(6) Eggless In Muskoka
There was a next morning. An untroubled advent of dawn amidst the trees and water. A
cottage with its three sheltered souls emerging into day. And an eggless breakfast of tea and
toast. And oh yes, the remaining frozen appetisers. How had they been spirited across the border,
he asked boldly. The Indian reservation, the one where everything is smuggled through. You take
care of the right guys and you’re through. Cops are afraid to go in. Yes, Andrew had heard, but
figured it was just tobacco and pot and handguns. He pushed his luck. So they were too hot for the
agency? They were too hot for everyone, just about. When you want to blow the lid off everyone in
the kitchen stands to get scalded. Or so Hugh insisted. But not too hot for the sweet Canadians?
Andrew had been waiting for decades to use that one, having come across it in his first
Atwood novel mere weeks into his sojourn and never quite grasping the significance. Canadians
not so sweet, Robert replied. Maybe not so tough either. Maybe the class clown gets elected to
mayor? Andrew grinned at the thought and pondered its possible genesis. Pearson getting the
Nobel Peace prize? Trudeau vacationing with Castro? Ethan Hirsute acting like some Republican
hawk? Getting our nose bloodied in Afghanistan but sitting out Iraq? These two looked like they
had the inside track on any number of geopolitical intrigues and maybe this was his only chance to
bite off a juicy hunk.
Canada, he heard, was the world champion of charming naivete. The type of country who
would keep inviting you to dinner even as you poisoned them one by one. A country of children
playing in the puddles after a rain while England and America jostled over whose umbrella to use.
A country with lots of heart but no balls. First they take your oil and then your water. Andrew nodded
solemnly, thinking, would someone please take the bloody snow? And then, sensibly, surely they
would all pay a fair price? Hugh waved his hand in disgust. Money is nothing in this world. They
run short they just magic up more. Look at Paulsen, look at Bernanke. Jewish bankers, English
bankers, Chinese bankers, all the same. Banker bankers. Nations, peoples, cultures, children, all
mean nothing. The banker bankers care only for themselves and their billions. Fifty bedrooms, five
yachts, three planes, a fuck in every closet.
Gees, thought Andrew, this guy is really pissed off. He hadn’t heard that kind of talk since his
café days in Toronto. His earnest lefty friends always seemed to have a few serious radicals in
their back pockets, usually from British Columbia or Quebec, that they could flourish from time to
