The Republic of Nothing (49 page)

I went to tell Gwen about the impending uranium battle and found her with three new arrivals who had made it across the border late last night. They'd arrived only an hour or so
before the bridge went down. She and Ben were cooking up a huge feast for them, and I was introduced as Gwen's boyfriend and self-appointed protector of the island. At least fifty draft dodgers had come to the island so far. Most had stayed for a bit to get acquainted with other dodgers before heading off to Halifax, Cape Breton or points west. Ten had stayed on, including Burnet who had seemingly adjusted to a role as guide-counsellor to any of the hard-core military types recovering from a stint in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Burnet was very proud of his form of treatment which he called “Therapy by Fishing and Clamming.” His success rate with truly damaged young men was surprisingly good. Mostly the dodgers kept to themselves, but a couple of the guys had taken to working with Lambert and Eager and three others had made good friends with Hants Buckler, accepting him as a sort of guru who could teach them about the intricacies of inner peace through watching the tides, waiting for free gifts from the sea, chewing tobacco and spitting. Hants Buckler's spitting ability had been finely honed in recent years to the point that even novice spitters like the young American draft dodgers recognized a great talent.

I had been a little jealous at first, what with Gwen hanging around all those American guys, many of them heartsick from leaving behind families and friends and aching for companion-ship, but Gwen had learned to handle them with the greatest of ease, befriending each but keeping loyal to me. All through the events that year our love had solidified into something new. Dare I say, the great silent adoration I had held so long for her wore off ever so slightly. She had now developed more respect for me. We were equals. It was a great, complex, crazy and un-stable world, but we would grow together and create a stable core.

“They're back,” I told her. “Mannheim/Atlanta.”

“We can't let them dig,” she said.

“No, we can't,” I answered. “We'll do something. My father's
working on a plan.” He was at home taking a nap, but that didn't matter.

“There's more of us now. I'm sure the Americans will help.”

“I think it might be too dangerous for them. If they were arrested they might be sent back to the States. But don't worry. I'll let you know when it's time to act.”

“I'm worrying,” Gwen told me. “My father painted the entire picture for me. If they start to strip mine, the island will be ruined.”

“They don't stand a chance,” I said. “Mannheim/Atlanta and Bud Tillish are up against higher authorities.” I kissed Gwen then and had a hard time stopping myself from doing more. I wanted to forget about Mannheim/Atlanta and steal off to the beach at Back Bay with her, swim out to where we could barely touch the sandy bottom with our toes and then make love as we were carried along on the current of the channel. “I have to get home,” I said. “I want to be there when my old man wakes up.”

As I walked in the front door of my house, my father thrust a letter at me, an old letter postmarked New York City, June of 1951. “Open it. Read what it says.”

The letterhead read, “United Nations, Office of the Secretary General” and beneath:

Dear Sir,

Thank you for submitting a copy of your declaration of independence. While we cannot immediately recognize your republic as a new country, I can inform you that we are willing to consider your case. While it is often a long and complicated process to legitimize “nationhood status” and admission to the United Nations, we do have a committee that is authorized to hear cases submitted by those who claim autonomy on geographical units currently within the boundary of established nations.

To that end, you might consider submitting a brief, outlining your position and we will get back to you as soon as we can.

Sincerely,
Dag Hammerskjold
Undersecretary

I looked at my mother and at Casey. They had already read the letter. We were all thinking the same thing. Maybe I was the first to say it. “It'll never work. They'll just tell you you're crazy. Everyone will think we're all lunatics out here.” I handed my father back the letter.

“I don't care if the rest of the world thinks we're crazy.” My father picked up another piece of paper and waved it in my face. I could recognize it by the smell — old paper, old ideals. It was a copy of the declaration itself that he was waving in my face, the one that I had lost by the machinery, the one that had found its way full circle back to my father through the back rooms of the Grits and the Tories. “A copy of this has been on file at the UN since 1951. We're a little slow at accepting their invitation to present our case, but we're going to give it a try. If we can even simply get a toe in the door and get something rolling, however crazy it may sound, I think I can at least stop Mannheim/Atlanta from doing any further digging. We've got to try to establish a legitimate claim over that land, over the whole island. We've got to reach over the heads of provincial authority, even Canadian authority, and this is the way to do it. We could, at the very least, create enough public interest and legal confusion that Mannheim/Atlanta won't dare take a rock off this island for years. Then they'll realize it's too much trouble.”

