“So you’re like … half Indian?”
“More like a sixteenth. Along with French, Greek and a shot of Scotch, way back.”
“So is your Indian blood part of your … I mean are you, like, proud of your heritage or—”
“All Indians are screwed up. Almost as much as the whites. The hunters especially. Asking for the animal’s forgiveness for killing it—pulease. And rubbing a boy’s face in blood when he kills his first deer—hello? I’ve seen tribes put hawks in cages. Everyone knows that a hawk won’t eat inside a cage. All it’ll do is die. Plus they’ve destroyed, or helped destroy, lots of species.”
“But did they know the animals were endangered?”
“They know bald eagles and golden eagles are endangered but they still shoot them, still poison them, still sell their feathers on the black market, still use dancing sticks with eagle heads. They know that trumpeter swans are endangered but they still kill them. Why? Because they’re worth a thousand bucks a piece. They know the woodland caribou is almost extinct but a few weeks ago the Quebec Innu killed forty of them, out of the hundred or so left. They know the wolverine is endangered in Quebec, or ‘extirpated,’ but they’re not interested in saving them, in bringing them back to their forests—even though they’re supposed to be a link with the spirit world. Why? Because they’re rare and protected and therefore not a ‘fur-bearer resource.’”
“Are you talking about all Natives, or just a few louts, a few bad apples?”
“They know the peregrine falcon is endangered but they still rob the nests. Rappel down cliffs, wearing hard hats to protect themselves from the females.”
“Why do … what do the females do?”
“They peck them in the head when they get too close. Wish I could do that, come to think of it.”
“But why? I mean, why go to all that trouble?”
“The peregrine’s the fastest bird in the world. People want a piece of that. Sheikhs come over here, pay two grand per bird. And the price is getting higher as the birds … disappear.”
“But every race, every nationality, has its share of thieves and thugs and poachers. Why single out Indians?”
“They know the whales in Ungava and Hudson Bay are endangered, but when the Department of Fisheries cut their seasonal quota-—by twenty-seven whales—they called it ‘genocide’ and ‘terrorism,’ a ‘threat to our way of life,’ a ‘denial of our human rights.’”
“But it’s an age-old tradition. By people who were here long before us.”
“Just because it’s a tradition doesn’t means it’s good. Traditions can be changed, replaced with other ways of doing things, better ways. Which become traditions themselves.”
“But if their livelihood, their main source of food—”
“They know that polar bears are threatened, yet they continue to slaughter them.”
“But don’t they eat them? And use their fur and hide to survive?”
“Continue to hire themselves out as guides to well-fed American trophy hunters.”
“All trophy hunters are American?”
“European, Asian, whatever.”
“No Canadians?”
“And they chase wolves on Ski-Doos till they drop. Now they’re trying to get them off the endangered list. So they can be wiped out all over again.”
“I thought that was in Alaska. Where they shoot them from planes.”
“Whatever.”
“So is it all Indians you dislike? Or just Indian hunters.”
“Mankind.”
From what she’d seen of it in her short, nearly foreshortened life, who could blame her? I groped for something to say. “What kind of Indian blood do you have?”
“Laurentian.”
I nodded, though I’d never heard of the tribe. “Can you speak the language?”
“No, it’s extinct. And the last speakers left only a few words behind. Well, really only one word.”
“Which one?”
“Canada.”
“You’re kidding. Which means?”
“Village. When Cartier first landed he asked the Laurentians what they called their homeland, pointing all around. ‘Canada,’ they replied.”
I tried to steer things back to Bazinet, to some sort of defence strategy, but on this subject Céleste’s conversation tended to tread water. She said we had until February to worry about all that.
“For now,” she said tartly, “we have other things to discuss.”
It had been building for a while now, like an overblown balloon—I could see it in her eyes, the colour of her cheeks. A burst, an explosion, was coming. Something to do with the church, with my buying the church? Or with hunters and poachers and collusive rangers? “Such as?”
