“Golly what, Fong?”
“I don’t know why, but it never crossed my mind. But is it even illegal to import blood into Canada?”
“I’m happy to tell you that for the first time in this little venture I’m a step ahead of you. I used my Ontario law licence and logged into the law library in Calgary. It’s debatable, Fong. Raw blood is most probably illegal, but treated blood products, like those coming on that ship, are probably not illegal to import. Sorry.”
“Not illegal?” Fong shook his head.
“Probably not illegal,” Robert corrected him.
“Cao ni ma de, cao ni, feng zi, bian tai, chu sheng, nao zi you mao bing!”
“I assume those are charming home-grown cuss phrases of some sort. But I wouldn’t throw in the towel just yet. This is Canada, after all, and the province we’re in is called British Columbia – accent on the British. And with the British, shame works. Britain was shamed out of India. Can you imagine the French being shamed out of their colonial holdings – or the Germans or the Dutch or the fucking Belgians? But the British were shamed out of the crown jewel of all colonies, India. And there is enough vestigial British guilt here that, even though it may be legal, those who profit from the importation of Chinese blood could be ‘outed.’ Vancouver’s a social place, Fong – pariah status doesn’t get the missus an invite to the good parties.”
“So you think . . .”
“Embarrassment could work, Fong. In Montana or Texas or Alberta – no – but here, it’s worth a shot . . . as long as you have a good hook.”
“Hook?”
“The newspapers and television will need a personal angle on the blood story to get them interested. Articles in the press are a good beginning in shaming people.”
“So I would need something personal about the blood importer?”
“Better if it’s something about a blood victim. Something personal. Name and shame the money man with the name and story of the victim. Then we’ve got a chance.”
“That sounds straightforward.”
“Straightforward and difficult.”
“Find the money man; find a victim’s story and get it published.”
“That sounds easy to you?”
“No. But even the longest journey begins with a single step.”
“Yeah, Fong, and life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
“Who said that?”
“The same guy who said even the longest journey begins with a single step – John Lennon.”
“Really? John Lennon quoted Chairman Mao.” Fong smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
Robert slid a CD out of its jewel case and into the player on the dashboard. He hit play and the whiskysoaked tones of Tom Waits filled the car. “Is he trying to sing?” Fong asked.
“He’s singing, Fong.”
“Is he in pain?”
“Most probably. This song is ‘Kentucky Avenue.’ Open your ears and you’ll learn something.”
And Fong did – and he did. On the other side of the scratchy voice were lyrics in stark contradiction to the melody. The song told the story of a boy breaking into a hospital to see his quadriplegic friend in the middle of the night and the friend’s request to be wheeled on his gurney bed out into the hall and launched through the plate-glass window – “slide down the drain pipe all the way to New Orleans in the fall.”
Robert sang the final lyrics with Mr. Waits then hit the repeat button and “Kentucky Avenue’s” agony once again filled the car.
“And this is a popular song?” Fong asked.
“It is with me. It didn’t used to be, but it’s a fave of mine now. I heard it maybe twice in the last three decades but it stayed with me. So when I saw it in the Toronto airport I couldn’t resist. You know Fong, despite the fact I haven’t heard it for years, I know every word of this – every word. Isn’t that odd?”
Fong was going to reply that it didn’t strike him as odd that at certain moments of our lives pieces of art fall into place – begin to make sense –
“I don’t know why, but it never crossed my mind. But is it even illegal to import blood into Canada?”
“I’m happy to tell you that for the first time in this little venture I’m a step ahead of you. I used my Ontario law licence and logged into the law library in Calgary. It’s debatable, Fong. Raw blood is most probably illegal, but treated blood products, like those coming on that ship, are probably not illegal to import. Sorry.”
“Not illegal?” Fong shook his head.
“Probably not illegal,” Robert corrected him.
“Cao ni ma de, cao ni, feng zi, bian tai, chu sheng, nao zi you mao bing!”
“I assume those are charming home-grown cuss phrases of some sort. But I wouldn’t throw in the towel just yet. This is Canada, after all, and the province we’re in is called British Columbia – accent on the British. And with the British, shame works. Britain was shamed out of India. Can you imagine the French being shamed out of their colonial holdings – or the Germans or the Dutch or the fucking Belgians? But the British were shamed out of the crown jewel of all colonies, India. And there is enough vestigial British guilt here that, even though it may be legal, those who profit from the importation of Chinese blood could be ‘outed.’ Vancouver’s a social place, Fong – pariah status doesn’t get the missus an invite to the good parties.”
“So you think . . .”
“Embarrassment could work, Fong. In Montana or Texas or Alberta – no – but here, it’s worth a shot . . . as long as you have a good hook.”
“Hook?”
“The newspapers and television will need a personal angle on the blood story to get them interested. Articles in the press are a good beginning in shaming people.”
“So I would need something personal about the blood importer?”
“Better if it’s something about a blood victim. Something personal. Name and shame the money man with the name and story of the victim. Then we’ve got a chance.”
“That sounds straightforward.”
“Straightforward and difficult.”
“Find the money man; find a victim’s story and get it published.”
“That sounds easy to you?”
“No. But even the longest journey begins with a single step.”
“Yeah, Fong, and life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
“Who said that?”
“The same guy who said even the longest journey begins with a single step – John Lennon.”
“Really? John Lennon quoted Chairman Mao.” Fong smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
Robert slid a CD out of its jewel case and into the player on the dashboard. He hit play and the whiskysoaked tones of Tom Waits filled the car. “Is he trying to sing?” Fong asked.
“He’s singing, Fong.”
“Is he in pain?”
“Most probably. This song is ‘Kentucky Avenue.’ Open your ears and you’ll learn something.”
And Fong did – and he did. On the other side of the scratchy voice were lyrics in stark contradiction to the melody. The song told the story of a boy breaking into a hospital to see his quadriplegic friend in the middle of the night and the friend’s request to be wheeled on his gurney bed out into the hall and launched through the plate-glass window – “slide down the drain pipe all the way to New Orleans in the fall.”
Robert sang the final lyrics with Mr. Waits then hit the repeat button and “Kentucky Avenue’s” agony once again filled the car.
“And this is a popular song?” Fong asked.
“It is with me. It didn’t used to be, but it’s a fave of mine now. I heard it maybe twice in the last three decades but it stayed with me. So when I saw it in the Toronto airport I couldn’t resist. You know Fong, despite the fact I haven’t heard it for years, I know every word of this – every word. Isn’t that odd?”
Fong was going to reply that it didn’t strike him as odd that at certain moments of our lives pieces of art fall into place – begin to make sense –
Similar Books
