The Republic of Nothing

by Lesley Choyce

  “Of the Republic of Nothing,” my father concluded the statement. “And you must forgive my blundering. It is a matter of utmost importance necessary to save our island, to save our home.” He proceeded to explain about the uranium mining, about the island, about us. My father stood up and walked around the room as he talked. He wove a tapestry with words about our home that made it sound like the most beautiful and majestic of places on earth. His voice was the sea itself, caressing the shores of the island, recounting its history, our lives, the unique character of the people who lived there and ultimately asserting our right to be free and independent of all other governments.

  Per Lindquist listened patiently. The muscles in his cheek had loosened ever so slightly as he absorbed the resonant oration of my father, the master speech-giver. And when my father had finished, having recounted the story all the way up to the very minute we had walked into the office, he stopped, sat down and waited. Per Lindquist folded his long slender hands together in front of him creating something akin to a cathedral spire. “I am moved,” he said. “I too am a man who feels certain passions for a place. Your home does not sound unlike the island I grew up on along the Baltic Sea. I am deeply touched.”

  He paused. The world stopped. I knew that the next word would be however. Nothing good in my life ever followed that disaster of all words. All praise, all kind remarks, all good whispers that trailed with however ended in bad news. I scanned the room again, taking note of the artifacts. The crude stone implements on the table by the window. The drawing on the wall.

  “You have come here, Mr. McQuade, asking for the absurd but believing yourself to have a legitimate case. If the United Nations were to give you even the benefit of a hearing we would open the floodgates to the mobs, the madmen and the revolutionaries from around the globe who would wish also to create their own countries. I cannot help you. Alas… “ Lindquist now appeared to be little more than a tired old man, a bureaucrat who had sat too many days behind the same desk. The air filled with a heavy sodden quality that made me feel tired, defeated. I could not even look at my father.

  Then there was a voice in the back of my head — a memory, a thought, a fading echo of sound in a language that I was not familiar with. Almost without thinking, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the desiccated finger. And then I was on my feet, leaning across Per Lindquist’s desk. On the immaculate, green ink blotter before the man whose hands were folded like a church spire, I dropped the curious object. I hovered above him as his face contorted into a frown and he stared at the bizarre gift before him. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A finger,” I said, another promise broken in my life for I had vowed to my father I would never speak of the ancient dead man who slept on our island. But now I had a reason. Maybe it was the Viking himself who had spoken to me, maybe he wanted to be permitted the luxury of his repose in the bog of Whalebone Island without being dug up by uranium miners. “It’s the finger of a dead Viking.”

  A look of astonishment and curiosity replaced the frown on Per Lindquist’s face as he picked up the finger, curled as it was like a question mark, and held it up to the light of the window. “And what about the rest of the poor man’s anatomy?” he asked.

  “Buried on Whalebone Island. He was the first citizen of the Republic of Nothing,” I asserted.

  I felt a momentous panic of possibility rise in my chest as if something was emanating from the finger that Per Lindquist held. My father was staring at it, too, but he knew that his turn to speak was over, that this son had ventured into the slippery world of international diplomacy and the negotiations of sovereignty.

  “You’re suggesting you have evidence of the visitation of Vikings on your island. Has this information ever been revealed before?”

  “No,” I said, looking at my father. “We kept it a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “We didn’t want people coming to dig up our island for relics.”

  “And now you are considering the lesser of two evils.”

  “I’ll take ten archaeologists to one American entrepreneur any day.”

  “Why is it that I want to believe you?”

  “Because it’s important,” I said. “Because you believe in our case.”

  Per Lindquist did not admit I was right. “If you have the entire body of a Viking explorer on your island, then it would be a travesty for a strip mine to be developed. We have very little concrete evidence of the Vikings along the coast. They were restless, brave adventurers. The world was a less interesting place when they settled down and faded into European civilization.” Lindquist cupped his hand around the dried finger and held it to his chest.

  “I’m going to have to verify this,” he said. “I can run a cursory dating check on this today. If what you say is true, then I can help you after all.”

  “Really?” my father asked, amazed and baffled.

  “If there is sufficient evidence of Viking presence on your island, we can attempt to establish protection for the entire island under the Charter. Canada has always been most co-operative in setting aside any Viking settlements and ancient arctic digs. When will the mining exploration begin?”

  “It’s already started,” I said.

  “Then, if the test proves you are being truthful, I’ll establish protocol proceedings with your government.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” my father said.

  “You’re going to have to put up with a few archaeologists, I’m afraid. But they tend to be very careful these days with how they dig and what they dig up.”

  “I’m sure they’ll respect our island,” my father responded.

  “I’m looking forward to being there to make sure they do, Mr. McQuade.”

  50

  Bud Tillish had not figured on being defeated by a dead Viking. Mannheim/Atlanta’s security guards had settled in for a few slack days of listening to the drills pound away at the rock. A small pit had barely been started in the centre of the island before the bulldozer had found itself up to the driver’s seat in a thick dark ooze, a seemingly bottomless pit adjacent to the uranium ore. There were some fears that the dozer would, in fact, sink out of sight so they had to attach several chains to it and anchor them around the rock outcroppings. But the bog was only the beginning of the end for the mining operation.

