Yoyo was propped up in bed, his head bandaged. His eyes latched onto Mahatma. “You’re a good man,” Yoyo said. “I want to thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Mahatma said. “How’s the pain?”
“They have given me pills. The white man has pills for everything. The thing that has always confused me is, how does that pill know where you need it? How does it know your head is hurt? Could it not go where it isn’t needed? The wrong leg, for example?”
Mahatma laughed. “What did they do to you?”
“They operated on the arm. Now they’re watching my concussion. But let’s not worry about that. For a long time, I have wanted to meet you. You are responsible for Cameroon’s interest in the famous Jake Corbett.”
“Corbett? Famous?”
“I have written of him several times since you reported his arrest outside City Hall.”
“You’ve written?”
“For La Voix de Yaoundé, in Cameroon.”
Mahatma laughed. Jake Corbett, famous in Cameroon? It seemed an absurdity. “Could you answer a few questions about Corbett?”
“Most certainly.”
Aside from confirming that he and Corbett had shared a banana in the park, Yoyo said he had seen the cop fall on Corbett’s legs, and he had seen Goyette snapping pictures at the demonstration. Finally, Yoyo described how his bone was broken. Mahatma wished the little man well and hurried out.
Georges Goyette had a black eye and a fat lip. He ushered Mahatma in with a swat on the back. “Anglos, anglos! You don’t come to parties. You never drop by to say hello. You just come for business.”
Mahatma smiled. “Describe what you saw at the demonstration.”
“I would have had the pictures to prove it, if a cop hadn’t belted me and snatched my camera.”
“I’m surprised you let that happen.”
“He got a hand from his partner.”
“You were taking pictures?”
“Yes. I got them hitting Corbett on the head. I got them clubbing Yoyo’s arm. Pauvre gars. He has had it rough in Canada. Did you know that he hasn’t been eating?”
“No. I just met him, actually. What do you mean, not eating?”
“He has no money. I learned today his landlady won’t feed him. But he came here believing she would provide all his meals.”
Mahatma couldn’t afford to get off track. “What happened between him and the cops?” Goyette confirmed what Yoyo had said. “And then?”
“Then two cops laid into me.” Goyette fingered his puffy face. “They knocked me about, then stole my camera.”
“Did they charge you?”
“Participating in a riot. I go to court next week.”
“They hurt you?”
“Naw. Torn clothes. Sore cheek. Sore chin. Black eye.”
“How many were charged?”
“Hey man,” Goyette said, “they didn’t give me a press kit. But there were a lot of us in the paddywagon.”
“You regret staging the demonstration?”
“No! We’ve got a right to protest. And the cops have no business beating up on us.”
Mahatma asked about the young men in army fatigues who had disrupted the demonstration. Goyette said, “Nobody knows who they were.” When Mahatma had to leave, Georges said, “I guess I’ll see you next time there’s an airplane crash or something.”
Mahatma stopped next at Helen Savoie’s home in St. Boniface. “I’m writing about the demo for tomorrow’s paper. Can you tell me what happened to Yoyo?” She complied, concisely. When she was done, Mahatma asked, “By the way, what were you doing there with him?”
“He’s a friend. We met in the park. I had no idea that the demonstration would end up there.”
“Alors,” Mahatma said, “tu parles français après tout?”
“Et oui,” she said. “One day, I’ll tell you about that.”
Mahatma worked alone in the newsroom. He felt good. He felt he was doing something worthwhile, something that wouldn’t be reported if not for him. He wrote the main story about the demo, and two sidebars.
The Manitoba Provincial Police acted with savagery and brutality yesterday in quashing a riot outside the Department of Francophone Affairs, according to Provincial Court Judge Melvyn Hill.
“The police had no business clubbing people,” the judge told The Herald yesterday.
Fourteen demonstrators were charged with participating in a riot after counter-demonstrators and police broke up the Franco-Manitoban rally.
Seven police officers and a number of protestors were injured, including a foreign journalist hospitalized after a police officer clubbed him with a billystick.
In an interview, Crime Supt. Patrick MacGrearicque conceded that “the officers really lost their cool and there is no excuse for that.” Still, MacGrearicque insisted that his men had no choice but to crack down on violent demonstrators…
Ben made Mahatma a potato omelette, spiced with Tabasco sauce he claimed to have discovered in Spain. “Come off it, abuelo,” Mahatma said, “Spaniards wouldn’t touch Tabasco sauce if you paid ’em. They wimp out on spices.”
Ben pulled a long face. “Why is a boy of your education using a term like ‘wimp out’?”
“I said it for your benefit, abuelo.”
“Hush up and eat your eggs.” Mahatma did that. But Ben objected to his shovelling food into his mouth, with his back hunched and his elbows on the table. “I hope you don’t eat like that in public, son. People will think you were raised in the street.”
“The son of a communist is raised in a chateau?”
“I’ll chateau you. And I’m not a communist.”
“You’re not?”
“Old men like me have no time for -ists and -ites. Socialists, communists, Trotskyites, Troglodites—humphh! They could save us all a lot of earaches by dropping their hot air and saying what they mean!” Ben stole a spoonful of his son’s omelette, then asked, “So, how was the demonstration?”
