“Canadian.”
“Yes, but you know. Where were you from? Before that?”
“Before that?” Mahatma fought back a lump of anger in his throat. He met Betts’ stare blankly.
“You know, your origins.”
“Origins,” Mahatma repeated, aware of the tension in his voice. “I originated in Winnipeg. Misericordia Hospital.” He said that a touch too smartly. His father had been much more skilful in dealing with fools. The old man knew how to play dumb.
Chuck Maxwell walked into the office. “Sorry, Don,” he said, “but there’s a phone call for you. Say, you guys almost finished? There’s some reporters who want to meet Mahatma.”
It wasn’t more than a twenty-minute walk to work. Mahatma crossed the Osborne Bridge and ducked behind the Manitoba Legislature, passing by American elms topping the banks of the Assiniboine River. It was a hot, sunny Tuesday morning, the start of his second day at The Herald. He passed between the green lawns of Government House. A statue of Louis Riel stood high in the park alongside the riverbank. Some people thought it was grotesque but he preferred the looming, naked man with an ugly head and bold genitals to airport music and corporate boardroom art.
Mahatma turned up Kennedy Street and right on Broadway, which was one of the most attractive streets in Winnipeg. It boasted the Manitoba Legislature and the Fort Garry Hotel, with rows of tall trees and a wide boulevard running between them. Just yesterday, Mahatma had seen hot dog vendors on Broadway. That would be something, being a hot dog vendor. Ever since he had read A Confederacy of Dunces, Mahatma had considered such vendors with a curious eye.
A curious eye. That was one thing he hadn’t had too much of this morning, trying to force himself to read through The Winnipeg Herald. It had been tough. It had drained the taste right out of his coffee. There was a story about a group home—one of the tenants had pissed on a neighbour’s lawn, provoking a neighbourhood clamour: move the home elsewhere, far from women and children. Women and children, Mahatma scoffed. They, presumably, were to be protected at all costs from retards and urine. That story had been written by Chuck Maxwell. Also on page three were two police briefs, one rape, one purse-snatching. Mahatma skipped over them. There was a story about pensions for City Hall councillors. It carried Norman Hailey’s byline. It was deadly serious and devoid of quotes, except for one remark by an actuary. Who in his right mind would quote an actuary?
Mahatma turned up Smith Street, made a quick right and headed into The Herald. He saw Don Betts send Chuck Maxwell running into the library. Betts had another reporter trying to phone City Hall. Betts told Mahatma, “I’ve got one helluva story cooking and I don’t have time to talk. Hang around and watch. I might need you.” The phone rang. Betts hit a button. “City desk,” he said, without having to pick up a receiver. A deep male voice came through a speaker in the telephone, asking if this was The Winnipeg Herald. “Yeah,” Betts said. He whispered to Mahatma, “This guy’s a complete dingo. I can tell ’em a mile off.” The man asked if Christine Bennie worked there. “Yeah,” Betts said, “but she’s in Nicaragua.”
“Nickar-what?”
“She’s out of the country,” Betts said. “Okay?”
“Wait! Wait!”
“What is it?” Betts said.
“I’m Jake Corbett.”
“So?”
“She was gonna do a story on me. A whole big number. Page one!”
Betts shook his head and grinned. He ran a palm over his forehead. “She said that, did she? Well, I’ll tell her you called.”
“She said I had a good case. The welfare people are stomping on my rights and she was gonna look into it.”
“Did you say you’re on welfare?” Betts said.
“Yes. And—”
“Then get a job.” Betts hung up. “I’ve gotta deadline in one hour,” he said while dialling long distance. Through the telephone speaker, Mahatma heard someone answer at the Hotel Managua.
Betts asked for Christine Bennie. The hotel receptionist didn’t speak English. Mahatma offered to help, since he spoke Spanish, but Betts declined. He raised his voice until someone else came to the phone. He said he was calling from a newspaper in Winnipeg, Canada, that it was a question of life or death, that he had to speak to Christine Bennie, and that if she wasn’t in her room could they please check the goddamn bar? As it turned out, Bennie was in her room. Sleeping.
