Ishmael Reed - Flight to Canada

“Oh, Mother just bought a forest up here. I simply told them who I was. No trouble. They called Mother and she told them to give me what I wanted. They’re used to Americans owning forests, lakes and mountains up here.”

“You’ve always gotten what you wanted, haven’t you?”

“Just about. Anyway, I bought some clothes and supplies and then a couple of long rolls of wire. I had some workmen hitch it up to some poles, and just as the tourists began arriving this morning I started out.”

“You’re crazy,” he said playfully, smiling.

“No, not crazy, famous. If I’d slipped and fallen, then I would have been crazy.”

“Hey, look,” Quickskill said, “it’s Carpenter.”

And it was Carpenter. He was in the lobby, registering in the hotel. His head was bandaged, and he walked with the assistance of a cane. Quickskill rose and went to the lobby. He brought Carpenter back to the table.

“Carpenter, how are you? What happened?” Quaw Quaw said, rising.

Carpenter pulled up a chair. Ordered some Scotch.

“Cutty Sark?” the waitress asked.

“No, not me,” he said, waving her away, “Ballantine. I don’t want anything to do with Canada. The sooner I’m out of here the better.”

“What on earth happened, man?” Quickskill asked.

“Some mobocrats beat me up,” he said, pointing to the bandages on his head. “Left me in the street unconscious. I was going back to the hotel after being denied this room I wanted to rent.”

“In Canada? You were denied a room?” Quickskill asked.

“That’s right. Man, I’d take my chance with Nebraskaites, Know-Nothings and Democrats anytime. Even a Copperhead or a Confederate.”

“I don’t understand, Carpenter. Why, outside it looks like the Peaceable Kingdom.”

“Maybe here but not elsewhere. Man, as soon as you reach the metropolitan areas you run into Ford, Sears, Holiday Inn, and all the rest.”

“You’re kiddin,” Quickskill said. “You have to be kiddin.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“But what about St. Catherine’s? William Wells Brown told me that he’d gotten a number of slaves across to St. Catherine’s, where they found rewarding careers.”

“Let me show you downtown St. Catherine’s,” Carpenter said, removing a photo from his wallet. It looked like any American strip near any American airport; it could have been downtown San Mateo. Neon signs with clashing letters advertising hamburgers, used-car lots with the customary banners, coffee joints where you had to stand up and take your java from wax cups.

“It looks so aesthetically unsatisfying.”

“You can say that again, Quaw Quaw,” Quickskill said.

“Man, they got a group up here called the Western Guard, make the Klan look like statesmen. Vigilantes harass fugitive slaves, and the slaves have to send their children to schools where their presence is subject to catcalls and harassment. Don’t go any farther, especially with her. They beat up Chinamen and Pakastani in the streets. West Indians they shoot.”

“I’m a Native American,” she said.

Quickskill had never heard her say it that way. A Native American. And she stuck out her chest.

“Don’t you remember her, Carpenter? She came to your party.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was a little high that night. Don’t remember everybody who came. Was so glad to get to Canada. Now look. Man, let me show you something.” Carpenter pulled from his pocket a piece of paper upon which some figures had been written. “Of the ten top Canadian corporations, four are dominated by American interests. Americans control fifty-five percent of sales of manufactured goods and make sixty-three percent of the profits. They receive fifty-five percent of mining sales and forty percent of paper sales. Man, Americans own Canada. They just permit Canadians to operate it for them. They needs a Castro up here bad. And get this. Time magazine receives special tax rates up here.”

The more Carpenter continued to talk, the more depressed Quickskill became.

Finally Carpenter got up from his seat. “Well, Quickskill, Quaw Quaw, I have to go,” he said, downing his Scotch. “Want to get up early in the morning to start the journey back to Emancipation. Those people I sublet my apartment to are really going to be in for a surprise.”

“Yeah, sure, Carpenter,” Quickskill said in almost a whisper.

“See you back in Emancipation … Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you …”

“What’s that?”

“Swille got his.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was in the newspapers. His old lady burned him.”

“That’s nice.”

“What? I expected to hear a bigger response than that.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really care at this point, Carpenter. After what you’ve said about Canada. All my life I had hopes about it, that whatever went wrong I would always have Canada to go to.”

“Don’t let it get you down, Raven. Look, I’d better be going.”

Carpenter left a tip, and using his cane, headed toward the elevator.

“Quickskill,” Quaw Quaw said, reaching out her hand to him, “don’t take it so hard. Quickskill …”

But Quickskill held his head between his hands. Then he slowly dropped his head to the table and let it rest there for a while, his arms stretched out.

HE FELT HIS GUTS were made of aluminum. The tears went to behind his eyes and burned there. She had her black silky Indian hair resting on his shoulder. Her arm was inside his. From time to time she’d pinch his arm. He’d look at her and smile. There were fruit stands on the highway. Red apples, yellow grapefruit. Fresh. She’d want to stop and buy some. Good-eyes Raven would point to a cloud in the direction opposite that of the fruit stand. He didn’t feel like stopping.

“Look, there’s a cloud,” he’d say.

“Where? I don’t see it.”

It worked every time. They were approaching the border. There was a long line of cars. The border was tense, and some of the passengers stood beside the vehicles. They were being questioned by the border guards. The United States still hadn’t gotten over that incident which took place during the War of 1812. The Canadians had tried to burn down the White House. The Canadians hadn’t forgotten that they had repelled three invasions from the Union. A fortnight before, the Prime Minister of Canada had publicly rebuked an American ambassador for having “overstepped the bounds of diplomatic propriety.”

Things brimmed over when a visiting American producer and director had called the National Arts Center’s theatre in Ottawa “lousy,” and suggested that whoever built it “should be shot.” The next day the Château Laurier in Ottawa was blown up. Some blamed it on “Seceshes,” an abundance of which every nation has. Others said it sounded like Yankees. The “staid” London Times had described the Yankee character as one of “swagger” and “ferocity,” this after Captain Charles Wilkes of the Union ship San Jacinto had boarded England’s Trent in order to arrest two Confederate diplomats. It was described as an “audacious” act which outraged the “civilized world.”

Had crossing the Atlantic changed the character of both Europeans and Africans? Were Yankees really “vulgar cowards” as the London Times had said? Why had the Canadian Prime Minister said that living next to the Union was like being a flea on an elephant? Every time the elephant twitched you felt it. Why did the Europeans think that Yankees hunted elephants?

They weren’t surprised, therefore, when a kid-glove-wearing guard in a black bear coat waved them over to the side. He walked to their car and peeked in. Noticing Quaw Quaw, he asked, “Hey, aren’t you one of them Japs who used to worship dragons and were in the throes of superstition?” It wasn’t said with any malice. He was friendly even, and when he said it, smiled at both of them. He then removed a handbook from his pocket. “Japs, Japs. J … Japs,” he said, leafing through. “The Union is a Christian Union, and there’s no room for infidels.”