“Cigarettes. And why you’re not getting me any. After I’ve asked you a gazillion times.”
“I got you some.”
“Very funny. Those were candy cigarettes. You think I’m five years old or something? I’m an adult. Practically.”
“You’re not an adult. And you’re not having any cigarettes. They’re not good for you.”
“They’re not? Gee, thanks for the scoop, Mr. Drug Addict. How dare you tell me what I can and can’t have.”
“I’m your doctor.”
“You are not my doctor. You’re my … my bourreau.”
This means torturer. “You’re not smoking in here. Not while you’re recovering. And barely eating. Not just for health reasons either—this place is a firetrap.”
“So I got to wait till we move to the house?”
“No, you’re not smoking there either.”
“Oh really? I’ll smoke wherever and whenever I want. Don’t tell me what to do, you big bully. I’m going to the store right now.”
“I’ll tell you what. You can have a licorice pipe.”
Her eyes, large and clear, were circles of wrath. “You can go to hell!” She stumbled out of bed and grabbed my winter coat from the back of a kitchen chair. After digging in the pockets for car keys, she wore the coat like a cape while hobbling to the door. But I beat her to it, and stretched my arm across the frame.
“Get out of my way, you junkie.”
“Please go back to bed, Céleste. You’re not well enough to go out.”
A brief pause, as if she were listening to reason. She let the coat fall to the floor. “All right,” she said, but when I lowered my arm she lunged at the door handle. I grabbed her hand.
“Let go of me, you big bully, don’t you dare touch me!”
The minute I let go of her hand she turned and began to hit me, pounding her fists on my arms and back.
I pretended to cower under the assault, which was more like a Japanese massage. She caught my eye and didn’t like what she saw. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, you … deviant. You American terrorist. I’m never speaking to you again as long as I live. You are not my father. Or even a friend. You are a … passing acquaintance. Who I’ll forget like a chewed piece of gum.”
I held my tongue.
She clenched her teeth. “I’m staying at the house alone. I can paddle my own canoe, is that clear?”
I nodded.
“Remind me,” she said between quick shallow breaths, “why I tolerate you.”
“Because I’m your lord and master?”
“You … are such a little … I hope you go to hell forever. Wait’ll I tell …”
“Tell who?”
“Never mind.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in hell. Or heaven.”
“Cigarettes keep my weight down,” she pleaded. “Please.”
“No. This is a perfect time to quit. You’ll thank me in a few years.”
“A few years? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t plan on living for years. I plan on living for days. So give me a bloody cigarette. Now.”
“You’re planning on killing yourself?”
She glared at me with cold reptilian eyes. “This is so wrong, on so many levels.”
“If you’re going to kill yourself, why worry about your weight?”
Unused to logical ambush, I’m guessing, she stared wordlessly at me for several seconds while gnawing at her lip. So forcefully I thought she was going to draw blood. Her entire mouth began to quiver. “You … it’s none of your effing business. Who says I’m going to kill myself? Did I ever say that? Did I ever once say that? Where did you get this information? From dialling 411? From reading my journal? You did, didn’t you. You’re nothing but a goddamn snoop—”
“I didn’t read your journal. But is it true?”
“Yes, it’s true! Now just shut up about it, all right?”
“So why are you on a diet?”
“I just told you to shut up about it. Some things aren’t logical, okay? And there are some things that you’ll never understand. That aren’t in your range. Because you don’t think straight, you think curved. So please don’t talk anymore. I’m burned out talking to you.”
XV
Nile put me in a bad mood so now I’m going to get on my “pulpit,” my “soapbox,” which Grand-maman said is my second-biggest fault. She said that pulpits & soapboxes are not for 13-year-olds, that you have to be older, you have to have earned it. But now I’m 14 going on 15 & I’ve earned it.
