“The great traditions of our nation—the democratic ideal that inspired all our actions and justified our cruelty against our internal and external enemies in order to defend ourselves—have little by little sunk into oblivion. Once our government and security agencies deserved our trust and respect. Today, our government is disfigured and our security agencies have become degenerate conglomerates of well-paid, morally bankrupt bureaucrats. Avid for medals and glory, they wrap themselves up in their past credibility to feed the sick mistrust of our rulers. They invent sordid stories, not realizing that they are digging their own graves. History will not forgive them.
“These omnipotent agencies can annihilate in a second any member of the government, Congress, the military, or our servile media, to make him or her look like a traitor, a saboteur, or a spy.
“I knew nothing of a coup attempt. I am not guilty of anything, yet I will drag down thousands of innocents with me. A fictitious organization has already been conjured: the ‘Cohen Gang.’
“I have been at the service of my country since the age of eighteen. My entire life has been dedicated to a single goaclass="underline" the survival of our nation and the victory of democracy. I can already foresee the front page of the newspaper that usurps the hallowed name of the Times trumpeting that I, Rafael Cohen, wanted to destroy our nation’s prosperity and security, and weaken it so that it would fall like an overripe fruit into the Caliphate’s gluttonous mouth. What despicable slander!
“I have made more than one mistake in my efforts to serve my country. I only ask posterity not to judge me more severely than I already judge myself. The President and I took a road never before taken, to save our country. At cabinet meetings, everybody expressed their opinions, freely. We butted heads, vigorously, for the sake of our country, whose very survival was threatened. It was a golden era.
“I am speaking to you, future generations of leaders of our nation, who have the historic mission of untangling the monstrous maze of crimes that, in these terrible times, is catching fire like a dry prairie, asphyxiating our nation.
“In these days, perhaps the last of my existence, I am convinced that historical truth will cleanse my name from all the mud that is already soiling it.
“I am not a traitor. I would have given my life without hesitation to save the President. I loved the President. I never conspired against her.
“I ask the future generations of leaders of my country, young and honest men and women, to read my letter before Congress, and to rehabilitate my memory.
“Know that the banner that you carry in your triumphant march toward a more perfect union also has a drop of my blood!”
When Rafael Cohen finished writing, he went back to the beginning and spent a long time considering a title. He knew that the wrong one could land him in the dreaded dustbin of history, mocked by the reading elites and unknown to the functionally illiterate masses who, by definition, could not get past the title. His heart wanted to cry out loud, “Save Our Dying Land!” But his immoderate sense of dignity made him settle for “Letter to the Future Generations.” His last minutes of life were consumed by regret at his own lack of audacity.
29
White Fur
McCabe swept into my bathroom, leaving a trail of snow, mud, and ice. I crouched by the front entrance, my swirling head between my knees. Had she worn this white fur coat when she picked me up from the tree hollow and brought me back, unconscious? White fur was preferable to the cadaverous latex gloves through which she had always touched me. It was softer, more animal. I am stating this as an objective fact. I neither wanted nor did not want to be touched by McCabe, skin to skin, or to touch her.
Steam filled the bathroom and was invading the Judge’s studio. McCabe’s coat, boots, and clothes were in a heap on the bathroom floor. She had not even bothered to close the door. I did, on my hands and knees, still fighting off vertigo. Then I cleaned her filthy trail all the way to the front door. Her behavior was disquieting. McCabe had always been laboriously polite with me, almost courtly. That is, after her transformation. Was old, boorish McCabe resurfacing? Even that fat pig had never crashed my bedroom and used my private bathroom. I’m not your maid, I muttered, using the mop handle to stand up. I cleaned after her because filth had no place in my house, particularly not on this day of days. I did it for me, the mistress of the house, not for her. When I was done cleaning, I locked away McCabe’s odd return in the same box as her unexplained absence. My eyes had to stay fixed on the quarry.
McCabe came out of the bathroom sooner than I had expected. I heard her slam the bathroom door and walk around my room. When she appeared in the kitchen, I was uncorking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin, more precisely a La Grande Dame Brut 2005, kept by the Judge, and me, for the grandest of occasions. She hung her fur coat from the back of a chair, and balanced her hat on top of it. Her boots were now clean. “Happy New Year,” she said incongruously when we clinked glasses. I tried to steer her to the dining-room table, with its appetizer display. She preferred to stay in the kitchen. It was warmer there. She was not hungry, yet. She drank most of the bottle, as if it were water. “I’m thirsty,” she said, when she realized I was staring at her. I uncorked a second one. This she drank at almost human speed. She surveyed the kitchen, as if taking an inventory of each item. “Why do you crawl?” she suddenly asked. My throat narrowed, choking me. Could she see through doors and walls? “Your feet must hurt still,” she said. “No,” I lied. While I was mobile, my feet were permanently deformed and pain kept me awake at night. “That happened a long time ago…” I blurted out, trying to cover up my terror. “Not that long ago,” she said. I had walked into my own trap. We were dangerously close to a subject I wanted to avoid: McCabe’s absence. Time, dates, calendars would unavoidably lead us there.
A month and two days ago, McCabe and I had had our last supper together. That was the last time I had seen her. Thirty-one days ago, I had last heard her voice in this kitchen, along with Petrona’s and Mrs. Crandall’s. But I had not seen her. She had been totally absent for thirty-two days, and absent in all but voice for thirty-one. McCabe, not I, should have been the one eager to avoid the subject of time. “Thirty-two days is not long to learn to walk again,” she persisted. Was she being guileless or cruel? I often asked myself that question about McCabe. It was misdirected. She did not know the difference. Her purity of intention depended on that. I was the only one who could answer the question, (self-) helpfully rephrased: did I feel like the target of McCabe’s cruelty, or of her innocence? A nonsensical question for a rationalist like me.
McCabe went to the window. The snowfall had stopped. Low dark clouds were moving northwest, toward the footprints of the Great Prairie. The moon was struggling to come out. “Let’s go,” said McCabe, grabbing her coat and hat. When I didn’t follow her immediately, she added, “please.” Her car was stuck in the mud at the bottom of Round Hill. She needed my help to bring it up. We got into the Land Rover. McCabe sat on the passenger seat as always. She slammed her door shut. I tried to close mine noiselessly. Her eyes were fixed on my hands while I fumbled with the lock. She leaned over me, opened the door and slammed it shut so hard that the Land Rover shook. Rafael must have heard it. With McCabe watching my every movement, I had been unable to warn him about our little spin. Before he could stick out his head, I careened out of the garage. I was afraid he would run away or kill himself, thinking we were his executioners gone to get reinforcements. McCabe did not seem to notice the blue sedan opposite her in the garage. There was no way she could miss it when we got back.