In Those Last Days Before the War

by Jon Thorpe
 I.

Approximately two years before the death of his wife, and following extensive and

stressful rounds of interviews and callbacks, Cabris, aer a good deal of struggle and thought,

finally acquiesced and accepted the offer to become the dean of a highly regarded college of law

in a rather charmless port city in the Periphery. And while Cabris’ wife never complained about

the upcoming move, for she truly believed the deanship would serve as an important stepping

stone in Cabris’ career, she did quietly resent being uprooted from their rather full and satisfying

life in the Metropole.

“I suppose I shall be giving my notice then,” Cabris’ wife uttered during dinner aer

Cabris broke the news that he had finally decided to accept.

2
 “So we are moving?” Jordan, their six year-old daughter asked with caution as she well

understood the topic had become a sensitive issue for her parents.

“Yes,” Cabris answered. “We will be moving.”

“And where are we moving to?”

“To the Periphery.”

“Excuse me, I need a moment,” Cabris’ wife said, her voice almost trembling, and she

excused herself form the table and walked into the kitchen.

“Is mommy going to be okay?” Jordan asked aer a long moment.

“She’s going to be just fine.”

“Is the Periphery far away?”

Cabris shook his head.

“Not that far. Just a couple hours by plane.”

“Across the sea?”

Cabris nodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “It’s across the sea.”

“Is it hot in the Periphery?”

“It can be quite warm, especially in the summer. e autumn and winter are beautiful

though and we’ll be living close to the sea, near the beach. When it’s hot I’ll take you

swimming. Don’t you think that would be nice?”

“at would be nice.”

A smile slowly formed on Jordan’s face.

“I’ll need lots of swimsuits then?” she asked.

3
 “Of course you will.”

Cabris wiped his mouth with his napkin. He pushed his chair back from the table and

stood. He took two steps towards the kitchen and then stopped.

II.

e following aernoon Cabris stepped off the streetcar in the Rhineland District. e

district, a decade ago a welcoming haven for drug dealers, addicts, and prostitutes, had been

transformed under Operation Barbarossa into an acceptably gritty quarter for the city’s

moderately successful creative class.

e day, which had started off with a refreshing, pristine quality, had grown cold and

gray with a looming threat of rain. Cabris turn up the collar of his coat and walked for a bit,

attaché case in hand, and allowed himself brief moments here and there to glance at the absurd

works placed in the art galleries’ windows. Cabris eventually entered a quaint, bordering on

kitsch, Italian café two blocks from the growing and much discussed literary journal where

Cabris’ wife worked as senior editor. e café was empty and the octogenarian waiter did his

best to shuffle meaningfully to Cabris’ small, square marble table. Cabris ordered a beer.

Cabris sipped his beer and watched the aernoon begin to slip into night. He watched

the people pass in front of the café’s large window and Cabris made quick mental notes in an

effort to generalize their emotional states. Cabris’ game descended into futility as the growing

darkness metastasized and the pedestrians were transformed into characters in a shadowbox

theater.

“And would you like another beer?” the elderly waiter asked and Cabris nodded.

4
 “Cabris?”

Cabris looked up in the direction of the voice and saw corpulent investment banker

Robert LeMiller lowering a small espresso cup into its saucer as he stood at the zinc bar.

LeMiller picked his newspaper off the bar, folded it, slipped it into his coat pocket, and walked

towards Cabris. Cabris felt dread building inside him as LeMiller approached.

“It’s good to see you LeMiller,” Cabris said as the two shook hands and Cabris motioned

for the banker to take the empty seat across from him.

“And it’s certainly very nice to see you.”

“What could possibly inspire you to make an appearance in the Rhineland?” Cabris

asked knowing full well that LeMiller kept a twenty-four year old abstract painter as a mistress

in the district. Her name was Alexandra, and Cabris had met her once at a gallery opening, and

on seeing her felt, momentarily at least, disemboweled by her beauty.

“Oh, you know, I’ve just been perusing some galleries. My wife remarked last week that

she’d like a pleasant seascape, an oil preferably, to hang above the couch. You know, we’ve

moved into the new house. So much space now. We’re really not sure what to do.”

“You lead a fortunate life LeMiller. How has the hunt gone?”

