These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

Brown says, “He’s become a prominent figure, then.”

“Now,” Zan explains, “he’s vice-chairman or co-director for something called Civic Organizers Network, and his politics are as far to the right as they once were to the left. And here’s the thing — Ronnie hasn’t changed at all, as far as I can tell. Because the specific content of his views is beside the point. The point is the totalitarian pathology, the pathology of zealotry or, if you want to put it in more secular terms, ideology. Because what the zealot or ideologue really believes in is the zealous nature itself, the devout embrace of hard distinctions — the crusade against gray. It’s a story as old as the original novel, historical or not — the Damascan convert. The completely adamant non-believer who becomes the believer, and the thing that hasn’t altered an iota is his adamancy.”

“Not to mention that perhaps this chap’s politics were always as opportunistic as you suspected.”

“That’s not for me to say, and it takes me off the hook for nothing.”

“I think perhaps this story,” says Brown, “is less about my zealotry, as you’ve characterized it — that part, I assume, is directed at me — and more about why you haven’t written a novel since.”

“Touché,” says Zan, lifting to him the empty vodka glass. “I would drink to you if my glass weren’t empty.”

“I offered you another, didn’t I?” Brown points out. “And I assume this new novel you’re writing now,” he continues, gesturing in the direction of Zan’s daughter digging into her fish and chips, “is about a white man raising a black daughter at the same time a black bloke is president of his country?”

Zan is shocked. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because there are things about race that no white person can understand. Because no white author has the moral authority, not to mention insight or wisdom, to write such a book. Don’t be daft, as you Brits would say.”