Some Great Thing

  Mahatma spoke calmly to his father. “I had something to say and my editor tried to warp it. Would you want him to get away with that?”

  “Was it a good story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you believe in it?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben clasped his son’s hand. “Good for you, son! Stick to your guns!”

  There had been no television in the Grafton home until Louise bought one, without consulting Ben, a year or two before her death. But Ben advised his son not to watch it. “It will rot your brain,” the old man said. “Help me fill out this big book. It’s going to be a history of our people.”

  But Mahatma, eleven by then, had better things to do. Hide and seek. Baseball. Working alone, Ben slowly mounted his “Negro History Appreciation” binder. It contained the odd news clipping of pertinence to blacks. It also contained his thoughts and recollections and interesting tidbits he’d heard in conversation or on the radio.

  “Nobody shall think that We have no Reasons for documenting this History,” Ben had written years ago in the introduction to his binder, capitalizing nouns that seemed important. “Many times have we been subject to Questions about our History, the Tendency being for citizens of Winnipeg to express Wonder about the presence of Negroes in their city, and to display Incomprehension of certain Facts, namely, our presence.”

  In this spirit, Ben noted down his own background. “I, Ben Grafton, Jr., was born in Winnipeg in 1908. My father, Ben Grafton, Sr., was born in Nebraska in 1879. He met my mother in Oklahoma and together they moved to Alberta in 1905, where my father worked as a labourer. Two years later, they moved to Winnipeg.”

  Ben did more than document his roots in his precious “Negro History Appreciation,” which attained its peak of thickness during Mahatma’s boyhood. Knowing that Winnipeggers were reluctant to acknowledge his place of birth and that they didn’t believe that Negroes had accomplished anything of importance, Ben undertook to document Great Negro Achievements, and to insert such information piece by piece in his binder. One such entry read: “Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, 1799–1837, a Russian Novelist, had Royal African Blood on his mother’s side. His great-grandfather, Abram Hannibal, was an Abyssinian Prince and a Negro, making Alexander Pushkin Also A Person of Colour, no matter how Vaguely! P.S. Abram Hannibal was captured by Moslems, sold in Constantinople, and later adopted by the Russian Czar Peter I.”

  The bulk of Ben’s entries pertained to Canadian blacks such as Osborne Anderson, who in 1859 had participated in John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry and escaped back to Canada, and Anderson Ruffin Abbott, the first Canadian-born black doctor. Over the protests of his wife, Ben told these things to his son. “You have been born to do something great for humanity,” he told Mahatma in his eleventh year. Mahatma, who was holding a baseball glove at the time, said he had just hit a home run. “Greater than that, son. Name two great Negro writers.” Mahatma tonelessly provided the names of Langston Hughes and Richard Wright. “You’re going to be like them one day. You’re going to stand on their shoulders and reach even higher.” Mahatma said his friends were waiting.

  Mahatma met the managing editor the next morning. “Do you care to explain what happened last night?” Lyndon Van Wuyss said.

  “Betts wanted to change my story!”

  “You’re going to have to trust your editors. Betts may be abrasive, but that’s why he does his job so well.” Van Wuyss paused. His eyes narrowed. “How would you like to take on the police beat for the rest of your probation? I’d like to see what you can do.”

  The crime superintendent was a tall man of the plainclothes type often seen escorting prime ministers and breathing into walkie-talkies. Mahatma reckoned he was about fifty. Leaning out of his office, he peered at reporters seated in the waiting room on the third floor of the Institute of Public Protection. “Mornin’ boys, come on in,” he said, grinning at a woman who carried a tape recorder slung like a purse over her shoulder.

  “Eh-hem,” she grunted, punching him on the shoulder as she led the way into his office.

  “And lady, of course,” said the super. “‘Mornin’ boys and lady,’ is what I meant to say.”

  Edward Slade jostled with CFRL Radio reporter Bob Stone for the chair closest to the door. It was the best chair because it allowed for fast exits to cover breaking stories. “Rag writers like you ought to be banned,” Stone growled.

  “Out of my way, turd head,” Slade muttered.

