress came.

“Gimme a Southern Comfort.”

The girl giggled. Quickskill, now relaxed, even smiled. But the Immigrant, Mel Leer, looked at him, frowning.

“Look, Leer,” Leechfield finally said, “I’m the one who’s bringing the money into this operation.”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that. I was the one who introduced you to the game. I taught you the techniques of survival, when you were merely interested in getting by. You see these fingers?” Mel Leer revealed his long, lean fingers. “They’ve rolled dice at Monte Carlo, distilled vodka in a vodka plant, sewn furs, deftly overwhelmed superior forces while you were humming ‘Old Black Joe,’ you … you …”

“Hold it, man. Don’t get excited. Now sit down.” Meekly, Leer sat down. (What was going on here? What was this strange bond between them? A white bondsman and a black bondsman in cahoots in some enterprise.) “She ready, you ready, so let’s go.”

The three rose to leave. Mel Leer put the foreign-language newspaper under his arm.

“Look, Leechfield, I have to talk to you, it’s important,” Quickskill said.

“Can’t do it now, man. Got to go. Come over to the loft sometime.”

“But …”

The three had moved out of the café. Quickskill ordered another mug. Canada Dry this time. That morning he had heard that Air Canada was cutting its rates by thirty-five percent.

Everybody had turned their attention toward Canada. Barbara Walters had just about come out on national television to say that the Prime Minister of Canada, this eagle-faced man, this affable and dapper gentleman who still carried a handkerchief in the left suit pocket, was the most enlightened man in the Western world. The world expected great things from this man. His wife was a former flower child: intelligent, well-bred, capable of discussing cultural subjects on television. So good-looking!

Harry Reasoner agreed with Ms. Walters, saying that though some of his critics disapproved of the way the Prime Minister still followed the custom of attending the Potlatch, that great festival of giveaway practiced by his people, during his administration the ban on the Potlatch had been lifted. Mr. Reasoner said that this would make it possible for the Potlatch to be brought into the United States as a way of relieving the people of the dreary, sad life caused by the conflict.

Ah! Canada! There had just been a free election in Canada. The Liberal party had won 141 seats in the House of Commons. There was a picture in Time of the Prime Minister standing next to his wife, she holding his hand, he looking down as though his sharp Indian nose would bump her forehead. There was a big sign over the archway where they stood, written in Halloween letters: CONGRATULATIONS.

His wife said of him: “He’s a beautiful guy, a very loving human being who has taught me a lot about loving.”

QUICKSKILL WENT OVER TO the address that Stray Leechfield had given him. It was located in the old warehouse district of Emancipation City. He looked at the directory. “Leechfield & Leer.” Their office was located on the third floor. He got off the elevator and walked down the hall. The door was ajar, so he walked in. He heard some people talking. One man seemed to be giving directions, telling people to move into certain positions. What was going on? He walked into the hall from the outer office and came upon an area closed off by some curtains. He opened the curtains and took a peek.

Oh my God! My God! My God! Leechfield was lying naked, his rust-colored body must have been greased, because it was glistening, and there was … there was — the naked New England girl was twisted about him, she had nothing on but those glasses and the flower hat. How did they manage? And then there was this huge bloodhound. He was licking, he was … The Immigrant was underneath one of those Brady boxes — it was flashing. He … he was taking daguerreotypes, or “chemical pictures.”

“Hey, what’s the matter with you? The sun, there’s too much light. Quickskill, what’s wrong with you?”

Leechfield said, “Damn.” The unclothed girl looked up. She had a strange smile on her face. Her eyes were glassy. She was panting heavily.

“I want to talk to Leechfield. It’s important.”

“I have to deliver this film to a distributor tonight. Make it quick,” Leer told Leechfield.

“Wait outside,” Leechfield said, annoyed.

Quickskill went outside. Soon Leechfield came through the curtains. He was dressed in a robe he was tying around the waist.

“What was that?” asked Quickskill.

“None of your goddam business, Quickskill. Look, man, don’t you worry about me. We supposed to be free, aren’t we?”

“That’s true.”

“Then don’t handcuff yourself to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s my bi’ness what I do. I ain’t your slave, so don’t be looking at me with those disapproving eyes and axing me questions.”

“I …”

“Shit, everybody can’t do anti-slavery lectures. I can’t. I have to make it the best I can, man. I don’t see no difference between what I’m doing and what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to get evil-smelling eggs thrown at you, and I heard up in Buffalo they were gettin ready to throw some flour on William Wells Brown. Remember when those mobocrats beat up Douglass? Even Douglass, knocked on the ground like any old vagrant.”

“I don’t want to go into it. I was just shocked because I didn’t expect it.”

“You shocked? What you shocked about? I’m not watching no houses for nobody. I’m not feedin nobody’s cats and forwarding nobody’s mail. I get it this way. I pull in more in a day than you do in a whole year. You green, man. Brilliant but green. You one green Negro.”

“Listen, Leechfield, I didn’t come in here to get in an argument—”

“House nigger. Yes ma’am, no ma’am — you and that Uncle Robin. I see you coming down to the field village, putting on airs and shit. I used to watch you.”

“If it wasn’t for us, they would have discovered your game a long time before.”

“What?”

“They knew about the poultry. They asked us about it when we made inventory of the eggs. We told them it was a mistake the Texas calculator made. We knew it was you. I saw you over in the other county when I was doing errands for the Swille family.”

“What? And you didn’t say nothin?”

“We covered for you all the time — made excuses for you and sometimes did the work ourselves that you were supposed to do. And when some of you ran away, we provided you with a map, and so some of us are traveling all over the country pleading for the Cause. So what if we get eggs thrown at us and are beaten unconscious? Swille was the one who stirred up rivalry among us. Don’t you think I knew that when Swille was flattering your kind, he was making fun of us. Look, Leechfield, the reason I came up here is because, well, Swille is on our trail. Today I was visited by a couple of Nebraskaites.”