UNIT4 A Canadian Family Story
My story begins in Newfoundland where my brother and I were born during the Second World War. The island of Newfoundland, which was originally a British colony, became the newest province of Canada in 1949, the same year that the People's Republic of China was born. Our mother was born and raised in Newfoundland. During the War (World War II), she worked in St. John's, the capital city, where she met a young Canadian sailor from Ontario. He was a member of the crew of a Royal Canadian Navy ship that was part of one of the convoys that escorted supply ships across the Atlantic Ocean to Europe during the war. They fell in love and subsequently, got married. The rest is history, so to speak. Our family moved to Ontario in late 1945, just after the war ended. In 1999, acting on impulse, my brother and I decided to take our mother to Newfoundland for a visit. It had been almost fifty years since we had last visited our mother's outport (remote or very rural island village) where she grew up. It was also the 50th anniversary of Newfoundland's becoming part of Canada In 1950, I was six and my brother was five when we last visited our mother's childhood home. At that time, Ireland's Eye was a vibrant, quaint fishing village hugging the rocky shore of a small, enclosed harbour. There was no electricity. There were no roads, no automobiles, and few sign of automation of any type. There were oil lamps and wood stoves in the homes and mere sootpaths between the aggregate of small communities on the hilly island, also named Ireland's Eye. We can still see and hear the inboard motorboats, putt putting (sound of engines) into the harbour, hauling their day's catch of fish. The image of hardy fishermen with pitchforks hoisting and tossing the codfish up to the stilted platforms from the bowels of the boats is still quite vivid. The aroma of salted, drying codfish, lingers still What I remember best, of almost half a century ago, was going out with my Uncle Fred in his boat to fish. That particular day, we were huddled together and lashed to other boats, just outside of the harbour. I can still hear the lively gossip between my uncle and the other fishermen, above the rippling and splashing of the waves against the hulls of the boats. I remember the boats heaving periodically, on the huge gently rolling waves. My Uncle Fred had only one arm, but amazingly, he could do everything as if he had two hands. He could even roll a cigarette and light it. These are my memories of the quaint Newfoundland glory days gone by. It was a very hard life in those out ports, but a life romantically cherished by most of those who lived it. Our mother was not feeling up to the trip at the time we were ready to leave, but insisted that my brother and I go on this odyssey. We would later provide her with pictures, a written account, and videotape of the trip. Although we toured other part of Newfoundland, including an overnight stay on the French Islands of St. Pierre and Miquilon, just off the south coast of Newfoundland, our main objective was to visit Ireland's Eye. This necessitated finding water transportation. We managed to arrange for a boat to take us on the half hour trip to the island. As it turned out, the married couple who ferried us over to the island was actually a couple of our distant cousins, whom we had never met We had intended to have our cousins drop us off on the island and pick us up a few hours later. However, either because we were newly found cousins, or they were typically hospitable Newfoundlanders, or they thought that my brother and I would get lost, they wanted to stay with us. Probably all three factors influenced their decision. They were absolutely fabulous They got caught up in what my brother and I were trying to do. They were very knowledgeable about the island and the people who had once lived there. Clutching a narrative of the island, written by another of our cousins, the forgotten history of that special place became more coherent to the four of us. As we entered Ireland's Eye's small harbour, which was guarded, by a family of hawks in a nest high on a rocky point, a weird sensation came over us. There, in front of us, was the place we visited fifty years before, and about which we had heard and read so much throughout our adult lives. We thought, what an aesthetically breathtaking sight! The glittering sun, on that day, gave everything a picturepostcard image. This was indeed a slice of paradise. The ruins of a few remaining buildings that dotted the hillsides and shoreline and the once dominant St. Georges Church on the hill at the end of the harbour, aroused in us an exciting sense of history and of our heritage. Looking out over the harbour from the hill by the church at the extinct community, revived memories of fifty years before With a greater clarity of the knowledge of the area, we walked from the church a little farther inland to what used to be the post office and the school that our mother attended, the skeletal shells of which were still standing precariously. From there, stopping periodically to eat some edible berries, we struggled behind our cousins through the heavily brush and shrub covered footpaths to Black Duck Cove to visit the cemetery where our grandmother, whom we never knew, was buried. This sacred