“Your name is Minna Tanner, you were born in New York City,” I said.

“I know, I know.”

“I’m your father.”

“I know.”

The line moved onward and we came to the front of it. The customs attendant had wavy black hair and a thin nose. He smiled and asked us our names.

“Evan Michael Tanner,” I said.

“Minna Tanner,” Minna said.

“You are United States citizens?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“You were born?”

“Yes,” said Minna.

I winced. He smiled. “Where were you born?” he asked gently.

“ New York City.”

“ New York City.”

“Yes,” he said. “And why have you come to Montreal, Mr…”

“Tanner. To see the fair.”

“To see the fair. You will stay how long?”

“About a week.”

“About a week. Yes.” He started to say something, and then he stopped and frowned for a moment, and then he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Evan Tanner, Evan Tanner,” he said. “I am sorry, Mr. Tanner, but you have perhaps some identification?”

His French accent was thicker now. I handed him our passports. He examined them, studied my photo and Minna’s, studied my face and Minna’s, went over the passports again, whistled soundlessly, and got to his feet. “You will excuse me for one moment, please,” he said, and went away.

Minna looked at me. “Something is wrong?”

“Evidently.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Something is wrong with the passports?”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“You said that it was very simple to go into Canada. That it was hardly like going from one country to another.”

“I know.”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Where did the man go?”

I shrugged. Perhaps, I thought, they had received a circular on some criminal with a similar name. Perhaps some clown named Ivan Manners had embezzled a few hundred thousand dollars from the Keokuk National Bank. I couldn’t imagine what else would stop him cold like that.