“Not well, at least not here. It’s been rather fruitless, as it seems that all our artists in the

Rhineland are obsessed with non-representational art. Now, some of the works are quite

interesting, but there’s nothing that I’ve seen that comes remotely close to conforming to the

realist ideal haunting my wife’s imagination. She’s looking for something with a lighthouse.”

Cabris laughed.

LeMiller checked his watch.

5
 e waiter placed a glass of beer in front of Cabris.

Cabris took a sip.

“Are you late for something?” Cabris asked and LeMiller nodded.

“I’m actually due home right now,” LeMiller answered. “I can’t believe how long one can

dawdle here.”

LeMiller slapped his hand playfully on the table.

“But you and I,” LeMiller continued, “we should certainly have a drink sometime. It’s

been a while since you and I have tied one over.”

“We should do it sooner rather than later.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ve accepted a position in the Periphery.”

LeMiller’s jaw dropped slightly.

“e Periphery! My God! Well, that’ll certainly be quite a transition now won’t it? I

hope it’s a helluva job!”

“It’s a superb opportunity.”

“I mean . . . the Periphery . . . really . . . now . . . it does have an interesting history of

revolution and violence, but outside of that, I mean, there’s nothing really there now, is there?

No real sophistication or culture. It’ll be quite a change Cabris, but of course, you’re all very well

aware of that. “

Cabris nodded.

“I’m well aware.”

6
 “You’ll probably do best sticking with your own kind there. You know how they feel

about outsiders.”

“I do.”

“You take my advice and plant your family behind the walls of the Metropolitan uarter

and never leave.”

“ank you for the advice LeMiller.”

LeMiller pushed back his chair and looked at the café’s door. He made a motion to stand

but instead let out a sigh. LeMiller pulled out the newspaper and unfolded it. He scanned the

headlines then placed it on the table and looked at Cabris with a stern expression.

“We all know you’re an intelligent man when it comes to things like diplomatic affairs,”

LeMiller said in almost a whisper.

“You flatter me.”

“And I’ve almost always found your columns in Defiance to be well written and

illuminating.”

“You read Defiance?”

“You know full and well that it’s hardly the radical paper it used to be.”

“But for a well-fed banker such as yourself to be seen reading Defiance?”

“I am hardly the conservative you might imagine.”

“But that’s hardly a copy of Defiance you’re carrying with you.”

“Heavens no. It’s Financier. I am in public Cabris and I have a façade of respectability to

maintain. Even in this quarter. If someone from my firm were somehow to spy me. . . .”

“Of course, discretion is always important.”

7
 LeMiller leaned in close to Cabris. His voice became tense.

“However Cabris, I’d like to ask you, you know, about the news.”

LeMiller tapped the open newspaper.

Cabris took a sip of beer and nodded.

“Do you think there will be war?” LeMiller asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on now, you’re better than that, because it feels as if war is imminent. You can

just sense it, taste it in the air.”

Cabris reached out and placed his hand on LeMiller’s shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s as severe as all that,” Cabris said. “What’s going on right now is saber

rattling. e diplomats are working hard at their jobs. War is tenable only if you’ve exhausted

all alternatives. We currently have many alternatives.”

Cabris let LeMiller’s shoulder go.

“But what I don’t understand,” LeMiller continued, “is that no one is really speaking

about the possibility of war. No real public debate is taking place. How can we live in such an

unpredictable time and no one is giving voice to this very real possibility? How? Why are we,

collectively, looking away, ignoring the potential horrors, doing our best to go on with the

inconsequential duties of our everyday lives? Why do we continue to pretend that we’re

happy?”

Cabris shrugged his shoulders.

“ose are philosophical questions,” Cabris answered.

“I’m disappointed with you Cabris. I wouldn’t have expected your silence.”

8
 “ere won’t be a war.”

LeMiller’s eyes opened.

“Do you actually believe that?”

Cabris nodded.

“A war makes no sense at this time.”

“But what about the rhetoric?”

“A diplomatic game, that’s all. Diplomacy is not only about placation, but it’s about

trying to take the upper ground, to negotiate from strength.”

“And the public’s silence?”

“About that, again I don’t know. However, it’s not unusual in times of crisis for people to

hope that their leaders know best.”

“But it seems more like ignorance.”

