The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
hiding something from them. A narrow moral view would probably say
that this hardly matters, that we are finally accountable only and most
of all for our own actions. But I have actually been given a chance to be
responsible for something more than myself, and I ask that you at least
try to understand, and perhaps eventually try to forgive me before you
forget me.
I would beg only two favors from you. First, I was not just flattering
you when I said that I liked your articles in the Carrier. I would consider
it a tremendous gift if you could write down your recollections of the past
week and send them to this address that I enclose here. I want to know
how my actions looked to someone who lacks my belief in them. I know
this is a burdensome gift, and it might strike you as vain, but I hope you
will do it anyway.
Second, I want you to promise not to try to trace me. I do not plan to
be here for very long, certainly not long enough for you to follow the trail
that leads to me, and the closer you would get to me, the more worried I
would become for your safety. We will agree to be glad that we knew each
other, however briefly (too briefly!), but you must promise to go no further
than that.
Tonu, as he told you, was not Tonu. Jaan was not Jaan. But I really
was Hannah Elizabeth Rowe. While I write this, I still am, and I will
always remember you with great fondness, whoever I am and wherever
Igo.
Love,
H.
Well, that last line was certainly a comfort, thanks very much: I helped kill
an old man; I did it for reasons too elevated and noble for you to understand;
I’ve disappeared with the murderer; but you write really well, and I want you
to have my records, and I’ll remember you fondly. What was I supposed to
say, or do, with any of that? Out of either a misguided sense of chivalry or a
well-guided sense of writerly egotism, I did write this account of our week,
which I now disclaim all ownership of. I hope you don’t mind reading about
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