‘A Canadian Indian?’ said the twinkling Russian.
‘Right.’
‘And from the north-west, I think. The Nass river?’
‘Skeena river.’
‘Ah. Tsimshean.’
‘Gitksan.’
‘Gitksan — I don’t know of. But all you north-westerners were late arrivals in that continent. You still look like our Siberians. You know of them, perhaps?’
Unsmiling, Porter replied with a burst of Evenk, at which, the Russian held up his hands. ‘Bravo! But it’s the people I know, my friend, not the language. You are ahead of me.’
Porter was ahead of him in English, too. Although the Russian’s vocabulary was good, he was once or twice at a loss for a word; and Porter supplied the word. He could even supply it in Russian, and this was the language they were speaking — his professor having left them to get on with it — when a third man, an Englishman, was hauled in to join them.
The name of the Englishman was Lazenby and the most prominent thing about him was his own extraordinary head. The vast and gleaming cranium, knobbly and extending in various directions, was devoid of a single hair. It contrasted weirdly with Porter’s own powerful array and was the reason the ebullient Russian had called Lazenby over. But they were soon discussing a variety of topics — the Russian’s animation very infectious. Asiatic migrations, pigmentation, natural defects, blindness … In some way they were on to Siberia, and discussing it in a mixture of English and Russian by the time that Rogachev (Porter had at last got the Russian’s name) had located the whisky. Food had been amply available on the buffet tables but not much to drink. And Rogachev had found the drink.
This was one of the things that Porter remembered next day: that the Russian had found the drink, and could hold it. While the Englishman, reluctantly matching them glass for glass, could not; he was unsteady on his feet when they left, Rogachev jovially proposing that they stagger home together.
In fact the Russian was being accommodated in college and Porter’s own college was in another direction. All the same they had walked Lazenby home, and on the way Rogachev had arranged another meeting with the young Indian; whom by then he was calling Raven, having learned his clan and deciding the name was apter for him. In the same spirit he had allotted other names to himself and to Lazenby. But it was Lazenby who had suddenly discovered an urgent need to urinate. And Rogachev who had discovered the wall. And there the three of them had stood, companionably watering it, one set of chances having brought them there and another set, later on, to recall the scene.
11
Lazenby flew to Canada on a Tuesday, but it was not a Tuesday in April but in July; and not to Montreal but to Vancouver, several numbing hours farther. And so many changes of plan had occurred in between that he was half out of his mind before he started.
The fellow Raven seemed to be wholly out of his mind.
He had university jobs two thousand miles apart. He seemed to attend to them when he felt like it. He cut lectures, left classes, disappeared into woods. Lazenby would have kicked him out years ago; except Raven (Dr Porter, as they were calling him now) did not seem to be a person you kicked out so easily.
At Vancouver Lazenby was met by Hendricks, and a young colleague called Walters who had been making arrangements for him. These Lazenby heard about over dinner at the hotel.
Porter, it seemed, was at a place called Kispiox. It was up north, near Prince Rupert on the Skeena river. This was his home ground — Tsimshean Indian country — and he was in the forest there. His movements were not known from day to day but he was calling in regularly at the Kispiox post office.
‘He’s doing that twice a week, sir,’ Walters said. He was an abnormally clean young man with blue eyes and a blond moustache. ‘And he’s very prompt. He picks up his mail bang on mid-day, and answers it there, too. They all call him Johnny, he’s a favourite son. I was up there yesterday, and I phoned through this afternoon. He hasn’t been in this week but tomorrow’s Wednesday and that’s one of his days. So I’ve fixed this, if you agree.’
He had fixed a small jet to fly them to a place called Hazelton, not far from Kispiox, which would enable them to get there before noon. In case Porter did not look in tomorrow, he had also checked out hotel rooms where they could wait for him the following day.
Every bone in his body aching, Lazenby considered these arrangements somewhat sourly.
‘What time would that mean getting up?’ he said.
‘Not too early.’ Walters smiled. ‘It’s only about five hundred miles, so if we’re in the air by ten we’ll make it. I have transport laid on at Hazelton. From the airport there it’s just a drive through the woods to Kispiox.’
‘You’re coming, of course,’ Lazenby said to Hendricks.
‘No, George, I’m not.’ The relationship had flourished a little between them. ‘The fewer people the better. I only came to introduce this young fellow, your escorting officer. He’s done all the work anyway. He’s been around Porter for weeks.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’ Lazenby asked the young man.
‘No, sir, I haven’t. My orders were to make no contact.’
‘You make the contact, George,’ Hendricks told him. ‘He’s a very suspicious man, with a big phobia about us — probably warranted. This ethnic thing of his is quite wide-ranging, and we’ve been observing him a long time. He’s stirred up a lot of minority-group activity — in the States, too. But he’s on vacation now, and relaxed. The best thing is just to come on him and talk straight. Tell him what you know, and hope he’ll listen.’
Lazenby closed his eyes.
The idea of ‘making a contact’ with a very suspicious Indian 500 miles into the Canadian wilderness was not more surreal than the other things that had happened to him today. But he didn’t yet feel he had touched earth. A part of him seemed still to be floating between the Atlantic and the Rockies.
‘Yes. Yes, very well,’ he said.
So next day, the air again, in a small jet, buzzing north.
Mountains, lakes, forests drifted mistily below, veiled in rain. It was still raining at Hazelton, a dismal small airport with not much activity going on in it. The transport was waiting, however, a Toyota pickup, and they hurried into it.
They drove for some time on a hardtop road and then were off it and bumping and lurching along an old lumber track. Dense stands of spruce and hemlock dripped on all sides, and square stacks of trimmed logs, soaking gloomily in the dim light.
Kispiox itself, when they splashed into it, was not much cheerier. It lay in a large clearing, an Indian village with totem poles and frame houses and a white-painted frame church. Full washing lines were strung everywhere, clothes hanging like distress signals in the steady downpour. Apart from a few battered pickups there were no other signs of life.
The post office seemed to be a general store. It was empty apart from an old man smoking his pipe in a rocking chair.
‘Hi,’ he said, peering. ‘You the guy was over from Rupert — Mr Jackson, ain’t it?’
‘Right,’ Walters said amiably. ‘How you doing? I called up yesterday afternoon. You said Johnny would be in today.’
‘Oh well, shit!’ the old man said. He took his pipe out. ‘I clean forgot that. I should have told him you was in. I wrote down a note about it. Went right out of my head!’
‘He’s been in?’ Walters said.
‘Telephoned. About couple hours ago. He’s over at the Takla. Been there a few days, apparently. Hell, I’m sorry about that. Had him right there on the phone,’ the old man said. ‘You come over from Rupert special, then?’