“Maybe the people are exhausted. Ignorance, now, to choose ignorance, to choose that,

that is a choice filled with repression and self-denial, an admission that one is impotent,

powerless to affect any real change in the world. Yes, it is sad, unnerving, and fundamentally

pessimistic. And it’s exhausting because it is a choice the people must make each and every day.

It demands constant thought and effort. But sometimes it’s necessary perhaps?”

LeMiller sighed. He folded his newspaper and tucked it beneath his le armpit.

“I hope you’re right Cabris, about the war. You’re a good man. I want you to know that.”

Cabris smiled a wry smile.

9
 “I’m not a good man,” Cabris replied. “But trust me on the war. Do not fall prey to

determinism. e future is not writ in stone. ere are infinite channels through which our

history may flow.”

LeMiller stood.

“I always knew you were an atheist Cabris.”

“I’m no such thing.”

“I must be going. I’ve really now dallied for much to long. We must have that drink

before you depart.”

“We will.”

LeMiller patted Cabris’ shoulder before leaving the café.

III.

As Cabris waited the café filled with patrons and the atmosphere became gay and

vibrant. e octogenarian waiter gave way to four youthful servers with fresh, milk fed faces

who skillfully negotiated the narrow, unstable pathways between tables, placing plates piled high

with pastas covered in blood red sauces. Cabris’ wife entered the café and she caught his eye and

smiled. As she wove her way towards her husband she paused for a moment at a boisterous table

and exchanged a few words with a young man in a well cut suit. She leaned in close and he

whispered in her ear. Cabris’ wife let out a loud laugh and she took the young man’s hands in

hers as she mouthed thank you.

“And who was that?” Cabris asked aer his wife settled in across from him, his words

stained by a slight slur.

10
 “No one really. Just a friend.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Bradford.”

“Bradford?”

“He’s an architect. His studio’s close by. Sometimes we have lunch.”

“And what did he have to say to you?”

A waiter placed a glass of red wine in front of Cabris’ wife.

“He told me it was sad to hear I was leaving.”

“at’s sweet.”

“He’s a sweet boy.”

“And so how did it go today?”

“I told them and they wished me the best.”

Cabris’ wife took a sip of wine.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“Not long.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I’m going to be an editor-at-large for the review.”

“at’s interesting. So they’re keeping you on?”

“ere’s a growing interest in the literature coming out of the Periphery and the review

wants to be at the vanguard of this trend. Perhaps life will not be so bad over there.”

Cabris reached across the table and took his wife’s hand.

11
 “In a way, I’m sorry,” he said and his wife shook her head.

“ere’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s all for the best.”

“I know you’re sacrificing a lot.”

“It’s my choice.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps. . . .”

“Perhaps?”

Cabris’ wife’s eyes went to the window. She looked lost and distant and beautiful.

“I have something for you,” Cabris said.

“Have you?” Cabris’ wife responded and her eyes returned to him and a level of

excitement filled her voice. “What do you have for me?”

Cabris reached into his attaché and produced a small, gi-wrapped package. He slid the

package across the table. Cabris’ wife read the attached card and her eyes filled with nostalgic

love.

“You know I love you Cabris?”

“Just open the gi.”

Cabris’ wife unwrapped the paper with precision and when the gi was revealed she

beamed.

“It’s wonderful,” she said with so enthusiasm. “Is this truly it?”

Cabris nodded.

“Olympia Press,” Cabris answered. “e true first edition. Both volumes.”

12
 Cabris’ wife removed one of the small green paperbacks from the case and turned it over

in her trembling hands. She read the original price imprinted on the back. “Nine hundred

francs,” she stated and then her enthusiasm receded and was replaced by bemusement. She

looked at Cabris quizzically. “Something is odd about all of this,” she said.

“And what is that?”

She slid the book back into the case.

“is book hasn’t even been published yet,” she explained. “I haven’t even read it. How

did you know that I would want this?”

“I know you well.”

“And it was expensive?”

“It will be.”

“And where did you get it?”

“From the future.”

“Stop being absurd.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“And why did you bring this back to me from the future?”

“So that I could give it to you at this precise moment.”

“And where did you obtain it in the future?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Cabris smiled. He leaned forward and spoke in a loud whisper.

