“My father was an Indian!”

“Your mother was white.”

“I’m an Indian!”

“You’re Métis, nothing more.”

“Who are you to tell me who I am? Where do you come from? What are you doing here?”

I’m sitting on the edge of my chair. I’m like a mad dog, ready to leap at his throat.

He holds up his hands in front of him.

“Whoa, there! Calm down!”

He slams my file closed.

“William, file this!”

William hurries over, avoiding my eyes. He takes the file and puts it in the second cabinet. He looks like an animal that’s being stalked.

I know this conversation has gone poorly, but I’m going to give it everything I’ve got, even if it’s already too late.

“I have another request!”

“Ah, yes? And what might that be?”

“I have the right to a band number like all Indians. I want to make an official request.”

I find it deeply humiliating to have to beg for a band number, but I’m doing it for Pinamen.

But the band manager’s answer is already written on his face.

“The ministry feels that there are enough Indians on the land as it is,” he says.

I am on my feet, furious.

Suddenly William hurries over and picks up a big carton box that’s sitting on one of the file cabinets. He thrusts it into my arms, throwing me off guard.

“I collected this from the bus this morning. It’s for you.”

He reads out the name and address loudly, tracing the words with his finger.

Pierre Larivière
Lac Rapide Indian Reserve
La Vérendrye Park via Val-d’Or
PERSONAL

It’s from Mont-Laurier. It hardly weighs anything. It’s a square box, solidly wrapped and tied with string.

The band manager pulls open the middle drawer of his desk. He rummages around and holds out a pair of scissors.

“Open it up, and let’s see what treasures you’ve got in there!”

The seconds tick by.

“No, there’s no hurry,” I say. “I’ll open it later.” I turn on my heels and go down the hall. The secretaries have overheard the conversation, and they follow me with their eyes.

I go outside. The fresh air feels good, but the big parcel is awkward in my arms. I hold it out in front of me like some kind of precious offering.

I feel as if hundreds of questioning eyes are watching me from behind the windows of every house. I lengthen my stride. When I get home I take the porch steps two at a time, like a deer leaping over a tree trunk. I push open the door and kick it closed.