May I see your identification?
ID?
You are Canadian?
More or less.
This is France. You have a passport or a driver’s licence?
I never needed no ID the last time I come through here.
The policeman tilted his head at an angle that made Sweetland worry about him losing the hat. When was this? he asked.
Jesus, Sweetland said. 1964 or ’65.
The policeman watched him steadily. Things have changed since 1964, he said. Where are you visiting from?
Sweetland climbed up onto the dock. Fortune Bay, he said. He walked across to the young fellow with the tattooed neck and passed him the handful of euros as a tip, then turned back to the gendarme.
It’s just a bit of salt and flour, Sweetland said. Not like I’m smuggling booze.
Yes, very strange, the policeman said. He leaned over the stack of bags and containers, reached to pick out the boxes of ammunition. These you must leave, he said. You will have to declare the rest when you return to Newfoundland.
What, fill out a form or something?
A customs form, certainly. There will be a tariff to pay. May I go aboard?
Sweetland waved him on and the policeman stepped down into the boat, poking idly through the wheelhouse, looking into the compartments where he stored the lifejackets and fishing line and water jugs. When he climbed back onto the dock Sweetland took his place in the boat, dragging boxes off the concrete. The gendarme looked across at the young man sitting on the car hood and nodded permission to help. He watched the two load the boat then, with his hands crossed behind his back.
We can refund the money for the ammunition, the policeman said.
Never mind, Sweetland said.
When they were done loading, the gendarme took a black notebook from his shirt pocket. He said, I will require your name and address.
Jesse, Sweetland said. Jesse Ventura.
V-e-n, the policeman said as he jotted the name. R-a. And address?
Brig Harbour, Fortune Bay.
Brig Harbour, he said, his head still bowed to the notebook. I have not heard of it.
Back of beyond, Sweetland said. Half the people lives there never heard of it.
You will have to report to the customs office in Placentia, the policeman said.
First thing, Sweetland said.
You must bring a passport next time, Mr. Ventura.
Won’t leave home without it, don’t you worry.
The young man had untied the line and was holding the boat tight to the dock. Sweetland reached up to catch the rope when it was thrown aboard and waved a thank you. As he pulled away he could see the policeman writing the identification number painted at the bow into his little book. All the way home he cursed himself for an idiot, though even then he was hard pressed to say how it might come back on him.
An RCMP patrol boat arrived a week later. Sweetland working in the shed out back when the Mountie came knocking at his door, then turned and called for him. He stood at the open bay of the shed with his hands behind his back. Mr. Sweetland, he said.
He’s not here, Sweetland said. Moved into St. John’s a month ago.
Mr. Sweetland, the cop said. I was the officer out here investigating the burning of your stage last year.
Sweetland looked him up and down. You got any leads on that?
Mr. Sweetland, the officer said. We have a report from French customs that a man by the name of Jesse Ventura, driving a boat registered in your name, sailed into Miquelon recently. He left with a large quantity of food and supplies that were paid for in cash.
Is that right?
August fourteenth. He also attempted to buy a significant quantity of ammunition for a.22. Did this Mr. Ventura borrow your boat from you?
I guess he must have.
Do you have any idea where I might find Mr. Ventura?
Sweetland shrugged. He’s on the internet, if you minds to look.
The officer took a step into the shed, out of the daylight. He took off his hat and held it in front of himself. There was a crease ringing his head where the hat had been. He said, Do you know what he intended to do with forty-four hundred dollars’ worth of dry goods?
This is about paying the tariffs, is it?
No, sir. That’s a customs issue. Our office was contacted by a government official involved in negotiating the resettlement agreement with people here in Sweetland. They’re worried some residents might be planning to breach that agreement. And possibly using lethal force in the process.
Sweetland turned from the Mountie to shift through the tools on his workbench.
Sir, could you step away from the workbench for me?
He turned around and folded his arms across his chest.
Mr. Sweetland, we’ve been asked to assist in the completion of the terms of the resettlement agreement.
They’re sending the cops out here?
It’s a question of legal liability on the part of the government, as I understand it. And there’s the issue of lethal force. We don’t want to see anyone get hurt. I’ve been asked to let people know that I will be on the last ferry to leave Sweetland. That’s less than two weeks from now. And all remaining residents are required to be on that ferry when it departs.
He waited then, to give Sweetland a chance to respond. A moment later he said, You are planning on boarding the ferry.
What if I’m not, Sweetland said.
The officer looked down at the hat in his hands. In that case, he said, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest.
Well, Sweetland said. Good to see my tax dollars hard at work.
The officer smiled and replaced his hat. He shimmied it on good and tight. I would hate to be put in that position, Mr. Sweetland. I honestly would.
Sweetland turned back to the workbench and put both hands to the edge. I’ll see if I can’t spare you the trouble, he said.
He didn’t say a formal goodbye to anyone. So pissed off it didn’t cross his mind he might be adding a layer of grief to the lives of others. Or not giving a good goddamn if he was.
He’d carried the duffle bag of food down to the government wharf after the lights were out in the cove and tucked it away in the wheelhouse. In the morning he walked through the house as he might have if he were leaving for the last time. Closing doors, hanging a jacket that he’d left lying on the daybed, washing his few breakfast dishes and putting them away in the cupboards. He left the house with his pack, but stopped himself before his hand was off the door. He went back inside and threw the jacket across the daybed, he walked through the house to open the doors he’d closed. All the cash left over from his spree in Miquelon was in the drawer of his bedside table and he stuffed it into an envelope that he folded and pushed into his back pocket. He took a tin of tuna from the cupboard and opened it, draining off the water. He ate half the fish with a fork, then left the can and the fork on the counter, beside the laptop.
Sweetland could see Pilgrim sitting at his own kitchen table as he walked by. He went around to the back door and poked his head inside.
Is herself about? he asked.
She’s not up yet, Pilgrim said. I’ll get you a cup of tea.
No, no, Sweetland said. He took the envelope from his back pocket and laid it on the table. I’m just heading down to the wharf. Thought I might go poach a few cod.
What’s that? Pilgrim asked.
What’s what?
Whatever you put on the table there.
That’s for Clara, Sweetland said.
You should have supper with us tonight, Pilgrim said. You’re spending too much time alone up there.
If I’m back in time, Sweetland said, I’ll come down.
He went out the door and stopped to let Diesel nuzzle his crotch and whip her tail against his legs as she squirmed. Leaned down to whisper into her ears. Bye, Diesel, he said.