  “Knock it off,” the super ordered, “or I’ll boot you both out!” He gave the coveted chair to Susan Starr. Slade and Bob took the next two seats. Mahatma took the seat farthest from the door. The four plastic chairs were placed side by side, facing the desk of the cop, who sat down. Mahatma surveyed the room. The cop’s desk had a stack of reports, several black pens with white letters spelling out Winnipeg’s Finest, and a family photo. The crime super had a wife, three kids and a dog. Looking at Mahatma, he asked, “And who are you?”

  “Mahatma Grafton. Winnipeg Herald.”

  “You new?” the super asked. Mahatma nodded. “I’d ask you where you’re from, but it’s probably against the human rights law or the Charter of Rights or some damn thing.”

  “Actually,” Mahatma said, “it’s against the Criminal Code of Canada. Invasion of privacy.”

  The cop broke into laughter. “I like a man with humour. Let me assure you that I don’t care what colour you are, black, white or yellow, as long as you treat my outfit with respect. Anyhow, pleased to meetcha. I’m Pat McGuirk. Crime superintendent.” Mahatma’s fingers were sandwiched in the man’s grip.

  Bob Stone asked, “What do you have for us today?”

  “Wee-ell,” Pat McGuirk said, flipping through a stack of reports, “I got a couple of 7-Eleven break-ins, I got an aggravated assault, I got a tempt rape, one tempt murder, a few other things.”

  “How about that tempt murder?” Stone asked. The journalists readied their pens.

  McGuirk read, “On October 21st, at 0700 hours, a 28-year-old Nairn Avenue man stabbed his girlfriend in the chest.” McGuirk paused. The reporters scribbled frenetically. Mahatma scribbled too. But Susan Starr broke up the dictation.

  “Is this man an Indian?”

  “You might call it a native domestic.”

  “Ah, shit,” she groaned. “You hear that, guys? It’s Indians.”

  Stone asked, “What else you got, Pat?”

  “Well, not much. You fellows want that tempt rape?”

  Stone asked, “Any violence involved?”

  “Bob!” Susan yelled.

  McGuirk began reading. But Bob stopped him. “My pen has run out. Can I borrow one of yours?”

  “Cute,” Slade said. “McGuirk gives you pens, you give him PR.”

  “Shut up, Slade.”

  “You shut up.”

  McGuirk read the report on the attempted rape. But

  nobody wanted it. “Anybody want a graffiti story?” he asked. Slade asked, “What graffiti?”

  “Some nut’s been painting slogans in St. Boniface.”

  “Is that all?” Susan said. “You really have nothing for us?”

  “What can I say?” McGuirk spread out his arms and grinned. “Why don’t you do a story about our low crime rates?”

  “Fuck that shit,” Slade said, standing to go.

  “Hey!” McGuirk said. “There is a lady present.”

  Susan said, “Fuck that shit,” and followed Slade and Stone out.

  Mahatma remained behind. He didn’t want to return to the office empty-handed. “Do you mind giving me that graffiti business?”

  McGuirk flipped through his stack of reports. “On October 21st, the manager of the St. Boniface community centre complained about vandalism to his building during the preceding night.”

  Mahatma learned it was the fifth consecutive night on which anti-French slogans had been spray-painted on buildings in St. Boniface, a Winnipeg suburb on the east side of the Red River. Mahatm
a made a few more notes and stood to go. “Say, how do you spell your last name?”

  “Any way you want.”

  Mahatma thought the man was joking. “I’m new around here. Is it M-c-G-U-I-R-K?”

  “That’ll do.” Mahatma frowned. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really want to see my name?” The cop displayed his driver’s licence.

  Mahatma wrote M-c-G-E-A-R-K.

  “And here’s my birth certificate.”

  “That’s okay,” Mahatma said.

  “No, look!”

  It read: M-c-G-E-A-R-C-Q-U-E. “Which is right?” Mahatma asked.

  “Neither. This is the right way.” The crime super wrote on Mahatma’s notepad: M-a-c-G-R-E-A-R-I-C-Q-U-E. “Pronounced McGuirk. Now, let me ask you a question.”

  “The answer is Winnipeg.”

  “You didn’t let me ask the question!”

  “You want to know where I’m from, right?”

  “And you’re telling me Winnipeg?”