13
 “When I am old I will live in a small village near the sanatorium where your mother now

resides. I will meet an American, a university professor who is also an acclaimed author. He has

been searching for me. He meets me in a café and we drink coffee. I notice the two volumes in

his satchel and make some remarks about them. We eventually talk about you, about your love

for literature, and how the two volumes would have made a perfect gi for you in an alternative

reality. When it comes time for me to return home, he offers the novel to me. I don’t accept at

first, but he’s insistent and so I relent. Why not? And that’s how the novel came into my

possession that that’s the absolutely true story of how I’ve come to give it to you now. I’m not

sure if another moment in our relationship will be more appropriate.”

“You’re an odd duck Cabris. An odd, absurd duck.”

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

“ank you.”

“I know you’re doing your best to convince yourself that everything is okay.”

Cabris’ wife took a drink from her glass.

“Are you hungry?” Cabris asked. “Would you like some dinner?”

“What about Jordan?”

“My mother took her for the day.”

“I’m actually famished. But let’s go someplace else.”

A light, misting rain began to fall as Cabris and his wife le the café. ey boarded a

streetcar and le the Rhineland District behind. ey rode through the city’s working class

neighborhoods that eventually bled into a trendy, bourgeois quarter. ey disembarked and

walked hand in hand through narrow streets and turned down a slender alley and entered a

14
crowded French bistro run by two elderly women. Aer a few moments a table opened. Cabris

and his wife took their seats. An accordion player wandered between tables and the restaurant’s

patrons sang along with the traditional folk tunes.

“And do you remember the first time we came here?” Cabris’ wife asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Sometimes I understand why I fell in love with you.”

Cabris blushed.

“And you know the food is not that good here, don’t you?” Cabris’ wife asked.

“at’s really besides the point now, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. How could it help but be anything else?”

IV.

As they rode the streetcar back to their apartment Cabris’ wife nestled her head into

Cabris’ right shoulder. He glanced at their reflection in the window and imagined, from the

look on her face, that she might be thinking about her mother. He was surprised that she had

not come up once during the evening.

Four years earlier, Cabris’ mother-in-law was diagnosed with dementia, and as her mind

truly began to fade Cabris and his wife did their best, taking her in and caring for her. But this

became quite arduous and both Cabris and his wife began to fear for Jordan’s emotional and

physical safety. Aer much discussion and hand wringing, Cabris located a comfortable place

for his mother-in-law in the north where qualified caregivers would look aer her every need.

Cabris secured a room with a fine view of the sea and as the years went by it appeared to Cabris

15
that his mother-in-law had passed through the period of fear and confusion and had entered a

peaceful and stable location deep within her psyche.

At least that’s what Cabris and his wife liked to believe.

“Are you okay? You’re so quiet?” Cabris asked his wife and she tilted back her head and

looked at him and smiled.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing. Just letting my mind wander.”

“You’re lying.”

“Not really.”

“So tell me what you’re thinking about.”

e street car crossed the river to the east bank.

“is moment,” Cabris’ wife said.

“Which moment.”

“is moment. at’s what I’m thinking about. is exact moment we’re existing

within. Soon we’ll be gone, away from here, and this moment, which is nothing more than an

ordinary moment under normal circumstances, will take on new resonances because we are

going to be divorced from the city.”

“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

Cabris’ wife shook her head.

16
 “I don’t think so. is city is my home, and it is going to cease being my home. is city

is the only place I know and, to be honest, it’s the only city I want to know. It’s difficult to give

this up.”

“But it’s not like we’re going to be cut off. We can visit whenever we want.”

“It won’t be the same. It won’t belong to me then in the way that it belongs to me right

now.”

e streetcar let them off two blocks from their apartment. Cabris and his wife walked

the two blocks in silence and as they passed beneath the last streetlight before reaching their

entrance, Cabris noticed a tear had scarred the le side of her face.

V.

e movers arrived and did a thorough, capable job. Aer the last of their goods was

loaded into the truck, Cabris’ wife served the movers a thoughtful meal accompanied by a

generous amount of beer and wine. Aer the last mover exited the apartment, Cabris stood in

his empty living room. He placed his hands in his pockets and paced once around the room’s

perimeter before entering the master bedroom. His wife stood on the balcony, leaning forward,

both hands resting on the stone railing. e sun was beginning to set. Cabris joined her.