“Sleeping? How come you’re not tailing our mayor? Why do you think we had you follow him all the way to Managua?”
Christine Bennie’s voice came through the speaker. “Piss off. I filed a feature three hours ago.”
“Yeah yeah,” Betts said, “we got it. Where’s the mayor?”
“At a reception,” she said.
“Hustle over there and tell him to call us.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Then ask him these questions and get right back to me. The mayor’s name is on a blacklist used by the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service. They use this list at the borders to keep out unwelcome visitors—commies, anarchists, you know. Ask him three questions. One: Does he know he’s on the list? Two: Does he think being a communist is preventing him from doing his job? Like, how is he gonna fight U.S. duties on our hog exports if he can’t even go down there? And three: Is he going to resign over the matter? Call me back pronto. Bye.”
Betts sent Mahatma to the library “See if Chuck has anything on the mayor. Tell him to move it.”
Mahatma found Chuck Maxwell thumbing through a wad of clippings without letting the newsprint touch his sleeves. He sat with perfect posture. Chuck shifted in his seat and turned his head to the side, glancing at a newspaper on his table. Mahatma walked up to him. Chuck didn’t hear. Mahatma, standing behind Chuck, looked at the paper. It was today’s Herald. July 12, 1983. Opened to the Lifestyles page. Chuck began underlining a horoscope entry:
If Today Is Your Birthday: You are a simple person with simple goals. You refuse to accept injustice, and that is your greatest strength. But you must hone your working skills to survive.
“Chuck?”
Chuck looked up as if he’d been caught reading dirty magazines. “Hey, man, don’t sneak up on me like that. My nerves are really shot.”
“Sorry,” Mahatma said. “Betts wants to know if you’re done.”
Chuck dried his forehead with an initialled handkerchief. He got up. He stood six feet tall, and had a good body. Slender. Athletic shoulders. A square, cleft chin. He smoothed his jacket. “That man’s really on my case, you know that?”
“Giving you a hard time?”
“I only had like five minutes to go through three years of clippings!”
“What’s Betts want?” Mahatma asked.
“To know if the mayor’s ever been turned back at the U.S. border.”
“Has he?”
“S’far as I can see, no.”
Betts marched in. “Nothing?”
“Nope,” Chuck said.
“So when was he last in the States?”
Chuck said, “He went to Minneapolis in 1979.”
“Christ, Chuck, nothing more recent?”
“Gimme a break! It’s not my fault if we’ve got nothing on him.”
Betts glared at the reporter. “Thirty-five thousand dollars a year and you can’t get the mayor’s wife on the phone, you can’t find his assistant, and now you can’t dig through files. You know something, Chuck? You couldn’t handle a news story if it ran up and bit you!” Betts stormed out of the library.
“When he thinks he’s onto a big story, he writes it himself,” Chuck scoffed, “to see his byline all over page one. Don’t let him impress you. It’ll be a one-day wonder. Here today, forgotten tomorrow.”
Betts shouted at Mahatma, “Sit here at city desk and handle the phone! If Christine Bennie calls, I gotta talk to her.”
Mahatma nodded, glancing around the newsroom at the rows of computer terminals, the mounds of trash and note-pads and pens
and government reports piled on desks. He noticed a cigarette butt floating in an old cup of coffee. He watched Betts bash out a sentence with the middle fingers of each hand. The editor glanced up to see how it looked on the computer screen, then bent down to pound out another sentence. His hands bounced high off the keys, nearly striking his face. Mahatma read the screen.
Winnipeg Mayor John Novak has been barred entry to the United States by the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service, The Herald has learned.
Documents obtained by The Herald show that Novak—the only communist mayor in North America—has been blacklisted because of political activities incompatible with American interests.
Border officials at airports, roads, train stations and ports have been equipped with a ‘lookout book’ containing names of unwanted foreigners.
Novak has been barred under Section 28 of the 1952 McCarran-Walter Immigration and Naturalization Act, which aims to keep out communists.