  “I am.”

  “Where’s your dad from?”

  “Winnipeg.”

  “And his dad?”

  “Alberta.”

  “You’re telling me your goddamn grandfather was Canadian?”

  “Naturalized, yes. So you’d better get used to it, Patrick MacGrearicque. My people have been here as long as yours.”

  MacGrearicque issued a booming laugh. “I like you. You’re funny. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

  Mahatma drove to St. Boniface to see the graffiti, which had been sprayed on a credit union, a public school and on the door of Le Miroir, the St. Boniface weekly. Entering Le Miroir, Mahatma came upon a man polishing an apple on his sleeve. The man raised his eyebrows in a friendly salute. Five-nine, barrel chest and powerful legs. His nutmeg hair was stringy and unattended. His beard contained more hair than his head, and gave him an expansive air. He looked forty-five or so. Alert and good-humoured, his blue eyes swept over Mahatma. Mahatma introduced himself and learned that Georges Goyette was a columnist with the paper. Goyette bit into his apple. Mahatma asked his opinion about the graffiti.

  Goyette ignored the question and said, “Mahatma Grafton. That’s quite some name. Where’re you from, anyway?”

  “I was born and raised in Winnipeg. So were my parents.”

  Goyette smiled warmly. “Well, I’ll be. Fellow I knew on a farm, one time, he was a black guy too, born and raised in Manitoba. He got so tired of people asking where he came from that he finally packed up and left. And you know what? He wrote me a letter that said people were still bugging him about it. Winnipeg, he’d tell them. Ah Winnipeg—that explains it, they’d say.”

  Mahatma laughed. He liked the man immediately. He asked again about the graffiti. Goyette said it was probably the work of a few kids. They didn’t deserve publicity. Nevertheless, the graffiti suggested that anti-French sentiment was growing during the current language talks involving French leaders, Manitoba and Ottawa.

  Mahatma asked, “And what do you think of those talks?”

  “They should scrap those stupid negotiations and let the courts define the rights of Franco-Manitobans. The Supreme Court of Canada would order Manitoba to translate every statute on the books. You know what the Constitution says? It says English and French are the languages of Manitoba’s courts and Legislature! But try looking up a law in French. Try speaking to a judge in French.” Mahatma took notes, asked a few more questions and prepared to go. “Business, business,” Goyette said, laughing. “You truly are an anglais, aren’t you, even if you are one in a different skin.” Goyette said this inoffensively, and Mahatma liked him for it. “By the way,” Goyette added, “how is Helen Savoie these days?”

  “Fine. Although I don’t know her very well.”

  “Ask her about the Franco-Manitoban thing, if you need background.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware—”

  “Helen knows about everything,” Goyette said. “And she’s particularly informed about la francophonie in Manitoba.”

  “Funny. I was told she didn’t speak French.”

  “Try her.”

  “Okay. I’ve got to get going now.”

  “Come back sometime. I’ll show you around this side of the Red River.” They shook hands. Mahatma’s fingers were nearly crushed in Goyette’s massive paw.

  The beginning of Mahatma’s story read:

  The Manitoba Provincial Police has doubled patrols in St. Boniface after receiving reports about vandalism there for five consecutive days.

  Crime Supt. Patrick MacGrearicque said police are taking the incidents seriously, although they have been limited so far to spray-painted graffiti and broken windows.

  Area residents such as Mathilde Bernier, a Provencher Boulevard shopkeeper, expressed concern yesterday about the frequency of such incidents.

  “If they’re against bilingualism, why don’t they mail all their money back to Ottawa? It’s printed in both languages, you know!”

  Mahatma approached Helen Savoie in the newsroom. Speaking in French, he said, “I met Georges Goyette yesterday. He said he’d known you for years, and asked me to say hello to you.”

  Continuing to type, she looked at him stonily and said, in English, “Pardon?”

  Mahatma shook his head, puzzled. “Sorry to interrupt you. I must have made a mistake.”