ground was in very bad condition, with many badly corroded gravestones buried under brush and long grass. After searching for a few minutes in the midst of tangled vegetation, we found our grandmother's resting place beside which we paid our respects. It was a good thing that our cousins stayed with us, as the footpaths that traversed the island, were overgrown with brush. It would have been virtually impossible for my brother and me, to walk to the other communities on the island We made our way back to the church on the hill and descended to the boat for a half hour boat ride to the other side of the island. Sailing through a number of islets, we arrived at what remains of the small village of Traytown, where our grandparents had lived. There, we met some more long lost relatives at a small cottage. One, a bit of an eccentric, who now lives in Toronto but takes summer refuge in Traytown, showed us the remnants of what had once been our grandparents'house. Beside these ruins, was the still flourishing cluster of wild rose bushes, planted there many years ago by our step grandmother. A lot of people, many whom were more lost cousins, continually dropped in or gathered on the porch outside After a cup of tea and some more chitchat (small talk) and some comic relief we made our departure for the mainland. On the way, we passed other inlets with ghost communities on Ireland's Eye. To add to the excitement of that special day, my brother spotted a humpback whale quite close, between the boat and the island. Our visit to Ireland's Eye was a bittersweet experience for us. On the one hand, there was a sense of being at the very place where our relatives and ancestors had lived, worked and played. On the other hand, there was a sense of agonizing loss of what were once thriving communities on the island. It was difficult to reconcile the past with the present, after a gap of fifty years of chronic degeneration of the communities. Today, the area is notorious for smuggling. However, our mission was invaluable in that we were able to find out more about ourselves. The entire expedition to Newfoundland was a major highlight in each of our lives. It tugged at our emotions at every turn. The people of Newfoundland, especially those of genetic connection, couldn't do enough for us. It was really like coming home, but then, that has always been the nature of Newfoundland courtesy, even to non-Newfoundlanders. It was reassuring to see that the Newfoundland charm has transcended time. It has endured so many changes since Confederation in 1949. My brother and I, eternally, will be Newfoundlanders and hope to go down home more often in the years to come.
UNIT5 The Fraud
Flushed with excitement, Kate steppe into the spatial vestibule and was immediately dazzled by the scen before her. The inlaid marble floo paved the way to a circular staircase rising three levels above her In a fountain in the center of the entryway stood a bronze dolphin balancing on its tail, its snout pointed t the lofty domed, stained glass skylight forty feet above. A massive chandelier, luminous in the bright sunlight cast rainbow fairies dancing through the pink, green, and gold floral patterns of the floo and around the snowy white walls. Before she could fully appreciate the beauty of the intricat plaster work decorating the edges of the shallow niches installed in the walls to frame the numerous paintings, or, indeed, to appreciate the canvases themselves, her host, Victor Stone, approached. Small by North American standards, he was perfectly proportioned. Slightly balding at the forehead, his silver hair curved onto the collar of his pale blue shirt at the nape of his neck. Laughing blue eyes startled her with their clarity. A straight, aristocratic nose rose to meet his slightly arched brows. His carefully manicured hands bore a single gold pinkie ring. He held out his hand to take hers. “Thank you so much for coming, Kate. I am glad you could make it,” he said cheerfully. She had never met this charming little man befor and knew him by reputation only. Among his contemporaries, he was known as a shrewd entrepreneur, able to diagnose at a glance, the prospects of those seeking his backing. She was anxious to learn why he had invited her to come to meet him at his home “Thanks for asking me. Nice place you have here.” She felt stupid saying something so absurd, but she was, at that moment, stumped. Her ego wouldn't let her admit she'd never in her whole life, been so impressed by a foyer. She hoped that he would realize she'd had little experience with the elite, take pity on her, and show her around. “Would you like to see more of the house?” he asked, politely. “Would I? You bet!” She was happy he gave no indication that he thought she was not in his bracket. She left her briefcase on the settee near the door and followed him through the foyer to a stairway to a stairway leading to a lower level of the house They began the tour in the wine cellar. A heavy, double thick door opened to reveal row upon row of gleaming glass bottles of vintage wines, all lying on their sides, cradled by the solid oak racks. The steady hum of machinery broke the silence of the insulated room. Victor explained that it was necessary to control the ventilation, temperature and humidity of the cellar to achieve optimum