“My darling, I’m afraid both of us are disrupting the purity of our lineages.”
They laughed as they embraced inside the quilted sleeping bag that the mosquitoes still managed to get through, their skin damp and their limbs welded together. In the mossy woods, among fallen trees, they were a nest of warmth and desire. At some point the moon dropped its chiselled reflection onto the perfectly smooth lake, and all at once Marie rose and dived in, her white body summoning the nocturnal fish and making the luminescent algae dance from the surface all the way down to their hidden roots.
For days he has been gripped by a wild urge to work in the garden. The rain comes down like shards of glass, the ground shrivels up from the cold, November has injected a sterile venom into the air, nothing could grow or even take root in the ground, but Ariel is obsessed with the idea of plunging his hands into the soil, of turning it over and planting rows of lettuce and tufts of chives. This is the incongruous image that emerges on the screen each time he places his fingers on the keyboard to edit a watered-down speech.
His body feels stiff as he stands up and walks over to the rain-streaked window. The outside world is blurred, unintelligible. Cancelled. Ariel starts to weep. A first since the campaign was launched. Until now he has suffered from searing headaches, been assailed by frightful cramps and plagued by bouts of sweating that seemed to sheathe his skin in molten metal, but despite all the stress and frustration, he kept the tears at bay. Tonight, however, with election day looming and the final push just a few hours away, the inner anger that has spurred him on gives way to something new. Disappointment. A gust of wind lashes the window with a spray of rain and Ariel recoils.
A muffled noise ripples down from the second floor. Among other fabulous qualities, Marie’s feet, when moving over a wooden floor, have the ability to produce the sound of a brush on raw canvas. The note whispered at the beginning of the world. He listens to the delicate rhythm approaching until it sweeps down on him. She wraps her arms around him and he feels somewhat ashamed. She is the one who for weeks has endured his campaign. Through no choice of her own, she has been photographed, shouted at, caricatured; reporters have analyzed her hairdo, her outfits, her way of smiling at the elderly; they have dissected her elocution, her education, her family. She is the one who can’t sleep, who gorges herself on tranquilizers and stands around next to him during public appearances. And now he’s the one crying.
“You’d think we were about to be drowned.”
“No, no. The rain will stop. And this time tomorrow we’ll be celebrating your victory.”
Ariel lowers his eyes in the direction of his wife.
“What victory? I wanted to win this election on my terms. And I haven’t stopped compromising. It’s not my program I’m defending but the packaging.
“To reach your goals compromises are unavoidable — you know that.”
“But you don’t make compromises.”
“And I never reach my goals.”
Ariel smiles wanly. Marie is mistaken, he thinks. Working daily for a cause you yourself have defined, under conditions you have chosen, constitutes a kind of victory that he is more and more convinced will always elude him. As if she has heard her husband’s thoughts, Marie grasps his face between her hands and tightens her grip.
“Your campaign has been extraordinary. No matter what you think, you defended your values and some crucial ideas. Your objectives are so high that you’re always sure you’ve failed. But you succeeded where people had already given up hope of seeing someone even try. And I’m very, very proud of you.”
Ariel, his cheeks aflame, leans down to kiss his wife. In her legs she senses a faint echo of their bygone blackouts, and she smiles.
“Now, leave your speech alone and come along. I’ll uncork the bottle of cognac my uncle gave us at our wedding. Unless you’d prefer to keep it for your birthday?”
Ariel shrugs.
“I’m not having a birthday this year.”
“Oh, yes you are. You have no choice. I’m preparing a surprise! Thirty-five — that’s something to celebrate!”
Ariel brightens up. Year after year, his birthday, which falls on December 24, in the shadow of both the Jewish and Christian holidays, is eclipsed by the profusion of garlands and dreidels. Still, Marie insists on throwing a party for him, knowing that her husband can’t resist the childish enjoyment of presents and surprises, of holding something shiny in his hands. At the mere mention of it he forgets the rain, the speech, and his horticultural cravings. He is seven years old again and the world has recovered its magical glow. The one thing Marie knows for certain is that this part of him must stay alive if he is to win the election.
Ariel presses down on his computer, which folds onto his draft like a large, tired hand. Outside, the wind has become a wail, a high-pitched whistle, almost a call for help.
“Do you hear something?” Ariel asks.
They stare at each other. Marie runs to the door and — it seems to her — barely grazes the handle, yet already the door has swung open, letting in the water, the fury, and the madness of the weather. The storm goes quiet just long enough for a misshapen creature to dash across the threshold and plant itself on the makeshift promontory of the coffee table, from which it surveys the premises. Once it stops moving, Marie and Ariel finally manage to examine it and recognize a shape under the layer of mud puddling at its feet. A cat.
“And where have you come from, little fellow?”
It opens wide its huge golden eyes and lets out a meow that says it all. It has come out of nowhere. It has never known a litter box, a home, or the teats of a female cat. It rose out of the mud on a stormy evening and ran toward the light, toward the promise of warmth, and will never leave it.
Canada’s new prime minister. He’s young. He brings people together. Has ideas. Energy. Charm. A knack for the quick rejoinder. John F. Kennedy. He speaks four languages, including Hebrew and Inuktitut. He knows how to mollify the Québécois. He is the youngest person ever to have held this position, and the first Jew, though not a practising Jew. But neither is he an atheist. He plays the guitar. He loves brioches and had one in every city during his election tour because everywhere he stopped he was treated to them. He is good at hockey, even better at tennis. He knows his classics. Neil Young, Cronenberg, Atwood, Terry Fox. Canadiana. According to his medical records he is epileptic. He does not smoke. Drinks in moderation. Jogs. Won’t decline a motorcycle ride when a helmet is available. He rode one four times over the course of the campaign. He voted in his Montreal West riding, a stone’s throw away from where he grew up. Where the old-timers know him. Call him Golden Boy, like everyone else. He’s going to change the face of the country. Give the silent majority a voice. The frustrated, overburdened, cynical, apathetic majority. Ariel Goldstein is going to clean things up. Fire corrupt civil servants. Invest in schools. Bring back women’s right to abortion. Take our children out of prison. Kick the media’s ass. Hold out a friendly hand to dissenters, outsmart the terrorists, rein in the militias. Put an end to racism. Transform every single slum into a palace. Reverse climate change. Establish universal peace. Ariel Goldstein, the thirty-sixth prime minister of Canada. Golden Boy.
The camera flashes turn the crowd into something sparkling and, what’s more, indistinct. The mass of supporters parts like the waters of the Dead Sea to let the couple pass, and, borne along by a groundswell, they are up on the stage in no time. They approach the podium together. Marie plants an appropriate kiss on her husband’s feverish cheek, then steps back. Ariel is left alone at the mic. Unbeknown to the audience, he wrings his hands a little. All that is visible is Ariel’s winning smile. Even without seeing his face, Marie senses the smile and the deep breath that comes next. “This country has been turned into a place that is not in our image.”