  Bud Tillish was gravely disappointed to learn that it would forever be impossible to mine uranium in a World Preservation Site, and many people along the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia will never forgive my father for the potential job loss and blow to the economy left in the wake of the pull-out of Mannheim/Atlanta.

  Soon the archaeologists arrived, as did a few historically curious tourists. My friend, the dead Viking, with a borrowed finger stitched back on by the most diligent of cadaver surgeons, became something of a celebrity and I hope that he will forgive me for disturbing his rest. I felt a bit like a traitor to an old friend, but Per Lindquist convinced us all that the soul of a Viking was very resilient and would not object to disinterment of the body if it meant saving Whalebone Island. He was hauled off to The Museum of Civilization in Ottawa and I felt bad he would have to exist there so far inland.

  There was digging in the bog on the island even after the uranium hounds had departed. For the most part, they were meticulous scientists and their helpers who sifted through dirt and dried peat like they were sifting flour for a cake. A small party of them hung around for nearly two years, making an exodus for indoor work as the winter months approached. Hants Buckler made many new friends from the parks people and the visitors who found him more interesting than the Vi-king site. Gwen’s father found himself drawn into the work concerning the island’s past and even landed a job doing research into the history beneath his feet instead of the stars above his head. Per Lindquist became a regular visitor and a great friend of the island.

  Then, after two years of spade work, of bagging samples and sifting, there was a freeze on spending at both the U.N. a
nd in Ottawa for archaeological digs, and the work was put on hold. Bureaucrats decided that, despite the authenticity of the dead Viking, there was nothing more of any great value to be found on the island.

  I honestly think they were correct. Yet, my friend the Vi-king had done his job. He had been waiting around all those years to save us all; after being so rudely interrupted, Mannheim/Atlanta would never come back now. The island had given them enough grief and there was easier uranium to be had out West or in South America. Somebody somewhere else would always be willing to give up the land to fuel weapons of mass destruction if the price was right or if the will of the people was soft. And so, I wanted to believe that the Viking had come here for a larger purpose so many years ago and he was part of the grander scheme of things. He had come here to safeguard our island.

  Maybe he had been murdered; maybe there was greed and bloodshed, but it was the dried blood of history sifting down to the present in the form of good will. His tragic death miraculously meant that no hydrogen bombs would be made from the rock of Whalebone Island, this Republic of Nothing. Small victories like this quixotic twist of human fate are to be counted as the greatest of blessings. Among those blessings was a university student by the name of Barry Weeks who came to scratch through the peat for pots and bones, only to find love. Barry, the son of a Cree woman and a hardware store owner from Parry Sound, was immediately attracted to my sister, Casey. There was an age difference to be sure, but they became close friends and fell in love and we all knew that it was more of the work of the Viking. Barry was as thin as a rail and had a dreamy look about him. When he smiled he lit up from within in a way that could break the code of parental disapproval of an older boy in love with a younger girl. The Cree and the merchant had conspired a great soft soul in the form of Barry Weeks and for once in her life, my sister had found a companion other than me. Barry went back to school the first winter, returned the next summer and stayed on in Halifax after that, transferring to Dalhousie University to finish a degree in geology. Since archaeology was not available as a major at Dal, Barry would always say that Casey was responsibile for his commitment to rocks and sand instead of pots and bones.

  The Vietnam War would eventually come to an end and most of the draft evaders would go home, forgiven by their countrymen for refusing to kill. Some would stay on in Nova Scotia, however, and lead vital, happy lives. Burnet had chosen to remain anonymous on our island even after the war was over, working on the boat with Lambert and Eager, pretending he was another displaced American. He did, however, get into the curious habit of sneaking into his father’s back yard late at night to feed the dogs and become friends with that new generation of slobbering, raging canines, turning them into gentler, friendly creatures. Despite his nightly visits, he avoided contact with his brutal old man until the time his father had a stroke and was rendered partially paralysed and almost speechless. When news reached Burnet, he discarded his American identity and went immediately to the hospital. When it was time for Burnet Sr. to go home, his son was there to take him. Burnet guided his father back to mobility and speech and they became tolerable friends, bridging the gulf of a lifetime of family cruelty.

  With the draft dodgers all settled on the mainland or returned to the States, Gwen and I began to plan a life together.

  We moved into Mr. Kirk’s old house and stoked the wood stove and the fires of our love that winter. We were not married, but no one disapproved. On Sundays we attended giant family meals with my folks and Gwen’s parents, Ben and Bernie and Jack and Hants. It was potluck fare and everyone ate like a horse and there was always plenty of home-made English bitter to go around.

