Full of the life inside and outside her, my Cam was already starting to forget Henri.
He had disappeared, that was true, and equally true that the living should not dwell among the dead, and also true that his refusal to cooperate with Downey and Downey’s sponsors was already a message sanctifying our future, telling us to relish the days and years left to us before we joined him in the great stillness.
What could possibly be wrong with the pursuit of happiness when there was so much cruelty and misery in the world? Had we been saved in order to feed on sorrow till the end of our days?
And yet, if the face of Henri had vanished from my photos and was no longer, for good reason, a priority for Cam, that face had not abandoned my memory or my life. It was still somewhere inside me. And other faces. The face of Jemmy Edén drunk in a bar, going blind, pimping his past to make a living. The faces of the Haitians behind their barbed wire, so close to the sea they could taste it in the wind but unable to set sail, as we could, for whatever horizon desired. The face of Captain Wolfe pressed down onto the deck, treated like a criminal because he had dared to defend his passengers and his ship and his dignity. The faces of Krao and Ota Benga and Topsy, all those who had not been given the chance to withdraw peacefully, compassionately, as Henri had, those faces that had been captured and uprooted and confined and given no redress, not even the distant satisfaction of thwarting the plans of their jailors. The face of the earth itself, the earth and the sea, speckled with oil spills and plastic bottles and rotting fish and broken birds, the face of the waters from where, according to Darwin, we had emerged. And the face of my mother who had died in a foreign land so that the land would not be foreign to those born on it since the beginning of time.
The beginning of time: when everything was sacred, the whole world a temple.
Maybe it was enough that one person had understood, really understood.
Was that, is that, enough?
If I ever tell this story, how soon will it take for Henri to fade from the memory of those who deign to listen? How long before he and I are forgotten, his love for me, what else to call what he did, his act of mercy, his quiet farewell, the reservoir of his trust in me? How long before we are forgotten?
So easily are the hearts of men, the hearts of women, smashed.
“It’s going to be all right,” Cam said—as if she had read my thoughts, the silence with which I greeted her words of prophecy and celebration, my darling always full of hope for our many tomorrows. “Twenty-five years from now, our children will live in a different world, a better world, shining and brave. You’ll see, Fitzroy Foster. Just wait and see.”
I pray she is right.
I pray we have learned something.
I pray we have fully, deeply, definitely learned something.
And that Henri will not have to come back again, one last final time.
When it may be too late.
Will you need to come back, my brother, my brother?
He does not answer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR THE LIVING
Though ghosts inspired this story, taking possession of me during its long inception and writing, the words would not have existed if not for people made of flesh and blood, sinew and heart.
First, of course, is Angélica, my wife, love, and partner, to whom this novel, like most of what I create, is dedicated. Her company and encouragement have been as essential as her endless readings of one and another draft in English and Spanish over many months, correcting, suggesting, fine-tuning my prose and helping me to draw near to the elusive protagonists.
This is a book about violence that demanded a modicum of peace in order to be completed, as well as mountains of research, and for both of these, I am grateful to Suzan Senerchia, our friend and my assistant. She was seconded in her labors by the efficient, cheerful, and forbearing librarians at Duke University who supplied me with many materials essential to a novel so grounded in real history and pain.
My agents at Wylie, Jacqueline Ko and Anna Wood, and before them, Jin Auh, have been fiercely loyal to this idiosyncratic and stubborn author of theirs, and have managed to find the right haven for this novel.
That home was Seven Stories Press and its host was my friend and editor there, Dan Simon, with whom I have enjoyed a fruitful relationship for almost twenty years. He has pushed me to make this book better, with care, deliberation, and affection, never letting me off the hook, but always showing the utmost respect for what I was trying to achieve. I am also grateful for Lauren Hooker’s meticulous copyediting and oversight and to Jon Gilbert for his devotion to the text and its design.
Two of our many dear friends read this novel in its original draft, and this is an excellent occasion to recognize their cordial comments and queries. Deena Metzger, a great writer who is also the closest person I have to a sister, has been a compassionate comrade for many decades. And Max Arian, our Dutch brother-in-arms, has shown a faith in my work that has invigorated me since we first met in exile in 1974. A third friend, Queno Ahumada, provided me, from Santiago, with valuable information that I required about Patagonia and its history, as well as a companionship that has lasted since childhood.
Of course, there were many others close to us for whom this story will be a surprise, even if they fortified me during its composition with their love. I cannot mention them all by name, but I do need to at least list the members of our immediate family, who give us the sort of joy that Fitzroy seeks and Henri deserves: Rodrigo, Joaquín, Nathalie, Ana María, Pedro, Patricio, Marisa, Isabella, Catalina, Primm, Ryan, Sharon, Kirby, Kayleigh, and Emmy.
Thanks to all for helping me give birth to this tale of sorrow and redemption.
ARIEL DORFMAN is considered to be one of “the greatest Latin American novelists”(Newsweek) and one of the United States’ most important cultural and political voices. A Chilean-American author born in Argentina, his numerous award-winning works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in more than fifty languages. His play Death and the Maiden, which has been performed in over one hundred countries, was made into a film by Roman Polanski. Among his works are the novels Widows, The Nanny and the Iceberg, Mascara, and Konfidenz, and the memoirs Heading South, Looking North and Feeding on Dreams. He recently published a collection of essays, Homeland Security Ate My Speech: Messages from the End of the World. He contributes to major papers worldwide, including frequent commentary in the New York Times, El País, the Guardian, Le Monde, and La Repubblica. His stories have appeared in the New Yorker, the Atlantic, Harper’s, Playboy, Index on Censorship, and many other magazines and journals. A prominent human rights activist, he lives with his wife Angélica in Chile and Durham, North Carolina, where he is the Walter Hines Page Research Professor Emeritus of Literature at Duke University.
ABOUT SEVEN STORIES PRESS
Seven Stories Press is an independent book publisher based in New York City. We publish works of the imagination by such writers as Nelson Algren, Russell Banks, Octavia E. Butler, Ani DiFranco, Assia Djebar, Ariel Dorfman, Coco Fusco, Barry Gifford, Martha Long, Luis Negrón, Peter Plate, Hwang Sok-yong, Lee Stringer, and Kurt Vonnegut, to name a few, together with political titles by voices of conscience, including Subhankar Banerjee, the Boston Women’s Health Collective, Noam Chomsky, Angela Y. Davis, Human Rights Watch, Derrick Jensen, Ralph Nader, Loretta Napoleoni, Gary Null, Greg Palast, Project Censored, Barbara Seaman, Alice Walker, Gary Webb, and Howard Zinn, among many others. Seven Stories Press believes publishers have a special responsibility to defend free speech and human rights, and to celebrate the gifts of the human imagination, wherever we can. In 2012 we launched Triangle Square books for young readers with strong social justice and narrative components, telling personal stories of courage and commitment. For additional information, visit www.sevenstories.com.
hank you for reading books on Archive.
Darwin's Ghosts Page 28