The two men are getting irritated. They’re swatting at the mosquitoes buzzing around like brook trout leaping on the water at dusk. They smack their foreheads, cheeks and necks and scratch their scalps. Finally they take off their jackets and start squashing the bugs that by now are so heavy with blood that they can hardly fly. The men’s white shirts are soon dotted with dark red spots.

“All right!” says the man with the blue eyes. “Let’s get started.”

He’s serious now.

“The Government of Canada is thinking of you. It wants to do everything it can to help you out of your misery. As proof, it has sent in surveyors — the men you have no doubt seen measuring the land in this area. These men are subdividing the land into lots.” He traces a little square in the air with his index fingers.

“The government will set aside these lots for your exclusive use. I say exclusive, and I say this with your priest as my witness, so you can live in peace. This is what you have wanted for a long time — to live in peace. Now your wish is being granted! Monsieur le curé, I give you the floor.”

The priest hesitates. He sputters away because he can’t find the words in our language for measure, subdivide and lot. To us, the land belongs to everyone. It has no boundaries. The land is home to the animals, birds and fish. Most of all, the land is our mother, made by the great creator to nourish us, heal us…

Thinking that the priest has already translated his remarks, the official finishes his speech.

“The government in Ottawa has arranged to build twenty houses a year until everyone is suitably housed. The names of the first beneficiaries will be drawn by lottery. It’s the democratic way. Work will begin in a few weeks. That’s it!”

He rests his hands on the table, palms open, as if to show that he has nothing to hide.

The priest has no trouble translating this time. The speech is simple and straightforward.

A heavy silence settles over the chapel. Everyone’s trying to understand what has been said. It’s so hard to picture exactly what’s going to happen.

“Are there any questions?” asks the priest.

He waits, swaying back and forth as he scans the crowd expectantly.

Finally Basile stands up. He takes off his hat and holds it by the brim.

“Yes? Basile, my good man, we’re listening.” The priest is relieved that someone has broken the silence.

Basile takes his time. He runs his hand through his thick graying hair, narrows his eyes and turns to the crowd. He rests his hands on the back of his chair. They are trembling.