The women of New France came. They’d bathed, and had done the best they could with a few scraps of ribbon and muslin. I tried not to stare at their weird little hats, or to inhale as I danced near their decayed teeth. I did not mind overlooking the incapacity of colony folk to reach the level of European sophistication. Some of the prisoners were dressed in well-made garments their servants had stitched with imported silk. It was not too primitive or outlandish a scene.

The problem was, I forgot that every last woman among them hated me with her whole heart.

Their hatred billowed out to my tent walls until those walls strained like the engorged gut of a lord who has filled himself with a lifetime of rancid mutton and ale. I could hardly breathe. Much as I imbued my face and my every gesture with civility that night, I intercepted nothing in return save barely disguised derision.

Remembering that derision renders me downhearted now, especially among these disdainful caricatures populating the new Foulon.

Where has my old Foulon gone?

Under the high sun—is it already past noon? —I see, beyond the billboards and the path and the cut-out effigies of my men, a wild and unchanged part of the cliff!

Does it know me?

I move closer and see that the landscapers and the designers of history have their limits: they have not altered the face of the cliff beyond one small area. Above me, dark against the bright sky, looms my real Foulon, and I resolve to climb it once again instead of going back into the city by the manicured path.

My boots cause little avalanches on the escarpment and I think of Harold. I think: the last time I did this climb, I had company.

My coat drags in the dust and I become thirsty. I feel more worn-out than I did in the pre-dawn of my death-day: daybreak then felt exhilarating.

I am weary from all my travels, the weary afternoons with their futile suns.

As I scramble back into the trees I’m grateful for their cool darkness. I feel respite as I reach the trees and grab their roots—their roots are fingers of dear ones who have missed my presence.

24 Who Am I in the Night

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12.

NIGHT.

The Plains of Abraham. Quebec City, Quebec

WHEN I WAKE IT IS to see in the forest a lurid stain from sodium lamps in the port below. My trees muffle the industrial rumble, but the woods’ margin still suffers the port’s racket, an extra layer of hollering from workers repairing a massive vessel that bears no cargo save passengers. I peep through foliage to see its name in the lamplight: Empire Summit.