“Evan Michael Tanner,” I said.
“Minna Tanner,” Minna said.
“You are United States citizens?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“You were born?”
“Yes,” said Minna.
I winced. He smiled. “Where were you born?” he asked gently.
“ New York City.”
“ New York City.”
“Yes,” he said. “And why have you come to Montreal, Mr…”
“Tanner. To see the fair.”
“To see the fair. You will stay how long?”
“About a week.”
“About a week. Yes.” He started to say something, and then he stopped and frowned for a moment, and then he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Evan Tanner, Evan Tanner,” he said. “I am sorry, Mr. Tanner, but you have perhaps some identification?”
His French accent was thicker now. I handed him our passports. He examined them, studied my photo and Minna’s, studied my face and Minna’s, went over the passports again, whistled soundlessly, and got to his feet. “You will excuse me for one moment, please,” he said, and went away.
Minna looked at me. “Something is wrong?”
“Evidently.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something is wrong with the passports?”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“You said that it was very simple to go into Canada. That it was hardly like going from one country to another.”
“I know.”
“I do not understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“Where did the man go?”
I shrugged. Perhaps, I thought, they had received a circular on some criminal with a similar name. Perhaps some clown named Ivan Manners had embezzled a few hundred thousand dollars from the Keokuk National Bank. I couldn’t imagine what else would stop him cold like that.
He came back, finally, following an older man with gray hair and a small mustache. The older man said “Come with me, please” just as the younger one was saying “You will please go with him.” We did. The gray-haired man led us down a corridor to a small room with an armed guard in front of it. Minna held my hand and did not utter a sound.
There was only one chair, a rather severe wooden affair behind the desk. The gray-haired man sat in it and we stood in front of the desk and looked over it at him. He had our passports in front of him, along with a batch of papers that he shuffled through.
“I don’t understand this,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“Evan Tanner,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Evan Michael Tanner of New York City.”
“Yes. I don’t-”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Perhaps you might tell me, Mr. Tanner, just why you are so intent upon separating the Province of Quebec from the Dominion of Canada?”
“Oh.”
“Indeed.” He played again with the pile of papers. “You are not Canadian,” he said. “Nor are you French. You have never lived in Quebec. You have no family here. Yet you are a member, as I understand it, of the most radical of the separatist organizations, Le Mouvement National de Québec. Why?”
“Because differences in language and culture constitute differences in nationality,” I heard myself say. “Because Quebec has always been French and will always be French, Wolfe’s victory over Montcalm notwithstanding. Because two centuries of British colonialism cannot change the basic fact that French Canada and British Canada have nothing in common. Because a house divided against itself cannot stand. Because-”
“Please, Mr. Tanner.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Please…”
I had not meant to say all that. I hadn’t meant to say any of it, really. It just sort of happened.
“I do not require statements of political philosophy from you, Mr. Tanner. One can hear all the extremist nonsense one wishes these days. One can read yards of that lunacy in the separatist press. I have heard all these arguments and know them to be fundamentally absurd. It is even difficult for me to believe that native French Canadians can swallow such a tissue of lies, but apparently a tiny percentage of them can and does. Every society has its lunatic fringe.” He shook his head, deploring the existence of lunatics and fringes. “But you are neither French nor Canadian. I repeat – what is your interest? Why do you intrude in affairs that concern you not at all?”
“I sympathize with the cause.”
“A cause that is not your own?”
It was pointless to argue with him. One either identifies with little ragged bands of political extremists or considers them to be madmen; one either embraces lost causes or deplores them. I could have told this odious man that I was also a member of the League for the Restoration of Cilician Armenia, the Pan-Hellenic Friendship Society, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization, the Flat Earth Society – I could have gone on at great length, but why alienate him any further? It would have been a lost cause, and I was already committed to enough of those.
“Why have you come to Montreal, Mr. Tanner?”
“To see Expo.”
“Of course you do not expect me to believe that.”
“I guess not.”
“Would you care to tell me the truth?”
“I already have, but you’re right, I don’t expect you to believe it.”
He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He turned away from us and walked to the far wall, his hands clasped behind his back. I looked at Minna. She did not look at all happy.
“Mr. Tanner.”
“Yes?”
“You plan demonstrations in Montreal? Another outburst of terrorism?”
“I planned to see the fair. That’s all.”
“The Queen is honoring us with a visit, you know. Is your own visit somehow connected with hers?”
“I don’t even know the woman.”
His hands formed fists. He closed his eyes and went rigid all over. For a happy moment I thought he was going to have a stroke. Then he calmed himself down and found his way back into his chair. “I will not waste time with you,” he said. “The MNQ is a joke, a minor irritation. It is not worth our attention. It was foolish of you to attempt to enter Canada and disgusting that you would bring a child with you on such a mission. Of course you must return directly to the United States. You are persona non grata here. I will thank you to concern yourself with American affairs and leave Canadian matters to Canadians.” He consulted a piece of paper. “There is a flight to New York leaving in an hour and twenty minutes. You and your daughter will be on it. You will not return to Canada. Do you understand?”
Minna said, “We cannot go to Expo, Evan?”
“That’s what the man says.”
The man leaned over his desk to smile at Minna. The world’s worst scoundrels always attempt to display their humanity by smiling at children. “I would like to take you to see the fair, little girl, but your father is not allowed in our country.”
“Your mother,” said Minna in Armenian, “is a flea-ridden harlot who has unpardonable relations with the beasts of the field.”
He looked at me. “What language is that?”
“French,” I said.
They kept us in that room until our flight was boarding, and when Minna had to go to the ladies’ room, they sent a matron along with her. They gave me our passports as they put us on the plane, and this time there was no long wait for runway clearance. The flight back to New York was as pleasantly dull as the flight to Montreal. I had two drinks this time, and Minna had another glass of milk, and then we landed at Kennedy. It was close to one o’clock in the morning, Minna was asleep on her feet, and I was ready to dynamite the Canadian Embassy.
I have traveled illegally through most of the world. I have crossed international frontiers on foot, in donkey carts, in automobile trunks, almost every way imaginable. I’ve border-hopped through the Balkans and the Soviet Union. I drove a Russian tank across the demilitarized zone from North to South Vietnam.