“I didn’t come here to hide away like a mole in its burrow. When the right time comes, I’ll say what I have to say. Open your eyes and ears, William! Don’t you see the miserable filth we’re living in here? Come on, come and look at this!”

I grab him by the arm and push him in front of the window.

“Look! What do you see? Children dressed in rags, snot dripping from their noses, playing in the sewers! Is that the future you and your band council are preparing for them?”

He pulls away brusquely.

“Okay, you’ve been warned. I came to tell you this as a friend.”

“Tell your band manager that I am coming by to see him. How about this afternoon at three o’clock, sharp. I have some questions for him!”

He’s already out on the porch.

“Okay! A box has come for you anyway. You can pick it up at the same time.”

“A box addressed to me?”

But William is already lurching down the stairs. They creak under his weight.

A package for me? I’ve never received a package in my whole life. Who could be sending me a package?

• • •

I’m right on time. It’s three o’clock, break time. The secretaries are all in the kitchenette. The smell of coffee and sugar floats in the air. I walk in without being noticed and go straight down to the manager’s office. He shares it with William. Four big gray file cabinets are all that separate them. William is leaning back dangerously in his little swivel chair.

I stand in the doorway.

“Larivière?” The manager points to a straight chair in front of his big desk, which is covered with colored files. There’s a big round smoked-glass ashtray sitting in the middle, filled with hundreds of butts planted in the gray ash.

There are more file cabinets than the last time, and these are bigger. I wonder what they hold.

The manager reaches for a thick red folder balanced on a pile of files, places it in front of him, turns the pages.

“Things didn’t suit you in the city?” he asks, though it sounds more like a statement.

“No! I’m back…”

“For good, according to what I hear!”

William shifts in his seat, and his chair creaks. His head is buried in the file that he’s pretending to read.

“Why did you ask to see me?” the manager asks.

“I want my file. And my father and mother’s files, too, that you have in there.” I glance over at the file cabinets.

He crosses his arms, pushes his chair away from his desk, purses his lips. His mouth looks like a partridge’s asshole.

He shakes his head. “It’s impossible.”

“Why?”

He leans forward and looks me straight in the eye.

“You know, Larivière, that you’re a Métis.”