“Pretty rough.”
“Was your friend Goyette arrested?”
Mahatma looked up, surprised. “Yeah. And charged with participating in a riot.”
Ben whistled. “And your favourite judge? I hear he was knocked around a bit.”
“You heard?”
“I still get around.”
“You were going to tell me about him someday.”
“Soon, son. Soon.”
Mahatma Grafton was awakened by the morning radio news: “Police Crime Superintendent Patrick MacGrearicque has reacted angrily to suggestions that his officers used violence to quell a demonstration yesterday. He dismissed The Winnipeg Herald’s claim that police clubbed protestors outside the Department of Francophone Affairs. And he was outraged by a quote that had him criticizing his own officers for losing control at the riot.”
Mahatma groaned. Had he misquoted MacGrearicque? He couldn’t have. What, exactly, had he written? He rolled out of bed, dressed, threw on his coat and hurried out to a newspaper stand. There, he saw MacGrearicque quoted, saying his officers “had really lost their cool and there’s no excuse for that.” Mahatma remembered having written it, but now he knew it was wrong. Or was it possible that MacGrearicque had said it? He rushed home to consult his notebook.
While Mahatma was flipping through it at the kitchen table, Ben joined him. He asked, “You haven’t eaten yet?”
“I’m in deep shit.”
“Meaning?”
“I misquoted a cop in a big story in today’s paper. Melvyn Hill blasted them for losing their cool at the riot, and I attributed his comments to this big-shot cop who’s gonna want my head.”
“You misquoted a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Without malice?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he may want to burn your hide, but he can’t kill you.”
“My story is discredited now.”
“Just stand up and say, ‘Folks, it was my fault and I’m sorry.’ That’ll tak
e the sting out of the harshest critic.”
“But what about the rest of the story?”
“Is it important to you?”
“Yes!” Mahatma surprised himself by the vehemence of his answer.
“Then check all your facts, be sure the rest of the story is watertight, and stand by it.”
“I’d better get to work, Dad.”
“Keep your chin up, son. You didn’t beat anybody up, you know. The cops did.”
When Mahatma checked his stories in the paper, there were no other errors. He noted with relief that The Herald had downplayed his work. Only the first six inches of his main story made it onto page one, in one short column under the fold. Inside, the story and sidebars ran on page eleven. They had reservations about the story. Ordinarily such news would have been the line story on page one. Mahatma showered and dressed, choosing to wear a jacket and tie—items he normally left in the closet. Ben touched his shoulder as he was running a pick through his hair.
“Son, I’ve made waffles. They’re on the table. Eat them. African warriors never set out on an empty stomach.”
Winter had returned to Winnipeg. Wind bit Mahatma’s face as he trudged north on Lipton Street to catch the Portage bus.
In the newsroom, people avoided him. Everybody seemed to know something he didn’t. Finally, Chuck Maxwell slid into place next to him.
“I screwed up, Chuck. I misquoted MacGrearicque.”
“Was it your only mistake?”
“Yeah.”
“Then hang tough. You oughta see some of the doozies I’ve fallen into, over the years.”
“So what’s going to happen?”
“Don’t you know about the second run?”
The second and final edition of the newspaper rolled off the presses around 9:00 a.m. It had the broadest circulation of all editions and was delivered to Winnipeg homes in the afternoon. Running fresh news out of eastern Canada, Europe and the Middle East, it also carried the stamp of Lyndon Van Wuyss, who arrived at work each morning to order some article replaced or rewritten.
Mahatma asked, “What about it?”
“Betts pulled your stories.”
“Pulled?”
“The works. He wrote a three-paragraph blurb on the front page, saying there had been a row between police and demonstrators near the consulate, saying how many people had been arrested and what the charges were.”
“Jesus.”
“He came in here swearing like a trooper. Saying he was going to can your ass. Saying he had told you how to write that story.”
“So where is Betts?”
“He’s out right now.”
Mahatma checked his mailbox: no pink slip awaited him. He flicked on a computer and opened his electronic mailbox: no nasty note there. He wrote one to Betts, explaining the misquote. Having no instructions to the contrary, Mahatma went to the daily press conference at the cop shop.
Officers in the building scowled at him. A magistrate who had provided him with court information shook a finger “tsk tsk” from a distance. Mahatma went into the detective division and waited. He was five minutes early. Randa, the secretary, raised her made-up eyes at Mahatma. “MacGrearicque is pissed at you, Hat. If I were you I’d boot it.”
“Thanks for the advice. But I’ll stick around.” Mahatma flipped through The Winnipeg Star. No mention of the demonstration. He scanned the crime pages, where Edward Slade usually had a column. “Edward Slade returns from holidays tomorrow,” said a boxed message near the bottom of the page. A crowd burst through the doors. MacGrearicque, who glared at Mahatma, was followed by Bob Stone, Susan Starr, Edward Slade and three other reporters. All but Slade jabbed microphones in Mahatma’s face.
“Do you stand by your articles today?”
“I unintentionally misquoted Superintendent MacGrearicque, and I apologize for that honest mistake. But I stand by the rest of the story.”
