Topics About Which I Know Nothing

Yours,

[signed]

Dr Wayne Bronwyn

From Ambassador Philip Wilder, KBE, to Dr Wayne Bronwyn. Via Facsimile.

My dear Dr Bronwyn,

You’ve developed quite a reputation in our office for your persistence. I am not sure whether it is Canadian pugnaciousness reborn or a healthily adapted American tenacity, but you most certainly have gotten our attention, which, I trust, was your whole point.

I have reviewed all your correspondence, as well as the notes my talented deputy, Anita, compiled on your telephone calls. I wonder, as a sidenote, whether you have perhaps misread as ‘cavalier’ nothing more than the relaxed attitude folks tend to adopt in a tropical clime. Remember, it is deep, glorious spring here, where our outlooks, while hopefully remaining professional, have nonetheless gained a rosy tint. Don’t judge us harshly, Dr Bronwyn, the sun here would cause your president himself to not only remove his shirt, but to not feel embarrassed about it.

I must say that my first inclination is to agree with my esteemed associate in the American office. While the behaviour of your parents may be accurately labeled extraordinary, I would say it is delightfully rather than ominously so. I am 63 years of age myself, and although I will miss dearly the people and trees of my beloved Vancouver, I’m staying in this wonderful place when I retire this autumn. And me, a knighted civil servant, no less, giving up my home country for one that will probably discharge the monarchy any moment now.

But I digress. Because of your persuasive, albeit somewhat quixotic tactics, I have had my office look into the matter of your parents as much as is legally and ethically possible. Your parents have broken no laws, remember, and not everyone sees the obvious foul play that you do. Nevertheless, your commitment to your belief is stirring enough for us to have uncovered the following:

1 Your mother and father requested immigration proceedings on September 21, some weeks before your mother’s first letter. Perhaps given your reaction to the news, she was deliberating on ways to soften the blow, as it were.

2 A post office box was indeed established in Binturang Springs. We have been in contact with the clerk who rented the box. He remembers the box being rented by a young woman. He says that she was friendly and otherwise unremarkable except that her voice seemed slightly accented, meaning of course, slightly accented Australian. This would seem to be the ‘new friend’ that your mother refers to in her second letter. As you can see, despite your accusations, your letters were indeed read. Let me also, as a sidenote, just say that Binturang Springs is a very small town, as are most in central Australia. Tourists have a very high visibility, making the likelihood of foul play even more remote as any larcenous behaviour could not possibly be kept hidden for long. It’s a big place, the red centre, but an empty one. You can see from one horizon to the other and everything in-between. Only the aborigines know the secrets, and they’re not telling.

3 Though we have checked some cursory leads tracking older travelers from Binturang, this office has been unable to locate your parents. Apart from simply sending a letter and asking them, finding out where your parents’ mail is being forwarded is illegal unless we have clear just cause, and I am sorry, Dr Bronwyn, I don’t see just cause anywhere in this situation.

Perhaps you should just believe what your parents have told you and be happy for them in their newfound youth, if you will. And frankly, even if you will not, it is my duty to inform you that this office will aid you no further. Again, I can understand your passion and even forgive the rough edges with which you pursue it, but I can see no reason for my office or the government of Canada to put more resources into what is bordering on harassment of two adults acting legally.

You are welcome to follow through on your wish to write the Canadian Foreign Affairs Ministry concerning our actions in this matter. I am confident we will be easily acquitted.

Having said all this, if more, or rather any hard evidence comes to light or if you are not satisfied with ending your investigation here, which I strongly suspect is the case, you may want to contact the Australian Ministry of Immigration here in Canberra. They would certainly be interested if there were any hint of immigration fraud. There is clearly not; I am only suggesting a tactic you might use, again, if you insist on pursuing the matter. I make the suggestion because I believe in your sincerity, despite your casually deleterious way with spoken language.

If you decide to come to this country as part of your quest, might I suggest that you not miss the opportunity to visit any one of the larger cities’ Royal Botanical Gardens? The bulk of tourist highlights are well-covered in most guidebooks, but I find that visitors often overlook the abundant gardens available here. Most are lovely for a leisurely stroll, like those I used to take in Stanley Park, only not so often gray.

I will leave you here, Dr Bronwyn. Good luck in your future endeavours, and please refrain from contacting this office in the future.

Your humble servant,

[signed]

Ambassador Philip Wilder, KBE

From Elizabeth Bronwyn, to Mrs Olive Ray, Public Health Nurse (Ret.), Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Handwritten. International Express Mail from the Cavalcade Hotel, Perth, Australia.

Ollie,

Here are the tickets and the cashier’s check. Henry and I can’t wait to see you. We can’t wait for you to see us. You won’t believe the change, and I mean that in ways you can’t possibly imagine. You won’t regret coming, and I have very little doubt we can persuade you to make the same decision we did. It’s unbelievable here, Ollie, in all the best ways.

Your plane leaves on the 3rd and, because of the way the dateline works, arrives here on the 5th. We’ve become close to a young couple with whom we have a lot in common (you’ll see what I mean; Henry says, ‘Boy, will you ever!’). They’re going to pick you up at the airport. Don’t worry, we’ll see each other shortly afterward. You can write to Paul after you get here and explain everything. Trusting me on this issue is essential.

Swallow your trepidation and brush away your fears. If there was any time in your life to act in the face of caution, it’s now. You’ve earned it after all these years of living. We both know you’re only old when you decide to be. Decide not to be, Ollie.

Looking forward to seeing you,

[signed]

Liz

From Elizabeth Bronwyn, to Dr Wayne Bronwyn. Handwritten. Mailed from unknown address, presumed to be central Australia.

Son,

There is going to come a day when I’m finally going to be fed up with you. I thought today might be that day. I’m referring, of course, to the outlandish, embarrassing, and ultimately infuriating phone call I have just been put through with the gentleman from the Australian Ministry of Immigration.

