Each Question and answer was dutifully recorded by the stenographer. The inquiry transcript, Alan realized, would be a model of correct procedure to which, obviously, it would be difficult to object on grounds of error or unfairness. A. R. Butler, from his occasional approving nods, evidently thought so too.
The story, emerging point by point, was much as Alan had heard it before: The lonely birth of Henri Duval on the unknown ship; the return to Djibouti; early childhood – poverty and wandering, but with a mother's love at least… and then his mother's death when he was six years old. Afterwards, the frightening aloneness: an animal existence scavenging in the native quarter; the elderly Somali who gave him shelter. Then, wandering once more, but this time alone. Ethiopia to British Somaliland… Ethiopia again… attachment to a camel train; food for work; crossing borders with other children…
Then, a child no longer, his rejection at French Somaliland, which he had thought of as his home… The crushing realization of belonging nowhere, officially non-existent, without; documents of any kind… The retreat to Massawa, stealing on,' the way; his detection in the market place; the sudden flight; ' terror… the pursuers… and the Italian ship.
The Italian shipmaster's anger; the boatswain's cruelties; near-starvation, and finally flight… The dockyard at Beirut; the guards; terror once more, and a shadow looming; in desperation – a stowaway again on the silent ship.
Discovery on the Vastervik; Captain Jaabeck; the first kindnesses; attempts to disembark him; refusals; the Vastervik a prison… The long two years; despair, rejection;… everywhere the tight-slammed doors: Europe; the Middle East; England, and the United States, with all their vaunted freedom… Canada his final hope…
Listening once more, Alan Maitland wondered: could anyone hear this and not be moved? He had been watching Tamkynhil's face. There was sympathy there, he was sure. Twice the inquiry officer had hesitated in his questioning, looking doubtful, fingering his moustache. Could it have been emotion that made him pause?
A. R. Butler no longer wore a smile. For some time now he had been looking down at his hands.
But whether sympathy would do any good was another matter.
Almost two hours had gone by. The inquiry was nearing its end.
Tamkynhil asked, 'If you were allowed to remain in Canada, what would you do?'
Eagerly – even after the long interrogation – the young stowaway answered, 'I go school first, then work.' He added:
'I work good.'
'Do you have any money?'
Proudly, Henri Duval said: 'I have seven dollar, thirty cents.'
It was the money, Alan knew, which the bus drivers had collected on Christmas Eve.
'Do you have any personal belongings?'
Once more eagerly, 'Yes, sir – many: these clothes, a radio, a clock. People send me these, and fruit. They give me everything. I thank them very much, these nice people.'
In the ensuing silence the stenographer turned a page.
Finally Tamkynhil said, 'Has anyone offered you work?'
Alan interjected, 'If I may answer that.,.'
'Yes, Mr Maitland.'
Riming through papers in his briefcase, Alan produced two. 'There have been a good many letters in the past few days.'
For a moment the smile returned to A. R. Butler. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'm sure there must have been.'
'These are two specific offers of employment,' Alan explained. 'One is from the Veterans Foundry Company, the other from Columbia Towing, who would take on Duval as a deck hand.'
'Thank you,' Tamkynhil read the letters which Alan offered, then passed them to the stenographer. 'Record the names, please.'
When the letters had been returned, the inquiry officer asked, 'Mr Maitland, do you wish to cross-examine Mr Duval?'
'No,' Alan said. Whatever might happen now, the proceedings had been as thorough as anyone could have wished.
Tamkynhil touched his moustache again, then shook his head. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. Instead he inspected the file before him and removed a printed form. While the others waited, he completed several portions of the form in ink.
Well, Alan thought – once more, here it comes.
Tamkynhil looked directly at the young stowaway. 'Mr Henri Duval,' he said, then lowered his eyes to the printed form. He read quietly, 'On the basis of the evidence adduced at this inquiry I have reached the decision that you may not come into or remain in Canada as of right, and that it has been proven that you are a member of the prohibited class described in paragraph (t) of Section 5 of the Immigration Act, in that you do not fulfil or comply with the conditions or requirements of Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18 of the Immigration Regulations.'
Pausing, Tamkynhil looked again at Henri Duval. Then reading firmly, 'I hereby order you to be detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to such country as may be approved by the Minister…'
Detained and deported… paragraph (t) of Section 5… Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18. Alan Maitland thought:
we clothe our barbarisms in politeness and call them civilized. We are Pontius Pilates who delude ourselves we are a Christian country. We allow in a hundred tubercular immigrants and beat our breast in smug self-righteousness, ignoring millions more, broken by a war from which Canada grew rich. By selective immigration, denying visas, we sentence families and children to misery and sometimes death, then avert our eyes and nostrils that we shall not see or smell. We break, turn down, a single human being, rationalizing our shame. And whatever we do, for whichever hypocrisy, there is a law or regulation… paragraph (t) of Section 5… Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18.
Alan pushed back his chair and stood. He wanted to get out of this room, to taste the cold wind outside, the clean fresh air…
Henri Duval looked up, his young face troubled. He asked the single question, 'No?'
'No, Henri.' Alan shook his head slowly, then put a hand on the stowaway's shoulder under the darned blue jersey. 'I'm sorry… I guess you knocked at the wrong door.'
Part 13 The House of Commons
Chapter 1
'So you've told the Cabinet,' Brian Richardson said. 'How did they take it?' The party director rubbed a hand over his eyes to relieve their tiredness. Since the Prime Minister's return from Washington the previous day, Richardson had spent most of the intervening hours at his desk. He had left it ten minutes ago to come by taxi to Parliament Hill.
Hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his suit coat, James Howden continued to face the window where he had been looking down, from his Centre Block office, on the steady afternoon stream of arrivals and departures. In the past few minutes an ambassador had come and gone; a trio of senators, like ancient pundits, had passed beneath and out of sight; there had been a black-habited cleric, stalking hawk-faced like a shade of doom; official messengers with monogrammed dispatch cases, self-important in their brief authority; a handful of press-gallery reporters; MPs returning from lunch or a stroll, at home like members of a club; and the inevitable tourists, some standing to be photographed by friends beside sheepish, grinning Mounties.