Enoch's Folly

  *

  Comely considered the future and quickly put the notion out of his mind. It was once so clear, almost certain to the point of boredom, and now threatened by a series of uncontrolled variables even he had not seen coming. He liked an adventure but one where he was always in control, which he supposed on reflection wasn’t an adventure at all – but merely a series of events he found entertaining or interesting. This revelation troubled his view of himself for about five seconds before succumbing to more important considerations. He was in Winsted again, and to his amusement he found that Puffy and Beanpole’s boss had been making all manner of inquiries. The Boss had been advised Comely – though he wasn’t Comely in Winsted – played with a straight bat, was a serious man and not one to be fucked with but someone who, within the context of their enterprises, could be trusted.

  Comely sat at the bar at Nathra’s. There was a free booth but he decided he’d talk with the proprietor. Well, deciding to sit at the bar at Nathra’s was the same as deciding to talk with him. He emerged from the kitchen, a young girl was holding down the counter and Comely could see it was his daughter by the resemblance. Nathra recognised Comely and smiled.

  “Who wouldn’t come back to Winsted?” he asked him. The girl had huge dark eyes, she was about nine and stared at Comely unnervingly. He shifted a little in his seat.

  “Your coffee made quite an impression me last time, so here I am. Is this your daughter?”

  Nathra put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “This is Laura. Say hello Laura.”

  Laura stared at him.

  “Where are you from, sir?”

  “What do you mean? I’m from New York.”

  Laura was not impressed with the answer.

  “The Empire State… Really?” She asked.

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m always interested in people’s stories.” She flitted away and took another customer’s order.

  Nathra beamed and wiped his hands on his white apron.

  “It’s true, she’s fascinated by people, by cultures, by other countries – has been since she could talk.”

  Nathra said something to Laura in Arabic and she darted into the kitchen.

  Nathra made Comely a coffee and Laura emerged again. He noted how politely the man spoke to his daughter – as an equal. She looked and saw her father was distracted, and she spoke quietly in Arabic to Comely and pointed at him.

  ‘What an intense little girl,’ he thought.

  “I don’t understand,” he said quietly in English. She looked at him and tilted her head slightly, as though disbelieving.

  “Do I look like someone you know?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly, and with the slightest suggestion of mischief in her voice. “Are you someone I know?”

  Comely paused, looking back at her. The awkward silence was broken when Nathra returned with the coffee. It smelt delicious and he drank it gratefully, continuing his attempt to assess Laura’s line of questioning. He put the coffee cup down as Nathra went to the kitchen.

  “I don’t speak Arabic. That’s what you are speaking with your father, isn’t it?”

  Laura nodded. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s what they speak in Lebanon. I do speak French though, which they also speak in Lebanon. Parles vous francais?”

  “Oui.” She still would not smile.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  The girl softened a little and spoke with enthusiasm of her siblings, showing a real affection for them.

  “I have a sister Claire and two brothers; Shafiq and Ralph.”

  “I am guessing Shafiq is the oldest of the bunch. Am I right?”

  Laura smiled. “How did you know?”

  Comely shrugged and waited; he was testing her. Laura caught on to the game and furrowed her brow. Within seconds she grinned.

  “It’s because of his name. He didn’t get an American name - because he was first. That’s how you knew.”

  He grinned back. “You’re a very clever girl.”

  Nathra called out from the kitchen and Laura skipped away. Comely had been sitting with a view of the glass door and saw Puffy, Beanpole and the third man before they’d even crossed the street on their way in. He moved to a booth and picked up a menu, not looking up when the bell rang on their entry nor when they stood by his table.

  “Take a seat.” He asked, not without warmth, but without looking up.

  Puffy and Beanpole waited for their boss. He took a seat and shuffled along so he was opposite Comely, who’d left room for three but the boss motioned to his men to leave them. Comely looked up. The boss seemed a serious man, certainly more dignified than his goons and most likely the kind Comely could talk to with as one reasonable person to another. He was about 50, silver creeping in through dark hair at a slow pace for his age, but hardened. He seemed a serious man, his hands were working hands and his arms fit, though the beginnings of a paunch betrayed themselves under a half-way fine suit. Comely enjoyed a sense of humour, but could not tolerate people incapable of being serious.

  “Mr Kinley.”

  “Mr Rubin.”

  Walter Rubin. A perfectly harmless name, too plain to stick in the memory, not so plain as to arouse suspicion. Comely also had the advantage of looking like he could be a Walter Rubin. He had the advantage of looking like he could be just about anything. Rubin and Kinley talked comfortably. They talked like two men who had been passing acquaintances for 20 years, with few questions but plenty of answers – some of them even true. They talked with ease and humour, but also like two men who understood the one would kill the other were it demanded by the circumstances.