conditions for conserving the flavor of the expensive wines. The small but luxurious audio-visual theater was adjacent to the wine cellar Leather upholstered reclining chairs were casually arrayed about the room, all with an unimpaired view of the retractable screen. The stereo, silent at that moment, was stateoftheart, with speakers tactically installed for maximizing sound effects. Black walnut wood paneling and a baffled ceiling averted the possibility of overly loud entertainment disturbing others in the mansion Sliding glass doors led from the lowest level of the living area to the enclosed kidneyshaped swimming pool. Turquoise and white ceramic tiles outlined with gold covered the deck area. Pillars of quartz topped with milk glass spheres provided illumination should anyone choose to swim after dark. A changing booth was discretely hidden behind a screen of ornamental floor plants and cascading vines. Here, too, a baffled ceiling prevented the hollow resonance of the pool room from disturbing others At the moment, the games room was arranged for gambling. An authentic roulette wheel, a craps table for dice, and various card tables were set up for a benefit evening that was being held the following night. Checkers, chess and other board games augmented the games of chance Comfortable furniture and soft lighting lent a romantic atmosphere to the terrace garden. Kate had noticed earlier that Victor had a slight limp. As they progressed on their tour, she realized he was quite lame on the right side and needed to rest. They sat to chat for a few minutes. “How much do you know about me, Kate?” he asked. “Only what I've read. And what I have discerned in the past half hour. I think you are a man who has made your home into a diversion from the real world. Your taste is implicit, subtle. Everything I have seen has been chosen with a keen eye, not to overwhelm, but to invite. I think you choose things for their intrinsic value, things that are esthetically pleasing to you. I don't think there could be an imitation or a fake item in this whole place. You love your home and enjoy sharing it with others. Am I right?” “You are perceptive! Come. Lets go to the sitting room and have a cocktail.” He led the way back into the library with its mahogany shelves filled with leather bound matched sets of first editions and volumes of encyclopedia. On a sturdy table under a reading lamp an illuminated manuscript with gold metallic page edgin was lying open to display its vibrant art. Kate felt compelled to mention this beautiful piece. He said an obscure monk during the Renaissance had copied and illustrated the Book of Revelations. It had been quite shabby when it first came into his possession but he had it restored and planned to donate it to a museum. The door to a powder room stood ajar. Inside Kate noticed, again, the careful attention to detail manifest in the rest of the house. The doorknob was hand painted porcelain. The ivorycolored fixtures were shell-shaped and gold-trimmed. A large bowl of sweetly scented flowers was centered on the vanity. Next to the flowers sat a piece of hand-carved fossilized ebony. Kate was stunned by the size of the spacious sitting room. Several groupings of furniture lent themselves to seating as few as two guests or as many as ten. Here, too, ornamental plasterwork decorated the walls and ceilings. The raspberry colored velvet upholstery covering the couche and chairs complemented the pale green oriental carpets and lightly textured draperies. The gold-colored lamps with their creamy white shades, the paintings in their ornate alcoves, and the open fireplace with family pictures on the mantel, gave Kate an overwhelming feeling of comfort and peace. She relished the novelty and thrill of having been summone to this prestigious man's home. The sheer beauty of the place far surpassed her expectations However, she was becoming suspicious about the reason for this visit. Now that she had receive an orientation to his home, and notwithstanding her first impressions of the man, she was anxiou to learn why she was here. What could a mere reporter do for this rich, influential man He began to speak soberly, contradicting his earlier spontaneity. “I will tell you a story you may have difficulty believing, he said, softly. “I was not born into this lifestyle. It is ironic that there i such a discrepancy between what I was and what I am. My father left the United States when I was about two years old He ran a junk store in the slums of Winnipeg when I was a kid. He was a vulgar ma but he knew how to fool people into thinking they were buying something rare or valuable. It wa under his tutelag that I learned to be a fraud.” I decided at an early age that if there wa a shortcut to success, I could bypass the complications of getting there by the conventional methods. I wa like a hurricane, rushing forward without consideration for the rules. If it's any consolation I didn't intentionally harm anyone in the process. I was able to stay within the parameter of the law, but just barely. I bought and sold used furniture before going into the antique business When I bought, I always paid a fraction of the potential worth of the goods. When I sold, I alway made a profit. I was able to upgrade my stock with almost every transaction. In time I had a