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Reading Mr. Lincoln’s Army Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow Tonight I’m reading Mr. Lincoln’s Army in a holding cell near Sheremetyevo. McClellan’s writing to his Ellen of the “original Gorilla” (he means Lincoln)— Mac’s been called upon to save the nation. My watch shows 10 p.m., but I’ve flown across the ocean, I’m in some nether hour. Right now, it seems just as likely that I could be that self-same Ellen—tight-corseted, hooped, done up in sprigged muslin, reading my lover’s letter in the drawing room— as myself, arriving late, without a visa. I stir, shiver, touch my hand to the nightstand. This cell resembles every room in Russia: the same beige-papered walls, same tiles crumbling in the bath, the same gray-flecked linoleum ruching across the floor. Outside, my jailors snore in their chairs. I maintain the fiction 5 that all’s well this night: now I’m Little Mac telling my Ellen how I’ll save the country from itself—I’m not the type, I say, to bolt awake later, staring, astonished with fright. 6 ...

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