  Nathra was uneasy and kept his distance, though when Kinley motioned for his attention he was sure to come to take the order himself, rather than leaving it to Laura. Comely looked at the clock and for the first time wondered why the girl wasn’t in school, then allowed himself a worried smile. She was in uniform and her bag still sat on the counter… she had obviously just arrived straight from her last class. He wondered again if he was growing slow and shook the notion off.

  The two men continued talking with ease and when Kinley’s meal arrived they were done, though it had not taken long. Rubin has assured Kinley he sought only a small market with no overlap on Kinley’s established concerns; that he operated under the ethos of low volume, high quality, high return– a theory Kinley said he respected, though his choice of employees suggested otherwise. They reached an understanding and when Kinley left, Comely rose to shake his hand, a gesture the old pimp appreciated. He had smelt the brandy ever so slightly on the man’s breath, badly disguised by a cigarette and a mint, and for God’s sake it was three in the afternoon. He was a little weak, Comely feared, and weak people could be unpredictable, but he knew how to play him, how to fly low and make him feel safe. Then neither of them would have to worry about anything.

  Kinley walked with confidence, steady, and Comely was impressed by his mastery of deception. He’s been doing this for a long time, he thought.

  Nathra approached him and spoke softly.

  “Mister, I like you – and I appreciate someone who appreciates a good coffee.” He smiled, but the warmth was tempered by an anger Comely sensed below the surface which surprised him.

  “But I do not want that character in here on a regular basis. I’ve got my children in here some of the time, he’s not the kind of person I want in here. I have a feeling you understand.”

  Comely noticed Laura behind the counter staring at him while drying a plate – brow furrowed and black eyes burning.

  “Sir, it is my intention to settle in your town in order to retire. Yes, to retire – I look younger than my actual age, which I attribute to plenty of olive oil, very little sun and the right amount of not caring.”

  Nathra blanched.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Comely rushed the words, “I care about the important th
ings, which is why I understand your concern for your family. I spoke to Mr Kinley today so that I need not speak to him again. If you see him here in the future, it won’t be on my account.”

  As a striking woman entered the store with a tiny dark-haired boy in a small suit – dark and without a tie, both men turned to face the bell. Nathra beamed and moved towards her, embracing his wife before hauling the boy up and onto the counter. The kid giggled and his mother went behind the counter to hug and kiss Laura. Comely heard Laura ask the woman how it had gone, something about a first day, but he was sure the boy was too young for school. He paid close attention to Nathra’s words to the boy, whose sharp eyes and jet-black crown made him look a tiny prince.

  “What did you learn today in school, did they teach you how to believe or did they teach you how to think?”

  The boy stopped giggling and Comely saw some level of understanding in his eyes. That’s some kid, he thought to himself. Can’t be older than five. He wondered if he was imagining the exchange, the provocative question and the impossibly comprehending response of the impossibly young boy genius, then the doubt spread wildly, Comely questioned the conversation with Nathra, then with Kinley and all the perceptions and understandings and clues he derived from it, and back to Laura’s strange stare and the entire time he’d spent in Winsted. He felt his face cold and now glistening with sweat, and wondered, terrified, if he was awake. He struggled for air and stared at the family, who milled and brimmed with warmth oblivious. A memory, a single simple thought burst triumphantly against the darkness marching across Comely’s mind and held it off – a single fierce torch; The boy is the youngest son. His name is Ralph. And in that moment, Comely was assured everything was real and as it should be.

 

  *

  It was a Saturday and unusually cold. Robert had asked Anna to meet him by the chess players in Central Park, but when the clouds ripped open and washed out the day’s play, he huddled under a tree and wished there was a way he could arrange to meet her somewhere dry. But it was too late, and if he made his way to her shop now he could miss her and the day would be lost. The day, one entire day to himself was a new luxury he bought with guilt and he wanted to share it with her. The sky flashed and almost simultaneously Robert felt as well as heard the cracking roar of thunder. He stood regardless, totally determined to take this chance. Mexico was always there, now like the ghost of some wretched Christmas future, whereas he had at one time looked forward to it with a child-like enthusiasm.

  Comely had been Robert’s first complication. A fun time was something on which one could turn their back easily. Friendship? Friendship was an entirely different proposition. And Comely was his friend, if he was anyone’s, and of that Robert was certain. And whatever it was he had with Anna, it was not something he would give up - lightly or otherwise.

  It was just on one but the sky was an angry grey, with no peace in sight. Robert knew he ought to be in cadre school, his ostensible reason for staying had been an additional course, and they had reluctantly agreed to it – though had argued nothing would compare with what he could learn at Coyoacán. Robert had never been fewer than five minutes early for every cadre class he’d ever read but this morning, having yesterday planned to meet this evening, he visited Anna’s store and asked her, barely containing his composure, to meet him as soon as she had finished her orders for the day. Not for one moment did he contemplate arranging to meet after the day school, which would have added an agonising three hours to his wait.