“Do you think it will ever warm up?” Cabris’ wife asked. “It’s been such a cold spring, as

if winter doesn’t want to really end.”

“e Periphery will be much warmer.”

“I suppose. It can’t help but be warmer.”

“at’s true.”

17
 “Cabris?”

“Yes.”

“I think I would like to be alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”

“I would like to be with you.”

“No . . . I don’t think I would be good company. Perhaps you should retrieve Jordan

from your mother’s?”

“She’s fine. We don’t have much time le together.”

“Please go Cabris. Please.”

Cabris nodded. He stepped back inside the bedroom, put on his coat, and le the

apartment.

VI.

Cabris stopped at the café at the end of his block and downed an espresso. He le the

café and wandered the streets of his neighborhood. e evening grew quite cold and Cabris

took the ancient wood pedestrian bridge across the river to the west bank. He stopped in the

middle of the bridge and looked east. He felt the urge to smoke although he had not smoked

since the birth of his daughter.

“Don’t be foolish,” he muttered to himself.

Cabris crossed into the west bank and entered the Cathedral District. e streets

contracted and became narrow alleyways that began to curve and meander, abandoning any

sense of linearity. Cabris stopped in front of a small restaurant and peered inside the window.

e restaurant was almost empty. An old couple dressed in the garb of comfortable, aged

18
bohemians sat at the bar. e woman sipped thick, red liquid from a liqueur glass. e man

appeared to be drinking a gin and tonic. e bartender stood at the end of the bar and read the

newspaper. Across the width of the paper’s front page a one word question was printed:

IMMINENT?

Cabris continued on. e winding alley he followed suddenly ejected him into the vast

Cathedral Square. A few people were milling about. Cabris took a seat on a bench facing the

cathedral’s façade.

“Excuse me.”

A tall, thin man wearing what might have once been a fine suit approached Cabris.

“I have no change,” Cabris said.

“I’m not asking you for change. It’s just that I think I recognize you. I saw you speak

once, one of the public lectures at the American Institute. You spoke on the impossibility of

true individualism in a democracy or something along those lines.”

“It doesn’t appear that my talk le much of an impression.”

“No . . . it’s not that . . . it’s not you . . . really, it’s me. Philosophical, intellectual

discussions, well, they start out interesting, I mean, I like the premises, but aer a few minutes

all the jargon just dissolves into white noise. To be honest, I went to listen to you just to impress

a girl.”

“Well, I hope it worked out for the best.”

“Of course not.”

Cabris laughed.

19
 “Well, let me be honest,” Cabris said, “I know nothing about philosophy. If I remember

that talk correctly, I was speaking about the alienating effects of democracy, about how difficult

it is to act as a true individual when a system requires factionalism for its survival.”

e man extended his hand.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” Cabris asked.

“I am. John Kenyon.”

Cabris shook the extended hand.

“Cabris. Where do you hail from?”

“Chicago.”

“Ah . . . broad shoulders.”

“at’s the place.”

Cabris leaned back and took a moment to appreciate Kenyon’s features. e man was

neither old nor young. His hair was a dirty blonde. His eyes were translucent blue. A long scar

flowed from the outer tip of Kenyon’s le eye and arced towards his ear, ending at the edge of his

le lip.

“And what would motivate you to leave Chicago for our fine city?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Ah . . . of course . . . another American writer.”

“I have no plans of finding myself though.”

“I see.”

“at was a joke.”

“Certainly. But won’t you be going back to Chicago soon?”

20
 “Why?”

“Because of the chance of war.”

“No one cares about the war.”

Kenyon sat down next to Cabris.

“Are you anti-American?” Kenyon asked.

“I spoke at the American Institute now, didn’t I?”

“Of course you did. But having all these Americans roaming the city. at doesn’t

bother you now, does it?”

“Not at all. It’s a good thing, attracting all these creative ambitions from other nations.

How can that help but be a good thing?”

“at’s good to hear. Not everyone shares your view. I think the American presence

causes a lot more anger and discussion than the war does.”

“But you are a rather brash people at times.”

“It’s our nature. We can’t help it.”

“You’re also rather hopeless in your optimistic exuberance.”