Here’s my argument “in a nutshell”: that the Wildlife Ministry in this province is not interested in fighting poachers. To do this, they’d have to hire more agents & make the laws tighter. But they won’t, because they don’t want to make the hunters mad, the people they really work for. As Inspecteur Déry told me, “We serve hunters like welfare departments serve welfare bums.” Ask any ranger in this province & he’ll say the same thing. The Ministry makes money from selling permits & the tourist industry makes money from the killing of animals, legal or illegal — outfitters, guides, lodges, hotels, airlines. They just don’t want to mess with that.
In Quebec there’s not a lot of enforcement looking over your shoulder. It’s pretty much open season. In the past 5 years, one out of 3 rangers has been fired. And it’s the good ones they let go! Most of the ones they keep, who’ve got seniority, have spare tires from sitting behind desks, filling out tables & charts. We should put radio collars on them instead of animals to see how far their butts get from their chairs.
Some of them — surprise, surprise — have been investigated for taking bribes from poachers or gangs fronting as hunting guides. There are 2 agents in Ste-Mad who’ve been on the take for almost 30 years. They pick up their monthly pay packet or drug sack on some back road & agree to stay out of X areas for X number of days. Everyone knows who they are: the Déry detectives, père & fils. So why doesn’t somebody blow the whistle? Because Dery’s other son is a biker. The last guy who blew a whistle got his hands placed in the door jamb of a Ford Bronco. Others end up in hunting accidents or drowning accidents or snow burials inside running cars.
I’ve calmed down now, so I’ll talk about something else. About some mischief I got into last night.
I had this major nicotine fit and really gave it to Nile because he won’t let me smoke. I lost control, totally — I went berserk, I even hit him! I couldn’t sleep because of this so I decided to get up in the middle of the night and apologize. Plus I was afraid, I have to admit, that he’d change his mind about taking me with him to the rectory.
I crawled over to Nile’s bed on my hands & knees. I put my hand on his stomach & it went up & down & he didn’t even wake up! Then I leaned over & bit the top part of his ear & he still didn’t wake up! Then I ran my finger along his cheek, which had spines & prickles like a cactus, or porcupine. This made him open his eyes, but he didn’t even act surprised, he just asked if I was all right, if I needed anything. “A cigarette,” said I. When he frowned I yelled, “I’m kidding!” And I was. I didn’t really want to smoke — it’d probably just make me throw up. Anyway, I started to say I was sorry for “blowing a gasket,” but Nile interrupted me right away.
“You want to hear a story?” said he, wiping his eyes and yawning. “A true story. Set in Paris. I was just dreaming about it.”
I nodded. I did want to hear a true story, especially if it was about Nile in Paris.
“Do you want the light on or off?” said he.
“Off,” said I.
“Do you want to go back to your bed to hear it? Or stay here?”
“Stay here,” said I.
It was near Christmas, he recounted, and his father had promised to take him to a stamp exhibition at the Grand Palais. Nile was like, 7 or 8. On the way his father stopped at a hospital to get something & said he’d be back in 2 seconds. He parked at the back of the hospital & left Nile alone in the car, with the keys in the ignition. He wasn’t gone for 2 seconds, he was gone for 2 hours. Nile couldn’t get out of the car & into the hospital to look for his dad because 4 teenage boys appeared out of nowhere & surrounded the car. First they wrenched the Jaguar ornament off the hood & then started banging on the windows when they saw Nile crouching in the front seat. They all pushed their flattened noses against the glass & made faces at him. One of them then stood on the hood & urinated all over the windshield. And then another stood on the trunk & urinated on the back window. Nile was petrified. He didn’t know how to drive a car, but he tried to. But all he managed to do was to put the car in reverse & bang it against the hospital wall. With four boys on top of the car, laughing & shouting in French & Arabic. So he then pushed on the horn until they got angry & one of them smashed in the passenger window with a rock. A hospital guard, meanwhile, had come to investigate the banging sound of the car hitting the hospital wall. The boys took off. The guard wanted to call the police, not to report the gang but to report the father. He wanted the father charged with negligence. And he would have been if he hadn’t been such a bigwig doctor.