The telephone rang. Mahatma said, “City desk.”
A voice jumped out of the speaker. “This is Jake Corbett. I want you to do a big story on the cruel and unusual punishment the welfare people are doing to me. Section 12 of the Charter says they’re supposed to be cutting that out. And—”
Mahatma took down a long message. But when the call ended, Betts crumpled the message and grinned. “Drop that dingo and take a look at this.” Mahatma read two more paragraphs on the screen.
Informed yesterday by The Herald of the American move, three city councillors said they planned to call on the mayor to resign.
“Who’s going to defend our farming market south of the border if our own mayor can’t get down there and lobby for Manitoba hog farmers?” said Councillor Jim Read.
Christine Bennie called back. She told Betts the mayor denied being barred from the States. He had no intention of stepping down over a non-issue. “Get back to him,” Betts said. “Ask if he’s ever been barred entry.”
She told him to forget it.
“Why?”
“He’s gone off to meet villagers who’ve been brutalized by contras.”
“You are one useless tit, Bennie.”
“I love you too, Betts.”
“I’m gonna have you suspended for insubordination.”
She hung up on him.
Betts finished off his story:
Reached in Managua where he is to meet Marxist leader Daniel Ortega, Novak said there was “no substance” to the charge that he was a persona non grata in the United States. He refused to resign, claiming that the information obtained by The Herald was “a non-issue.”
Betts added a few more details. Then he sent the story through the computer system. He walked over to the slot man and said, “It’s all yours.”
The slot man spoke hesitantly. “You know, Christine Bennie has filed a good feature about contras mutilating villagers. It’s twenty-five inches long.”
“Hold Bennie’s feature! I’m talking spot news. You’d better use this before someone else gets it.”
“Let’s see it,” the slot man said. He hit some keys. He waited. Then he stared at the screen. “How’d you get this?”
Betts bellowed out in laughter. “None of your business who my sources are. Good, isn’t
it?” “I’ll see if we can cut Bennie’s feature.”
“Now we’re talking!” Betts said, slapping the slot man on the back. Then he shouted across the newsroom. “Hey, Chuck! C’mere.” Chuck wandered over, taking his time.
“No offence about what I said earlier, pal,” Betts said. “I got the story anyway. Wanna see it?”
Chuck looked at the screen. “Yeah, good, Don. Good work.”
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m all right.”
“Today’s your birthday, right? Why don’t you leave early?”
“All right.”
“No hard feelings?”
“Nope.” Chuck slung a leather jacket over his shoulder and walked toward the exit.
“See you, Chuck,” a copy editor called out.
“See you, Bill,” Chuck said.
“Happy birthday, Chuck,” another editor called out.
“Yeah, Chuck,” a third editor said, “happy birthday.”
“Thanks guys.” Chuck Maxwell waved and turned out of the newsroom.
“The man’s heading toward a breakdown,” Betts told Mahatma. “He’s lost his balls. Lemme tell you something. A reporter needs balls. No balls, no scoops.”
The story by Don Betts ran on Wednesday. The retraction ran on Thursday.
Helen Savoie had worked for eight years at The Winnipeg Herald. She had never been promoted. Actually, for a brief period, they had given her the labour beat. But she angered her editors by refusing to cross picket lines and, in 1976, she joined a one-day national workers’ strike to protest against government controls on wage increases. She had tried to get Chuck Maxwell to join the protest. “You kidding?” he said. “They’ll can my ass.”
“You have to believe in something,” she told him.
“I do,” he said, “I believe in my pay cheque.”
They pulled Helen off the beat and put her back on general assignments. She asked for work as a copy editor. They turned her down. But after several years, they cut her reporting back to three days a week. The fourth and fifth days, they had her edit the Lifestyles page. It contained horoscopes and gossip columns.
Editors disliked Helen because she displayed no enthusiasm and minimized the importance of her assignments. However, she was the best-read reporter on staff, and could be counted on to put good questions to foreign dignitaries, business executives, famous writers and scientists who visited Winnipeg. Editors used her to cover complex stories but had little else to do with her. Reporters consulted her on points of fact, but, although desks were shared at The Herald, Helen Savoie ordinarily sat alone at the back of the newsroom.