“A rather unique quality of ours.”

“Have you had success with your writing?”

“Some. In Chicago I published a couple short stories, completed a novel. e novel was

published shortly aer I moved here and it’s given me some local notoriety in these parts, at least

in certain circles. I’m working on a new novel now, a long novel. It’s tough going, but I can feel

everything beginning to fall into place.”

“And what is this long novel about?”

21
 “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s still evolving and might undergo so many changes and revisions that it may

eventually have no resemblance in the future to what it is today. So, because of that, it’s

impossible for me to really understand what it’s about until it’s completed, and until it’s

completed and read by someone besides myself, it’s meaningless.”

“Well, that’s your view.”

“I’m also working on starting a literary journal. A radical journal, quite le wing, but

not too far to the le.”

“at’s quite ambitious.”

“I plan to publish authors from America and from here and create an artistic and

intellectual bridge linking both sides.”

“Again, that’s quite ambitious. How is that project going if I might ask?’

Kenyon bit into his thumbnail before speaking.

“e project’s going well. I’ve received funding, a generous grant from the U.S.

government, enough to get me up and running.”

“And what will the journal be called?”

“Contradiction.”

“A fine title, I suppose.”

“ank you.”

Kenyon checked his watch.

22
 “Well, I must be getting on now. My girlfriend is expecting me. When I’m out too long

she begins to think I’m cheating on her. e paranoia of women.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve experienced it.”

“Are you married?”

“Over ten years.”

“Well, you’re either a happy couple or emotionally dead.”

“Or a little of both.”

Kenyon laughed.

“e most natural answer,” Kenyon said and stood. “A pleasant conversation. I hope to

see you again sometime. I can be found most evenings at the Café Chapeau in the University

District. It’s next to the famed church built by the Catholic Anarchists in honor of Judas.”

“I know the district well.”

“Of course you would. Excuse my impertinence. But you should come by and stop in

for a drink.”

“e Americans have truly begun to make that bar their own. Or at least I’ve read that

in the papers.”

“Yes we have. But it’s not the frivolous place it used to be. It’s begun to take on more

serious undertones.”

“Maybe when those undertones become overtones I’ll stop in.”

“A simple ‘no thanks’ will suffice,” Kenyon replied with no malice.

“If I find a spare moment I’ll meet you at the Chapeau.”

“Goodnight Cabris.”

23
 “And good evening John Kenyon.”

Kenyon gave Cabris a half-mocking salute and turned and walked diagonally across the

square and disappeared into one of the nameless alleys.

VII.

e day before their departure, Cabris and his family said a tearful farewell to Cabris’

mother before taking a room at an anonymous hotel near the airport where they ate a bland

dinner. Aer dinner Cabris’ wife retired to the room with Jordan. Cabris found a comfortable

place in the hotel’s bar and drank scotch until he blacked out.

“Christ you’re a pathetic mess,” Cabris’ wife observed as they waited in the terminal for

their flight to be called.

“My head is killing me.”

“You deserve it.”

Cabris downed two aspirin. Jordan sat on the floor and played with a strange looking

stuffed gorilla that wore a severe frown.

“Now where the hell did you get that thing?” Cabris asked and Jordan hid her face

behind the gorilla.

“Patina’s father brought me back from Korea,” the gorilla answered in Jordan’s voice.

“From Korea?”

“Yes!”

“But aren’t you Patina’s gorilla then?”

“I’m Jordan’s gorilla now!”

24
 “Patina gave it to her as a goodbye gi,” Cabris’ wife explained.

“And what is your name gorilla?” Cabris asked.

“Monk E. Man,” the gorilla answered.

“Monkeyman?”

“No you idiot! Monk E. Man!”

“You’re a rude gorilla,” Cabris retorted.

eir flight was called.

Cabris picked up their carry-on bags and they made their way across the tarmac to the

DC-3. As he took his first step up the portable stairway to the cabin door, Cabris turned and

saw his wife lingering, her hand shielding her eyes as she looked at the terminal. Cabris called

her name and she turned and looked at him and Cabris thought that she just might return to

the terminal.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

She paused and turned, taking in one last look, before allowing herself to be drawn to the

plane.

