had never heard anyone say being oppressed could turn you into a better, more compassionate person. “How can understanding the misery of the Third World people serve Canada’s national interest,” I asked.
“Don’t be obtuse, Dear Boy. Look at it this way. In my opinion, the championing of Canadian values abroad is a national interest as valid as national unity, trade promotion, peacekeeping, protection of the Arctic, or any other interest you can think of. That’s why we need Aboriginal officers in positions of influence in the Department. But that will never happen unless they are recruited just after they graduate from university, and, like everyone else, are given every opportunity to become ambassadors and deputy ministers. Now after years of waiting for it to happen, you come along — a first-class Métis university graduate who has applied to become a Foreign Service officer. The results of your written exam were outstanding and you did an excellent job on the oral exam. I called you here to be sure you kept an open mind on the subject should you get a job offer.”
I wasn’t at all convinced that Aboriginal values were any different from Canadian ones. Or that Canadian ethics were any different than the beliefs held by people anywhere else in the world. Or that it should be the business of the Canadian government to push moral principles down the throats of foreigners. But I didn’t want to say that to Burump. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings when he had taken the trouble to call me at home and to receive me in his office. So I fixed my eyes on the floor and muttered, “Thank you sir … very nice of you to take time out of your busy schedule to tell me that.”
I then looked at him — asking myself what further nonsense he was about to tell me — to see him vigorously rubbing his glasses with his tie. His face was lit up with a huge smile and tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. It was as if I had given a treat to a large affectionate puppy. After looking at me tenderly, he reached over and patted my knee. “I always get choked up in moments like this,” he said. “I’ve spent my life helping others … nothing gives me greater satisfaction.
“Dear Boy,” he said, smiling and speaking at the same time, “I knew you were a Métis as soon as I saw your name and hometown in the file. For generations, my family has vacationed on an island on Georgian Bay, close to Penetang. Our cottage is my real home, not the house I own in Ottawa. There’s something wonderfully primeval and Canadian about the place. It’s Tom Thomson country — wind-swept bent pine trees on rocky islets, magnificent sunsets, tremendous summer storms, moonlit nights, the call of the loon, fresh-picked blueberries, pan-fried fresh pickerel, windswept cliffs, noble Indians paddling by to sell beadwork and deerskin moccasins.”
“Yes I like it too,” I said, hoping to bring this part of the conversation to an end. But Burump was unstoppable. “Above all, it’s the land of the Métis. I know the history of your people, how French courier de bois in the upper Great Lakes took Indian women as wives in the eighteenth century, how they fought with the British against the Americans in the War of 1812, how they left their community at the north end of Lake Huron to make new homes at Penetang when the peace settlement handed their lands over to the Americans. When I was a child, Métis people with names like Langlade, Bottineault, Comptois, and yes, Cadotte, used to come to our cottage to have coffee and a piece of pie with my grandparents. I love your people, Dear Boy.”
By that time I was staring once again at the floor. I then heard him say, “I’d give anything to have been born a Métis.”
Without looking up, I said, “I don’t believe you.”
“What’s that, Dear Boy? What did you say?”
With my eyes still locked on the floor, I repeated, “I don’t believe you … you wouldn’t have wanted to be born a Métis.”
“You’re probably right, Dear Boy. You must forgive my presumption and tendency to use stereotypes. Only a Métis can understand what it means to be a Métis. I get carried away with my own eloquence and venture into areas where I have no right to go.”
Nothing else came out of my discussion with Burump that morning other than his warning about Longshaft. “I am light and Longshaft is darkness,” he said. “He came out of the war convinced that man was intrinsically evil, whereas I emerged believing in the inherent goodness of people. He believes in original sin and need for redemption, and I don’t. He sees evidence of communist conspiracies all over the world, and I don’t. He believes it’s acceptable to work with dictators and repressive governments, and I don’t. He was a junior officer in Prague in 1948 when the communists staged their coup and murdered the democratically elected prime minister — that turned him into a cold warrior. He was ambassador in Cuba during the missile crisis and thinks Canada could have done more to support the Americans. He thinks the Cubans sent Lee Harvey Oswald to kill President Kennedy in Dallas. He’s more comfortable working with the RCMP, the CIA, and the SIS than with colleagues like me in the Department. I’m a great supporter of the United Nations and all it stands for, and he’s not. He trusts few people, and I trust everybody and hope they trust me. Now what else can I tell you?”
I have never liked it when people spoke about friends or acquaintances behind their backs. There’s something hypocritical about it. Once again I shifted my attention to the framed photographs.
“I could go on and on all day,” Burump said, poking me to make me pay attention. “I’m sorry, Dear Boy, but you absolutely must listen to what I’m saying. I’m telling you these things about Longshaft to warn you. He and his staff carry out hush-hush and not always pretty things out of his suite of offices on the ninth floor. Even though he’s a fanatic, he has the ear of the prime minister, and most members of the Department are afraid of him. If you’re offered a position in the Department, he’ll try to recruit you and draw you into his web of intrigues. So be careful and come work for me. Together we’ll do great things.”
Soon afterwards, I was on the ninth floor trying to convince a suspicious guard, sitting at a desk in front of a closed steel door, that the Director General of Security and Intelligence, just thirty minutes before, had asked me to drop by to see him.
“Mr. Longshaft doesn’t invite people to just drop by to see him,” he said. “His visitors always need appointments.”
“Why don’t you call his office and find out,” I said, handing him my driver’s licence as proof of identity.
After taking a telephone from its place on the wall, he kept his eyes on me as he talked to someone inside Longshaft’s sanctuary. He then smiled, handed back my license and resumed reading the morning newspaper. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal a woman of uncertain age who looked me over carefully and beckoned me to follow her. She then scuttled ahead through a warren of deserted corridors lined with closed doors, like a mother superior leading a novice through a convent of nuns, until we reached a large door covered with deep green felt. After pushing it open, she told me not to take up too much of the boss’s time, and motioned for me to go in.
Longshaft, who was reading a file on a desk otherwise devoid of papers and documents, looked up and said, “Oh, it’s you, Cadotte. You took your time. Come take a seat at my desk. I liked the way you handled yourself Friday afternoon,” he said, not waiting for me to sit down. “Especially the way you dealt with the issues of moral costs, exceptional circumstances, and the national interest.”
“I don’t think Mr. Hunter was impressed with my views on Vietnam,” I said after sitting down.
“He’s worn out, waiting to die. His opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Mr. Burump didn’t seem to appreciate them either.”
“You’ve just come from his office and I’m sure he gave you an earful about the Department’s