Do not think, as has been your tendency for far too long for me to expect you to act any differently, that it was anything but you that got me angry. The gentleman was quite polite and friendly, even charming, as he went through his list of humiliating questions about supposed actions of ours that you’ve insinuated. Questions about our sanity, our health, our finances.

Then, my dearest son, questions about our alleged criminal pasts, our financial dire straits in previous years, our possible willingness to smuggle drugs. You couldn’t have implied diamonds or rare birds, could you? Obviously you thought it would direct them to us most quickly (and it did), but I would have thought that even in your haste you might have realized that the idea of two sixty-something drug smugglers, from Canada no less, is nothing short of absurd.

How dare you, you child? How dare you slander us so grotesquely because you are simply too selfish to see that we’ve acted of our own free will? Being unable to abide our decision is one thing, but what you’ve done is nothing short of dangerous. I’m trying my hardest to view this as some misguided idea of loving behavior on your part, but I am having difficulty.

Almost the only thing that keeps me from cutting you off completely is that the good people at the Ministry of Immigration clearly believe you’re as loony as we think you are. I doubt most suspected drug smugglers get off with a simple phone interview. Can you imagine in the midst of your frenzy how awful such an accusation could have been for us? I’m sure you think everything would have turned out okay, but what if it hadn’t? What if things had gone horribly wrong? What if they weren’t so inclined to listen? What if your father and I had had to sit in jail while we waited for you to come and clear things up? Is any of this getting through to you?

And all this as we’re suffering the death of Olive Ray, which, in your investigative zeal, you must have discovered and, it must be concluded, disregarded its impact on your father and me. We were unable to return for the funeral, so if you showed up and looked for us there, I hope you at least had the good grace to leave some flowers.

How dare you? That’s my benediction, son. Consider it clearly. How dare you?

[signed]

Mother.

From Dr Wayne Bronwyn to Brian Coppedge, Senior Investigator, Australian Ministry of Immigration, Canberra, Australia. Handwritten. Mailed from Hughes Gaol, Darwin, Australia.

Mr Coppedge:

I am writing this letter to you because of the increasing difficulties I have had in getting through to your office by phone, a problem exacerbated by the limited phone privileges I have in here. I find it hard to believe, in a modern Western country like Australia, my phone calls would be cut off so often, even when I’m calling from this little bunch of shacks you people have chosen to name after Darwin.

In a final attempt in what I see as my increasingly futile search for my parents, I will recap the events that led me here to try and get someone, anyone, in this godforsaken shithole desert of a country to help me track them down.

As you know (as I have explained to your belligerent staff many, many times), a week after the last letter I received from my mother (enclosed), I received a phone call from Paul Ray, son of Olive Ray, a close friend of my mother. As indicated in my mother’s letter, Mrs Ray suffered a massive stroke and died shortly after this whole farrago began. Because of funeral arrangements and family responsibilities, Paul Ray was unable to go through his mother’s effects in any detailed fashion for several weeks, but when he did he discovered a letter from my mother urging Mrs Ray to fly to Perth (enclosed) along with plane tickets and a check for expenses.

Paul Ray then contacted me. He indicated that he had spoken to my mother the day after the funeral, when she called to speak with Mrs Ray. He told her the news of Mrs Ray’s death and said that my mother took it badly. He was surprised that my mother didn’t already know, as he remembered the two women being friends, but, having had somewhat limited contact with his mother for several years, he thought nothing further of it until he found the letter and plane tickets. He told me that my mother made no mention of inviting Olive to Australia and did not even mention that she was calling from there. How many more odd circumstances do I need to point out before someone will take me seriously?

I then contacted your office again (even after you had done such a botched job of investigating their activities. A phone interview for possible drug smugglers? What’s wrong with you people?) and offered this new information. I was rebuked and, indeed, told to stop ‘harassing’ my own parents. Harassing? I’m trying to get to the bottom of a very serious situation. Why can’t anyone see that I am motivated by nothing but compassion and concern?

Receiving no assistance whatsoever from your office (or in fact anyone at all throughout this whole ordeal; I’ve already sent you copies of the letters from the American and Canadian Embassies that show just how outrageously I’ve been handled), I took a trip to this blackened landscape myself, and in the past six weeks, I have been to every bare corner of it.

I first went to Binturang Springs, the location of the post office box, and talked to a Mr George Kingfisher, manager of the inn where my parents initially stayed. After trying with limited success to convince him of the desperation of the situation, he finally directed me to Henry Badgery, a tour operator who had conducted my parents on a personalized tour of the surrounding desert area. Mr Badgery said that he remembered my parents, that they were pleasant people, that they had befriended a young married couple, but he told me nothing more. I did not and do not trust this Mr Badgery, let me tell you right now. I am almost certain he’s a liar.

I then contacted the Binturang Springs Post Office, where I was thwarted in my attempt to discover my parents’ current forwarding address by a callous postal clerk named Armando Bravada who refused to bend the rules despite the obvious gravity of the situation.

Having received no help, I embarked upon what ended up being a nearly complete circle of your country. I flew to Perth, where my parents had earlier planned to meet Olive Ray if she had been able to use the tickets they sent. I visited the hotel indicated on the return address of the Express Mail to Mrs Ray, but no one gave me any useful information. I then headed east along your southern coast, following backwards the middle part of my parents’ original itinerary through impossibly named towns like Wagga Wagga and Wollongong. I took a dip down to Hobart, then back up to Melbourne, through Canberra (where your office was closed due to some royal holiday or other), then to Sydney and up to Brisbane and Cairns. Occasionally, I came across people who thought they recognized my parents’ names but not the pictures I provided. On the whole, I found out very little.