I wanted to say that it was wild and foolish, that it would never work. I wanted to suggest we revert to violence and vandalism,
but I said nothing. I saw the gleam in my father's eyes, the wonderful, maniacal gleam that had once possessed him as a younger man.

“Don't worry,” he assured my mother, “I have a good grip on diplomacy.”

I'm sure she was thinking what I was thinking:
Right. Diplomacy. Just like Pierre Elliot Trudeau.

My father looked at the letter from the U.N. and I saw a momentary flicker of doubt. “Dag Hammarskjold,” he said. “Soon after he wrote back to me, he became Secretary-General.”

Well, that was different. Maybe a letter from old Dag would mean something, Maybe it wasn't just my old man's fantasy. But something was wrong about the way he said it.

“Only problem is that Hammerskjold got killed in a plane crash over Africa. Sixty-one, I think.”

I knew it was up to me to rekindle the flame before my old man's spirits were nothing but a wisp of smoke. “No problem,” I said. “I'm sure they still have the declaration and their letter on file. The UN must have world class file clerks. Who's Secretary-General now?”

“U Thant,” he said. “He's from Burma. My guess is he's got his hands full with Cyprus, Israel, India and Pakistan. Not to mention Vietnam. I'm not sure he will have been briefed about Whalebone Island and the Republic of Nothing.”

“Then we'll brief him,” I said, the light of destiny emanating from every pore of the son of the man who had once been premier of the province of Nova Scotia. “When do we leave?” I asked.

My father looked out the window. We all listened to the roar of the machinery shattering the peace of our island home. “Tomorrow, Ian. You and me. We're flying to New York.”

My father wakened me at 4 o ‘clock in the morning. It was pitch black and when he switched on my light I could see that he was dressed in the suit he had worn while in office as premier. My mother had set out my one and only suit as well. I began
to dress. As my old man vanished from the room to finish getting ready he said, “Let's go, kid. Got to move before the tide slips,” and I flashed back to my childhood when he would wake me up just like this in the dark early morning and we'd go to sea.

Today it was a different tide. My old man, with me at his side, was going to barge into the office of the Secretary-General of the United Nations and remind the world that he had declared the island an independent nation back there on March 21, 1951. And today, September 30, 1970, we were about to reassert our sovereign dominion over the land and drive the demon land rippers from our borders. And despite the fact that I was no longer a boy whose feet did not reach the floor when he sat on the side of the bed, and despite the fact that neither my old man nor I were dressed in oilskins and rubber boots, I had the distinct feeling that we were in fact going fishing. Almost unconsciously I reached under my bed, as I had done so many times before on fishing trips with my father — I reached for the cigar box from underneath the bed. I flipped the lid and found the finger of the dead Viking that I would carry for good luck.

As we walked in the darkness to the car with the giant sack of food my mother had cooked up for us to eat on the long dark drive to the airport, I couldn't help but get caught up in the feeling of euphoria that overtook us. My mother had packed us a pair of scrambled egg sandwiches to eat on the road and supplemented it with a monumental lunch to offset the minimalist Air Canada meal. With so much sustenance, I was prepared to follow my father on his mission to anywhere he pleased. Ready to go to whatever higher authority was needed.

Before we had settled in the car, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Smell, Ian.”

I took a deep, powerful whiff of salt air. It was warm, rich, luxurious and mixed with the scent of juniper and bayberry
from the interior of the island. I let it sift into my brain like a robust, life-enhancing drug. “Tide's just about to change,” he said to me, handing me the keys to drive. “We're going to catch it just right.”

