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Grafton. Ben would have nothing to do with it. Who ever heard of a world leader named Paul? This was no ordinary baby. He was a Grafton! The baby, the story goes, started to cry. Louise rocked him protectively. That husband of hers was insane. He read too many books. Lately, he’d been reading Greek mythology. Walking all around the house spouting crazy names: Prometheus, Zacharia, Euripides, Homer. She wished he would shut up about all those books of his. He carried on as if he were a scholar, and not just a plain old railway porter.
    “And how do you want to name him?” Louise asked.
    “Euripides Homer Grafton.”
    Louise put the baby in its room, closed the door and went to the kitchen cupboard. She launched a teacup at his head. It missed and exploded against a wall. “You’re not naming my baby after any Greeks,” she said between clenched teeth. “And none of your Negro pride names, either.” With her next missile—a teapot—she nicked one of Ben’s massive ears. Years later, Ben would show the scar to Mahatma. See that? Your mother gave it to me. Cupping his bleeding ear, Ben consented. It was agreed that he would find the name, but that Louise retained veto rights over anything sounding Greek or Negro. There was to be no Euripides Homer Grafton. No Marcus Garvey Grafton, no Booker T. Grafton. Ben accepted his wife’s conditions, because he knew that otherwise she would oppose him at every turn. She would call the boy Paul no matter what Ben called him. Ben needed her cooperation. He didn’t want the boy confused about his name.
    Ben found the name for his son by a devious route. Mahatma Gandhi was a great man. A man of great thoughts and great action. A credit to his race. True, he was an Indian, from India. But he had brown skin. Call him an Indian, call him what you wanted, as far as Ben Grafton was concerned, the man was coloured. Brown-skinned just like Ben’s son. Mahatma it would be. It was a great name. Fitting for a great person. Mahatma had a good sound to it. It was respectable. It had three syllables. Anybody who meant to pronounce that name was going to have to stop and think about it. Mahatma Grafton!
    “Mahatma,” Louise sniffed. “Is that a Negro name?”
    “No,” Ben was able to answer, “it is not.”
    Late one September afternoon, Chuck Maxwell asked Mahatma, “By the way, where are you from, anyway?”
    Mahatma Grafton hadn’t found anything to write about that day. He had been in a dry spell for three weeks and was getting edgy about it. Even the old man had been bugging him about it. “I haven’t seen your name in the paper lately. Aren’t they giving you enough work to do?” And now Chuck was asking a question Mahatma fielded ten times a week. Mahatma mumbled something silly and went home.
    “He says he’s from Equatorial Mali,” Chuck told Helen. “That’s in Africa, right?”
    “There’s no such place,” Helen said. “There’s Mali. And there’s Ecuatorial Guinea. But there’s no Ecuatorial Mali. He’s spoofing you.”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “Why’d you ask him where he was from?”
    Chuck threw up his arms. “What’s wrong with that? We’re professionals, right? What’s wrong with asking a question?”
    “Forget it, Chuck. I’m sure he still likes you.”
    “How do you think he’s doing on probation?” Chuck said.
    “They won’t hire him unless he puts out more copy,” Helen said. “He hasn’t been on page one for a while.”
    “Come on,” Chuck said. “The kid’s good. Management won’t cut him loose.”
    “How much you want to bet?” Helen said.
    Chuck ignored the challenge. “Imagine getting fired. Imagine having to do something else. That’s what rots my socks. I mean, outside the newspaper business, what else could I do?”
    Helen chuckled. “Chuck Maxwell, Chief of Public Relations, Manitoba Provincial Police.”
    “Very funny,” Chuck said. “My problem is, I hate it here, but what else can I do? You have been