So what happened? When Nile’s father arrived there was an emergency, a man hit by a car, and because it was Christmas time the hospital was short-staffed. Nile’s father attended to the man immediately. And forgot his son was in the car.
“Did you ever forgive him?” said I.
“Of course. But my mother didn’t.”
“Did he save the man’s life?” That would’ve been the perfect ending to the story.
“No, he died.”
After we each had a bowl of porridge, Nile gave me a gift. A pair of snow-white swans. Some sort of gypsum, I think. Satin spar or alabaster. SO beautiful. I tried to jump out of bed & hug him or maybe even kiss him, but I got a huge spasm in my leg & knocked over my tray table & fell on the floor. Nile picked me up in his arms like I was a feather.
I asked him why he was so nice to me, apart from the smoking ban, and why he was helping me. “Delusions of sainthood, I guess,” said he. I asked why he gave me things like this, hoping he’d say he’d fallen madly in love with me, but he said the swans were given to him by an Indian anarchist (I think I know who he means — is he having an affair with her?) & that thinking about me helps him stop thinking about other things. But he didn’t say what those other things were.
I asked if he’d ever suffered from mental illness & he said he was born with a nervous breakdown.
“No, seriously,” said I.
“You really want to know?” said he.
“Yes,” said I.
“I spent 3 years in an institution.”
This surprised me & even scared me & I didn’t know what to say.
“And another 2 as an outpatient. In a halfway home for the half-crazy.”
“Why? I mean, what’s wrong with you, Nile?”
“It’s never really been … fully diagnosed.”
“Schizophrenia?”
“In that family, a poor cousin maybe. If you throw in depression. It has to do with a bicameral mind, which you’ve probably heard of. No? It’s what cavemen used to have, where one part of the brain seems to be speaking & a second part that listens & obeys. Which is why man invented gods — to explain the voices. But that, as they say, is another sto
ry. My problem is … let’s just say it’s an exciting challenge to medical science.”
“What was it like there, being in the …”
“In the nuthatch, the cracker factory? The whole thing’s a big gap in my life. A big grey gap. Two years of tranqs & TV & plastic utensils. And seeing the institution’s motto in my dreams: ‘Gib mir deine Hand,’ which I think is from the Beatles. Two years with analysts as nuts as I was, going nowhere together. And ‘safety-coated’ whenever I became … oversensitive, shall we say, to the misbehaviour of strangers.”
“A straitjacket, you mean?”
“Every time I smell chlorine I’m reminded of it.”
“This was in … Paris?”
“Frankfurt. In Paris I was in rehab.”
Good God, I thought I had it bad. “And what was it like … I mean, with the other patients …”
“I had a private room, thank God. Or rather thanks to my dad. So I could usually avoid Dieter the Drooler, Manfred the Masturbator, and Ursula the Urinatress. And an octogenarian who thought he was one of the psychotherapists, who wiped his snot on every available surface.”
“Oh my God! This reminds of when I went to school.”
“Me too, come to think of it.”
“And your being there … Did it have anything to do with … you know, your father?”
“My father? When he left me in the car in Paris, you mean? Hell no, I got over that in two days. My haywireness is nobody’s fault. Not my father’s, not my mother’s. I was born with a tangled electrical mess in my head, that’s all — which D & A made worse. So if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my own.”
I didn’t know what to say. “You were born in Paris, right?”
“No, Neptune.”
This was a joke, a “running gag” I think, even though his face was serious. “So that’s why they locked you away? Because you’re an extraterrestrial?”
“Well done. You finally guessed my secret.”
XVI
Céleste thought I was messing with her but I wasn’t. Neptune is a town in New Jersey—Jack Nicholson was born there. And Danny DeVito. The third most-celebrated Neptunian is my father, Dr. Bertram Christian Nightingale, a military surgeon, pancreaticist and international medical administrator who appears in the last two editions of Who’s Who. Here’s the entry:
The Extinction Club Page 14