My father found a pay phone at LaGuardia, asked for the number and then dialled the office of U Thant. “It's the premier of Nova Scotia,” he lied to the woman on the other end of the line. “I need to speak to Mr. U Thant on a matter of grave international consequence.”

“No, madam. It's in Canada,” he continued to explain.

“Well, can I make an appointment for this afternoon?” Disappointment. I toyed with the Viking finger in my pocket.

“Perhaps there is someone still with you who was close to Dag Hammarskjold. My business concerns a petition for United Nations membership that was delivered to Mr. Hammarskjold in 1951. He was a great man and a very close friend. Is there anyone still there who was an associate of Mr. Hammarskjold's?'r

My father held his hand over the receiver. “All we need is a foot in the door,” he assured me. As he waited for the woman to come back on the line, I looked at the frenzied crowd of people moving to and fro in the crowded airport. I wondered what it was about this city that had drawn me back here for a second time in my life.

“Yes,” my father said. “My name is Everett McQuade. 2:30? Fine. Thank you.” He placed the phone back in its cradle. “Per Lindquist will see us at 2:30,” he said. “U Thant is apparently busy today.”

At precisely 2:30 in the afternoon the heavy mahogany door to Per Lindquist's office opened and an aging, silverhaired gentlemen extended his hand. My father greeted him like a long lost friend.

“Please come in,” he said. And we followed him into his office. “Sit down.”

“I am Everett McQuade, and this is my associate, Ian
McQuade. I understand you worked closely with Dag Hammarskjold,” my father began.

“I came over with him from Sweden when he first worked here at the U.N. He is gone, as you know, but I have stayed on.” His voice was cold and clinical. My father's charm had not sliced through the formalities yet.

“A great man,” my dad said. “A tragedy he was lost.”

An uneasy silence fell over the room. I looked around. The room was full of old artifacts — a stone axe head, small soapstone statues of unidentifiable figures — warriors perhaps, a tattered piece of clothing was encased in glass on the wall. I nervously toyed with the Viking finger in my pocket.

“Mr. McQuade, I have only the vaguest notion as to why you are here, but I must say I do not appreciate the false pretence. A: I suggest that you were not a friend of Dag Hammarskjold and B: I gather that you are no longer premier of Nova Scotia.”

My father, rather than looking defeated, seemed duly impressed. “Then you
do
know why I'm here,” he ventured.

“Yes. We do keep files. No matter how silly, we keep all such declarations as yours on file. My secretary found it with little trouble after your phone call. You'd be surprised how many individuals like you there are out there, how many minority groups wanting their own countries, how many megalomaniacs hoping to establish their own kingdoms. At least you had the respect for us to tell us your truthful name. At least I hope that is the case. You are Everett McQuade from Whalebone Island?”

“Of the Republic of Nothing,” my father concluded the statement. “And you must forgive my blundering. It is a matter of utmost importance necessary to save our island, to save our home.” He proceeded to explain about the uranium mining, about the island, about us. My father stood up and walked around the room as he talked. He wove a tapestry with words about our home that made it sound like the most beautiful and majestic of places on earth. His voice was the sea itself, caressing the shores of the island, recounting its history, our lives,
the unique character of the people who lived there and ultimately asserting our right to be free and independent of all other governments.

Per Lindquist listened patiently. The muscles in his cheek had loosened ever so slightly as he absorbed the resonant oration of my father, the master speech-giver. And when my father had finished, having recounted the story all the way up to the very minute we had walked into the office, he stopped, sat down and waited. Per Lindquist folded his long slender hands together in front of him creating something akin to a cathedral spire. “I am moved,” he said. “I too am a man who feels certain passions for a place. Your home does not sound unlike the island I grew up on along the Baltic Sea. I am deeply touched.”

He paused. The world stopped. I knew that the next word would be
however.
Nothing good in my life ever followed that disaster of all words. All praise, all kind remarks, all good whispers that trailed with
however
ended in bad news. I scanned the room again, taking note of the artifacts. The crude stone implements on the table by the window. The drawing on the wall.