warehouse full of merchandise.I didn't flatter myself by thinking I hadn't muddied the waters a bit I knew I had probably stepped on a few toes, but I was on a roll. I ha the momentum and rejoiced in my success. As long as the money kept coming in, anything was permissible One day, I received a visit from a rather important patron of the arts. He had an interesting proposition for me He held the patent and trademark for the prototype of an innovative way to determin the age of a painting using ultraviolet light. He would sell them to me fo the nominal fee of a nickel if I would reciprocate by doing him a favor. I was to include one of hi personal paintings in my next shipment of antiques going to New York. At first, I thought he wa mocking me, but he gave me his oath that he just wanted to ensure the painting would arrive at its destination safely and, because it would be a part of an antique shipment, it would be exempt from import duty It was a provocative offer, and even though I remained skeptical I agreed.A few days later, a crated painting arrived and was added to my goods ready for delivery to New York. I had always subscribed to the theory that if something appeared to be too good to be true, it probably was. However, my greed prevailed and the painting was on its way I was unaware at the time that my fortunes were about to go into a downward spiral. My benefactor, it turned out, was a man with a grudge against me. Irrespective of the fact that I felt a deal we had made years before had been fair, he felt I had cheated him. I was about to be the recipient of his wrath. When my agent in New York went to customs to retrieve the shipment, he was greeted by a squad of police waiting to detain him on charges of smuggling cocaine. It appeared there was a bit of a discrepancy between what I was told was in the crate and the actual contents. The drugs were in a hidden compartment in the crate I admit it was naive of me to believe I had no enemies, but I didn't know anyone would go to this degree to prove how much he despised me. Hitherto, I had gone through life thinking that when two people agreed to a deal, if one of them got the better of the other, it was fair, because they did agree. Now I was learning that if you take advantage of some people, even with their permission, you aggravate them to seek revenge. I can't refute my recklessness Almost seven years have elapsed since that time. My agent took responsibility for the crime and went to jail for five years. I felt guilty as hell, but I continued to pay him by sending the money to his family. I even withheld extra in a bonus account to give to him when he was released. I also gave up my business and began to help others start their businesses. In time, the guilt I felt subsided. I put my energies into stepping into the breach to help those less fortunate than I. To my amazement, my luck started to fluctuate upward and I flourished. All you see here today, I have accumulated since that time. Now, it seems, my enemy has decided to reclaim his power over me. He has reported the crime and the erroneous imprisonment of my agent and named me as the person responsible for the offence. I had never changed my citizenship, so the F.B.I. wants me deported so they can prosecute me in New York. I hope I can induce you, through your column, to tell my story. Next week I have to appear before a magistrate for the preliminary hearing. If I'm not mistaken, public pressure might enable me to avoid deportation at least. I am more likely to get a fair trial here than there. My record as a good citizen may offset the perception that I may be a criminal. What do you think? Will you help? Kate had listened to this synopsis in silence but her outrage was building. While his story seemed plausible, this plea for her assistance didn't quite fit. With his financial resources, he could hire the best legal team in the country. She realized she had to detach herself from her first impressions and extract fact from fiction. Why didn't she believe him? Suddenly, it came to her. Exposition of this version of Victor's tale would not only gain him public sympathy, it would invalidate any testimony against him. Nothing could constrain her when she realized she had literally been taken in by his story. “If you were innocent, why weren't you the defendant? If you were innocent all those years ago, why did your agent go to prison for you? Why did it take so long for your enemy to turn you in? The statute of limitations for that offence has expired. I believe this has been a pathetic attempt to get me to mediate your case in the press. I think you have always been an integral player in the criminal world and your past has caught up with you. My cardinal sin was allowing myself to be reeled in by your tales of what a model citizen you are.” Kate could feel herself getting dizzy and light-headed, surprised by the audacity she had, talking to anyone in that manner. Before she lost complete control, she would have to get out of there. She stood, turned, and marched toward the door. As she began to open the front door, she looked back. Victor stood beside his chair, pale and shaken. “You admitted you were a fraud in your youth. You are still a fraud! I will write your story... my version! My guess is that the eventual verdict will be‘guilty’!