  I began to write. I kept a journal and tallied the times that Gwen and I made love and the precise circumstance and location. Why I would choose to document those immaculate moments is no surprise to me, and I could only wish that it was the story of all my days henceforward. In the depths of winter, when the snow was deep and the gales would wail, the house grew small and we would hike off in opposite directions around the island’s perimeter until we met. Wherever that spot was, we would find a refuge — under a rocky ledge of slate with nothing more than a blanket for a bed, or beneath an impromptu shelter of spruce bows or driftwood. We would lie in the snow on a sunny February day, the sun not ashamed to oversee our lovemaking. And I assure you that I always thought that this was enough. I had no further ambition. My life with Gwen was why I had grown to manhood. Someday soon she would stop taking the pill and we would have children — one or five or twelve, whatever she liked. Our love was deep and pure and for me, enough, and always would be. By spring, however, I knew something was wrong.

  “I love you, Ian,” she told me. “I love you, I always will. I love our life. I love everything about this place. I love this crazy, perfect set-up we have. I just wish it wasn’t so good. That would make all of this easier.”

  But it could never be easy. We had succeeded in making the world go away for one winter and a month. I would do anything I could to stretch out the tenure of heaven. So, like a dreaming fool, I pushed away the world beyond the threshold of the island for another summer. But when the arguments started, I knew there was no holding on. I wanted us, but Gwen wanted more. She wanted the twentieth century. I wanted no century at all.

  “I want to leave while I still love you,” she said finally on a dark August night when mosquitoes pinged against the screens of our windows and fireflies lit up the night like miniature flash bulbs.

  “I want you to leave while you still love me, too,” I said. “I want my love to embrace you no matter where you go or what you do.”

  And in the morning, Gwen was gone.

  She wrote to me often. She enroled at Boston University in International Peace Studies. She would train to be a diplomat and a negotiator. She would live what she believed, just like me, the only tragedy being we could not live our beliefs together. But she never married. She returned to the island at intervals. I always knew when she was about to arrive although there was no calendar to her return. I stayed in the big Kirk house by myself despite the fact that I felt guilty about the empty rooms, so I moved my sleeping quarters from one to the next each month, always remembering my time with Gwen in that particular sacred room (for we had made love in every room of that place). And only when feeling heartsick beyond recovery would I take out my journals and read my meticulous record-keeping of our love.

  Each time Gwen returned, she would move back in with me, sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for a month — she would move back in as if nothing had changed. I grew adept at accepting this and believed that, if this was the way I could have Gwen for a lifetime, I would accept it; I would crush my ego and my pride in favour of our love and I would not feel jealousy or anger. Like any man, I sheltered within me a volcano of commingled frustration and anger that might well have erupted and ruined our sporadic life together. But I was not any man, for I held within me the cautioned voice of my mother’s father whose lessons of unhappiness and pain I had inherited. His presence allowed me a singular destiny of loving Gwendolyn whose mind embraced larger empires and greater politics beyond the limited rocky shores of this place.

  The bottom fell out of the Spickerton blue-eye clam after a Japanese gourmet magazine published a poorly researched article about the potential for the blue-eye to actually cause impotence in men. It meant little when the research was shown to be faulty, for the importer would not touch another blue-eye. Rumour can be as good as truth when it comes to the seafood industry. So we were all left searching for cod and mackerel and chasing a flounder or two or jigging for squid. If the money had once been there in doryloads for Lambert and Eager, it had drifted away somewhere by the time the clam boom ended, slopped off into who knows where like so much fish guts splashed off the dock with a pail of sea water. Yet somehow, no one felt the worse. “I think of economics as the tides,” my father would say, himself a poorer man now that the exotic species of sea life no longer appealed to the forei
gners. “There’s a tide to everything.”

  After the Vietnam War had ended and after Gwen left me for her university and diplomatic career, a third American phenomenon seemed inextricably entwined with the history of my family. It was evening of August 8, 1974. How strange to think that the life of the president of the Republic of Nothing was so closely allied forever in my mind with the political career of Richard Nixon. For years ever after, although I can hardly try to express a logic to this, I would voraciously read about the sallow American president. I would read all his books, his letters, his biographies, the tomes of his admirers and his detractors. For it was on that night of August 8 when I switched on the CBC ten o’clock news and saw a battered Richard Nixon tell a startled American public that he was resigning from office.

  Because of the war and the death of students at Kent State and so many other reasons, I had learned to hate Nixon with passion. Nixon represented everything I despised about the United States and, even though Gwen had shared my disdain for so many things American, it was that terrible country to the south that had lured her away from me. So I should have cheered like thousands, if not millions of others, when Nixon read his resignation speech and walked off stage into ignominious history. But I did not. Instead, I felt a great wave of empathy for this man. Perhaps I always cheered for the underdog, always identified with the defeated. Was it because I too felt like a failure? Had I resigned from living, allowed Gwen to leave and live out her own mandate with me left behind to be there for her only when she wanted me? Was that it? I begged of Nixon as I watched him nearly stumbling away from the podium and the presidential seal.

  I decided it was not that at all. I decided it was something else. My mother and father had given me the great human gift of compassion for the injured and a biblical ability to love my enemies. Beyond their instilling these qualities, I have no idea how I had survived a prolonged male adolescence, how these two temperaments had wrestled their way through a male ego into adulthood. But there I sat, nearly in tears because the president of the United States looked to be in such bad shape. The phone rang. It was my mother. I almost thought she was going to tell me the news, what I already knew about Nixon. But I was wrong.