  Two weeks passed. Mahatma Grafton unearthed no major crimes. Every day he wrote something, but often it consisted solely of police briefs and short reports from court. He also wrote a few administrative stories: cops were pushing for a shorter work week; lawyers and criminologists were complaining about overcrowding at the Winnipeg Jail. There wasn’t much to write about, in Mahatma’s opinion. True, Edward Slade was getting a lot of stuff into The Winnipeg Star. But they weren’t stories that a self-respecting broadsheet would do. Were they?

  Every morning, Mahatma bought The Star. He only read stories related to his beat. He aspired, eventually, to read nothing in the paper at all. But for now, he was obliged daily to pick through Crime News, which was often found on page three, near the bikini-clad StarLight Girl. Most days, Slade’s nuggets looked like this:

  A 68-year-old grandma of ten kayoed a intruder in her home last night.

  Armed with a cast-iron frying pan, Lena Bellander of River Ave-nue connected with a home run hit to the back of the thug’s head.

  Then Batty Lena, as neighbours call her, whipped up blueberry muffins while waiting for the cops.

  Initially, Mahatma chuckled at such articles. They seemed the work of a moralist from outer space. But his amusement soon faded. He worried that readers took the stuff seriously. At first, Mahatma took pains to avoid writing stupid stories. But stories he pursued got little or no play in the paper. He couldn’t interest editors in his idea to look into the number of accused criminals who were detained overnight on petty charges. Mahatma began hoping that the cops would announce major crime news at the morning press conferences. He felt uneasy when nothing happened. No crime, no byline. Early morning was always the worst time of day. He rose in a hurry, listening to radio news. If the news contained references to his stories—which were sometimes broadcast verbatim without attribution—Mahatma could tell that his work was displayed prominently in the morning paper. If no mention were made of his stories, they were either buried or not there at all. Most unnerving was to wake to a police report that he knew nothing about. That meant Edward Slade had scooped him.

  Chuck Maxwell tried to rescue Mahatma from his slump on the crime beat. “Do more victim stories,” Chuck said. “They make the best-read copy in the paper.” When Mahatma began to protest, Chuck added, “You didn’t commit the crimes. You’re just writing about them.”

  Chuck accompanied Mahatma to court one day. “There’s three things you gotta watch for. The first is the big crime. That hardly ever happens, but you gotta be around when it does. The second is famous people. If you’re on the cop beat and the attorney general’s son gets arrested
for pimping and you miss it, you’re fucked. The third thing is quirky news. When you hear something offbeat, ask yourself if it’s weird enough to get picked up by the wire services and printed all the way over in Australia. Like that vacuum story. If it’ll cross an ocean and survive, you’re looking at page one for sure.”

  Helen Savoie had lived for ten years above a fur store east of the Red River. Initially, she had used one room to sleep and the other as a study. But after joining The Herald, she often slept in her study or wrote in her bedroom, noting ideas for stories late into the night. The landlord had always assumed Helen was a secretary. She never bothered to correct him.

  In her earliest days at the paper, an editor had asked her to coach one of the weaker reporters—a fellow named Chuck Maxwell—in the art of writing. Helen took the task to heart. In those days, reporters still used typewriters. Helen would bring home carbon copies of Chuck’s articles. In her spare time, she would unite split infinitives, tighten leads and cross out adjectives. Helen eventually realized Chuck would never improve much. But the editing bug had infected her. From time to time, she couldn’t resist red-pencilling other reporters’ carbon copies and slipping the corrected work into their mailboxes at work. This unsolicited service proved unpopular in the newsroom. Helen let it drop, except for occasional comments to new reporters who appeared receptive to criticism. Although Mahatma Grafton was a capable writer, Helen detected a disturbing tendency in his work. He was too hungry for news. Too willing to write anything. In a recent article, he had happily compared police statistics on the number of rapes this year and last. Helen circled the offensive paragraph and scribbled, “What do you take these for, basketball stats?” before dropping the clipping in his mailbox.

  Helen didn’t hear back from him. She believed that Mahatma Grafton was rudderless. Capable of producing great work, but equally likely to waste his talent on junk news. Helen pictured Mahatma lingering on the brink. He could swing one way or the other. Journalists started out honourably, but circumstances—city editors, assignment editors, tabloid competitors—plunged them into trash cans. It took less effort to grab the easy stories—dog bites boy, mayor swears at premier—than to climb out and do something.