VIII.

e plane touched down in the Periphery.

e flight attendant opened the door and a profound heat invaded the cabin. Cabris

and his family le the plane. As they walked towards the terminal Cabris looked up into what

he interpreted as a lazy, morose sun. A hot breeze whipped across the tarmac, kicking up clouds

of yellow dust.

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 “It feels oppressive here,” Cabris’ wife uttered.

ey entered the terminal. Enormous ceiling fans whipped above their heads. Soldiers

carrying automatic weapons and wearing stern expressions sauntered throughout the terminal.

Aer they collected their luggage they were met by Jacob Cameron, an assistant professor at the

law school.

“I’ll get my car,” Cameron said. “Just meet me outside.”

“You know it’s hot as hell back here,” Cabris’ wife stated bitterly as they drove from the

airport.

e car stopped at a checkpoint. A soldier approached and Cameron spoke with the

soldier. Cameron asked Cabris for his family’s documents. e soldier examined the

documents .

“Pop the trunk,” the solider ordered aer handing the documents back to Cameron. e

soldier checked the trunk and, when satisfied, closed the trunk and thumped it, telling Cameron

to drive on.

Cabris looked out the window. Military vehicles were parked at the side of the road at

regular intervals.

“e insurgency is back, isn’t it?” Cabris asked and Cameron nodded.

“It was rather unexpected. ey’ve taken to targeting the airport road. It was bad for a

while, but it’s better now. ings have been quite calm since the crackdown.”

“We haven’t heard anything about an insurgency,” Cabris wife said angrily.

“Of course you haven’t,” Cameron replied.

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 Cameron reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook the

pack until a cigarette’s butt appeared. Cameron pulled the cigarette out with his teeth and lit it.

Cabris noticed the carcass of a torched bus. A lump formed in his throat. Cabris

glanced into the rearview mirror. Jordan was sleeping, her head against the door, she held the

gorilla in her arms.

“It’s very hot here,” Cabris said. “Much hotter than I remember.”

“Because that was November,” Cameron responded. e traffic slowed as a checkpoint

neared and the city suddenly loomed in the distance. Jordan stirred and asked how much

longer.

“Not much longer now,” Cabris answered.

e car came to a stop. Aer an hour they reached the checkpoint. A soldier examined

their documents and waved them through the razor wire.

“Welcome to your new home,” Cameron said with a surprising lack of irony in his voice.

IX.

Cabris and his family settled into a comfortable apartment on an elegant street with two

cafés and two bars, in the Metropolitan uarter. e apartment had good light and a fine view

of the sea. Cabris’ wife initially found the quarter to be agreeable and as the weather began to

calm in September she started to enjoy taking strolls in the aernoon to the open air market,

returning with bags filled with seasonal fruit and vegetables.

e insurgency remained quietly underground and the threat of war continued to

diminish as the diplomats appeared to engaged in competent negotiations. Cabris smiled as he

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sat in the café and read the details of what the pundits considered to be a highly successful

summit meeting. Cabris’ transition to dean was going well, with only a few faculty members

continuing to resent an outsider taking the appointment. Cabris proved to be a charismatic

administrator, and by the end of the first semester he had succeeded in winning over most of his

detractors.

“You know, it’s not so bad here,” Cabris said to his wife as they sat on the beach and

watched Jordan frolic in the water.

“I agree,” his wife responded. “It’s not so bad.”

“You’re enjoying your work?”

“I am.”

Cabris’ wife had sought out the Periphery’s authors and had made her presence known in

local cultural circles. As Cabris worked to master the intricacies and personalities of his new

job, he could not help but notice a type of celebrity beginning to attach itself to his wife.

“ey’ve begun taking to you,” Cabris mentioned.

“It’s such a provincial city,” she responded. “ey latch on to outsiders, fetishize them,

although they remain a bit suspicious. It’s bizarre.”

“And flattering.”

“Somewhat. Before I was just a cog in the larger cultural machine. I was anonymous.

Here . . . here, it’s different.”

“You’ve made a splash.”

“A tempest in a teapot.”

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 Two days later Cabris’ wife threw a cocktail party for the literary community and Cabris

was startled by how many people arrived that evening for the event. Cabris’ wife was charming

and Cabris felt a bit jealous of all the attention being lavished on her.

Five months later Cabris’ wife would leave him for another man.

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