Thursday the 14th of July, however, was no ordinary day. It was the day The Herald published its retraction of the Don Betts scoop. It was also the day that Christine Bennie resigned. Helen knew a fair bit about these things, and reporters, for once, had been approaching her all day. Late in the afternoon, Chuck Maxwell slipped into the seat next to hers. The setting sun had pierced a few cracks of the dust-covered window blinds. Dust particles floated in streams of light cutting across the newsroom. Chuck heard Helen relate how Christine Bennie had phoned from Managua to tell the assistant managing editor that she was quitting and not coming in to clean out her desk so why didn’t he just send her the last cheque in the mail? Helen asked Chuck if he wanted to know the kicker. Chuck nodded. The kicker, Helen said, was that Christine Bennie had just been hired by The New York Times. Chuck asked all about that. Then he asked what Helen thought about Betts’ so-called scoop. Helen uttered one or two expletives and offered to rewrite Betts’ lead, just to see how dull the truth looked. Chuck glanced at the computer screen as Helen typed.
Winnipeg Mayor John Novak visited the United States before his recent trip to Nicaragua despite claims that American immigration authorities had listed him as an unwelcome alien.
“Betts is pissed off at me for not telling him that the mayor had been in the States before going to Nicaragua,” Chuck said.
“You didn’t write the story,” Helen said. “He did. So it’s his problem.”
“Would you pull him out of a burning car?”
Helen said, “That’s a hypothetical question.”
“Would you or wouldn’t you?”
“It depends,” she said.
“The car is burning. You happen to come along. Yes or no?”
“He’s watching,” Helen said. “And he’s got ears like a hound dog.”
Chuck glanced over a column of desks and heads. He saw Don Betts at the front of the room. “Big deal. Just answer me.”
“Of course I’d pull him out. Wouldn’t you?”
“No way,” Chuck said. “I’d let him roast.”
; “And his family?”
“Better off without him.”
Helen grinned. “His car’s on fire. He’s screaming. He has a fractured leg. And you won’t pull him out?”
“Not a chance,” Chuck said.
“But you oppose capital punishment.”
“We’re not talking punishment,” Chuck said. “We’re talking fate.”
“Say he’s bleeding to death,” Helen said, “but the car isn’t burning. Then would you help?”
At that moment, Mahatma Grafton passed by. He heard Chuck say no, EN-OH NO! “What’s going on?” Chuck explained. “If the car’s on fire, then I’m not going near it,” Mahatma said. “But if there’s no fire, I’d have to yank him out.”
They laughed together. Several heads turned.
Betts shouted, “Hey Chuck, I need you here!”
“He’s got it in for me,” Chuck said.
“Maybe he’s got a good story for you,” Helen said.
“Yeah, like rotten meat found in dog meat tins.”
“But with a new twist today,” Mahatma said. “Dog meat is tainted, but proves safer than canned tuna.”
Ten minutes later, Chuck returned to his desk. He ran a hand through his curled hair, which was brown but streaked with silver. He asked if Mahatma were good for a walk. They rode the elevator downstairs. Mahatma saw skin twitching under Chuck’s right eye. “I can’t handle it,” Chuck said. “I can’t take it any more.”
“Having a bad day?”
“You know how long I’ve been at The Herald?” Chuck said. Mahatma shrugged. “Twenty-one years. I dropped out of school to start as a copy boy.” They headed north on Smith Street. “I’m a man, aren’t I? An adult, right? I get up in the morning, wash my schlong, drive to work, pay my Visa, right? Then why this? Why this?” Chuck gave Mahatma a piece of paper. It was the size of a birthday card and entitled, in bold typed letters, Performance Appraisal—Chuck Maxwell. The appraisal had five categories: Accuracy, Speed, Story Initiative, Enthusiasm, and Dress and Demeanour. Chuck got a B for Dress and Demeanour, and Ds for the rest.
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