“Why were the stories pulled from your second edition?”
“Ask my editors.”
“And the rumours about you being pulled from the crime beat?”
“I don’t know anything about it. Now if you don’t mind,” he said, pushing the mikes away, “I want to attend the news conference.”
Mahatma entered MacGrearicque’s office with Edward Slade following behind. “Fuck ’em, Mahatma. They’re amateurs.”
MacGrearicque excused himself for a few minutes.
“So you missed the demo?” Mahatma whispered to Slade. He wished he had squared off against Slade yesterday. Then at least one other paper would have corroborated his story.
“I was off yesterday. Last day of holidays. Too bad about your error. Cops love misquotes. Gives ’em a chance to dump all over us. Don’t worry, though. These things happen. You’ll be back after your suspension.”
“Suspension?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“No. Or that I’m to be pulled from the cop beat.”
“Well, you are.”
“Where are the rumours coming from?”
“You know Superintendent Butters? Vice squad? Short, fat little guy? He’s your boss’ brother-in-law.”
“Van Wuyss’?”
“You’ve got it. He called some journalists into his office this morning. Not me, mind you. They hate The Star.” He laughed a coarse, but likeable, laugh. “Almost as much as they hate The Herald. But I don’t care that he didn’t call me. I wouldn’t print that bullshit. I’m no goddamn flak.”
Behind him, Bob said, “Ah, shut up, Slade!”
“So Butters told them I’m getting yanked off cops?”
“And suspended.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks.”
Just then, MacGrearicque came back. He made an oblique remark about Mahatma as if he weren’t there. So this is the game, Mahatma thought. They’ve decided not to recognize my presence. He tested his theory at the end of the news conference. “Do you have something to say to me?” he asked.
MacGrearicque nodded at a buddy at the door. “Hey, Tom, do you see anybody here?”
“No, I don’t see anybody there.”
“Neither do I. Coffee?”
Heeding the summons to the managing editor’s office,
Mahatma considered his situation. He didn’t have the best job in the country. But as long as he was doing it, he may as well do it properly. He wouldn’t back down. He had made an error. But that was no reason to throw up his arms.
Lyndon Van Wuyss laid it out for him. “Look, Mahatma, you’ve been a good reporter. And that’s why we’re not canning you over this error—only suspending you.”
“Okay. But why did you pull the stories?”
“You have admitted to a major error. The police say the story is biased and inaccurate. We have your word against theirs, but your word has been tainted. It’s been an embarrassment to The Herald and it would embarrass us further to play up a story that we may have already blown out of proportion.”
Mahatma, going into the office, had planned to remain silent and dignified. But, as the M.E. spoke, Mahatma felt his skin prickle. He was angry. “I saw people beaten. I have to write that.”
“It’s your word against theirs. Unless you have proof, we’re dropping the story. Also, I have no choice but to suspend you for two weeks. And when you come back, you’re off the crime beat. You’re going to ethnic affairs.”
Mahatma stormed out of the office. People stared at him as he left. They had never seen him angry before. He wondered if he had ever been angry before. He felt good. Clean.
Ben Grafton stood at the window of his Lipton Street bungalow, watching his son walk up the steps. “What will you cover when you go back?”
“Ethnic relations!” Mahatma said. “Can you believe it?”
“That’s not so bad,” Ben said. “Don’t think of it as a demotion. Think of it as a chance to write about something new. They’re not telling you what to write, are they?”
“They will.”
/> “Cross that bridge when you reach it. Worry if you’re still stuck on the beat in two years. But you won’t even be at The Herald in two years. Cheer up, son. I’ll treat you to a meal at Mrs. Lipton’s.”
“Okay,” Mahatma said. “And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell me that story of yours about Melvyn Hill?”
“All right.”
Mrs. Lipton’s was a health-food restaurant with four small rooms and a billboard covered with flyers pushing acupuncture, holistic medicine, yoga, feminist theory and a male awareness encounter group. Ben guided Mahatma to a table. “Here we can talk in peace.”
“Abuelo, have you ever looked at the junk on the walls here?”
“Doesn’t bother me. What’s wrong with health nuts preaching to each other? At least they don’t promote racism or warfare.”
“It’s still propaganda!”
“No more than those Block Parents signs on street lamps and in house windows.”
“Block Parents?”
“Yes. If two of these Block Parents saw a black stranger talking to their kid in the street, they’d panic. But if it were some white stranger, they’d think he was some fellow needing directions. There’s a kernel of racism in that Block Parents business. If they want to call themselves Black Parents, that’s another thing!”
Mahatma laughed. “You’re crazy!” They ordered and their soup came soon after.
“Do you have everything you need?” Ben asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Because this is going to take a while. I’m about to take you way back in time.”
“Right, right,” Mahatma said. “You were born here in 1908 and your parents came from Alberta one year earlier.”
“Who’s telling this story?”
Ben began, “In 1937, there were so few coloured people in Winnipeg that most knew each other. Many roomed off Main Street, near the Canadian Transcontinental Railway station, and everyone noticed a new man when he showed up looking for work.