Flight to Canada

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Book: Flight to Canada by Ishmael Reed Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ishmael Reed
Tags: Suspense
people,” says Quickskill calmly.
    The Immigrant, Mel Leer, rises. “Don’t tell me that lie.”
    The whole café turns to the scene.
    “Our people have suffered the most.”
    “My people!”
    “My people!”
    “My people!”
    “My people!”
    “We suffered under the hateful Czar Nicholas!”
    “We suffered under Swille and Legree, the most notorious Masters in the annals of slavery!”
    “Hey, what’s the matter with you two?” It was Leechfield. On his arm was a Beecherite who had just come over from Boston. She looked like a human bird, her nose was so long, and she wore old-maid glasses. Her hat was covered with flowers.
    “What took you so long? You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” the Immigrant said, sitting down again, looking at his watch. Leechfield just stared at him with those narrow eyes. That squint. And that smile which got him into the homes and near the fire of many a female Sympathizer about town. His arm dangled over the chair in which he’d plopped down. He snapped his finger for a waitress. The cold Beecherite just sat there, looking at him adoringly. The waitress came.
    “Gimme a Southern Comfort.”
    The girl giggled. Quickskill, now relaxed, even smiled. But the Immigrant, Mel Leer, looked at him, frowning.
    “Look, Leer,” Leechfield finally said, “I’m the one who’s bringing the money into this operation.”
    “Yes, but you don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that. I was the one who introduced you to the game. I taught you the techniques of survival, when you were merely interested in getting by. You see these fingers?” Mel Leer revealed his long, lean fingers. “They’ve rolled dice at Monte Carlo, distilled vodka in a vodka plant, sewn furs, deftly overwhelmed superior forces while you were humming ‘Old Black Joe,’ you … you …”
    “Hold it, man. Don’t get excited. Now sit down.” Meekly, Leer sat down. (What was going on here? What was this strange bond between them? A white bondsman and a black bondsman in cahoots in some enterprise.) “She ready, you ready, so let’s go.”
    The three rose to leave. Mel Leer put the foreign-language newspaper under his arm.
    “Look, Leechfield, I have to talk to you, it’s important,” Quickskill said.
    “Can’t do it now, man. Got to go. Come over to the loft sometime.”
    “But …”
    The three had moved out of the café. Quickskill ordered another mug. Canada Dry this time. That morning he had heard that Air Canada was cutting its rates by thirty-five percent.
    Everybody had turned their attention toward Canada. Barbara Walters had just about come out on national television to say that the Prime Minister of Canada, this eagle-faced man, this affable and dapper gentleman who still carried a handkerchief in the left suit pocket, was the most enlightened man in the Western world. The world expected great things from this man. His wife was a former flower child: intelligent, well-bred, capable of discussing cultural subjects on television. So good-looking!
    Harry Reasoner agreed with Ms. Walters, saying that though some of his critics disapproved of the way the Prime Minister still followed the custom of attending the Potlatch, that great festival of giveaway practiced by his people, during his administration the ban on the Potlatch had been lifted. Mr. Reasoner said that this would make it possible for the Potlatch to be brought into the United States as a way of relieving the people of the dreary, sad life caused by the conflict.
    Ah! Canada! There had just been a free election in Canada. The Liberal party had won 141 seats in the House of Commons. There was a picture in Time of the Prime Minister standing next to his wife, she holding his hand, he looking down as though his sharp Indian nose would bump her forehead. There was a big sign over the archway where they stood, written in Halloween letters: CONGRATULATIONS.
    His wife said of him: “He’s a beautiful guy, a very loving human being

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