  Robert was drenched, more or less, already, and tried to shield his huge frame from the rain to no avail.

  Anna burst into view, streaming through the white wall wild with a smile on her face that blazed through everything, that Robert would have seen through a blizzard, that made anything else on his mind vanish. The powerlessness frightened him but only for the most momentary of moments, and he moved towards her – not even appreciating the difference the tree had made when he braved the deluge, the mad tropical deluge out of place in this glittering common people’s palace – and as soon as she cried “Hello Robert” to him he cried out to her;

  “I love you – like crazy.”

  “This is only six times we have met.” Her smile faded only slightly, sabotaged by surprise, and she shouted to be heard above the rain.

  “I knew the first time I saw you. I’ve never doubted it since – never even stopped thinking about you since.”

  “Ah, so you only love me because I repaired your coat, getting your coins free,” she laughed.

  “No, it was before that.” He was earnest and she said she was sorry for joking, because it was no joke to her. Robert thought to talk about Mexico, his family’s farm back home, Anna’s shop and Comely’s yard but realised the foolishness of it all. Things like that – what are they in the face of this? He wondered and cursed himself for over-analysis before holding Anna’s shoulders and crying out;

  “I loved you before I was born – I’ll love you after I die.”

  *

  Either the winter was lasting forever or it was the first time Comely noticed the cold.

  He walked calmly though inside he staggered, and saw the street prophet who today was not on his usual corner. Still tall though, still with long arms, clad again in his filthy coat over what seemed to be a sack and long johns, tucked into fisherman’s boots, with his unevenly cropped black hair getting a little longer and his beard greying at a now alarming pace. Comely was sure it was black and grey when he’d seen it last and was now grey and white. That’s impossible – it has only been days. Today he bore a sign that read; ‘The RIGHTEOUS shaLL shine like The Son’, and Comely did not doubt it for a second. He nodded at the prophet who nodded back. It has only been three days, hasn’t it?

  He wanted to see the kid, Arturo. Earlier that morning Comely had emerged from bed to find it colder than he could remember, and though he had never once – not once – telephoned the front desk with a question or complaint he did on this occasion to ask if the boiler was working. They assured him that it was. What an extravagance, he mused, to telephone someone in the same building. And so this cold troubled him, and he thought of the kid, Arturo, and his family in their room, with their garden. If the plants freeze up… he thought. And he thought of Rida too, and her respectable business, and then of Arturo’s deaf sister, and the pride of the boy, who kept that hundred, that small fortune, hidden and kept living as he did, saving that hundred just in case there was some… he stopped… some emergency.

  Comely turned back and looked at the prophet, the prophet was turned and looking at him – eyes not wild at all, but clear blue and steady, and he had been like that a while, turned and watching, he could tell by his breathing and the light snow not shaken from his brow. So light, so delicate that just to turn would shake it loose.

  The righteous shall shine like the son.

  Comely thought of Rida again, whom he had seen twice since their lunch. When had he seen her last? He knew exactly and knew it was too long. He found Arturo’s place with customary ease, though it was a long walk from his end of town to the kid’s. He stood in the main doorway, looking up the stairwell as best he could but hesitating, reluctant to trespass. He looked for a bell, for a name or a number he recognised, but remembered he didn’t know the kids last name and hadn’t seen a number on the door. He stepped back and away, crossing the street and looking at the roof for signs of the garden… And there was the kid, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and cap pulled low, scarf around his mouth, but his dark eyes striking off against his white face were unmistakable. He raised a hand to Comely and pointed down, then disappeared from view. In a remarkably short time he emerged to meet Comely at the ground level, arriving at the stoop at the same time.

  “I am going to the market street.”

  Arturo held a cloth sack which he rolled and stuffed into his pocket, not asking why Comely was there – accepting their bizarre meeting as though it was expected.

&n
bsp; “You come with me.”

  Comely nodded and walked alongside the boy.

  “How’s your health?” he inquired.

  “Last week, I coughed hard. But not this week.”

  “You will see my doctor at once.”

  “I am fine now.”

  “No!” He grabbed the boy by the arm, with enough urgency to worry them both and attract the looks of passers-by. “I am taking you to see him immediately.”

  Arturo pulled away, annoyed.

  “I need to buy some food – our garden is failing. Inside there is no sun, in front of the building – plants are stolen, on the roof – frozen… Come with me to the market, or go to your doctor alone.”

  Arturo’s voice was calm, but his eyes angry. Comely saw the burden on the boy, responsibility for the survival of his clan etched on his face. This was what had given him that strange aged look, those terrible black eyes in his tiny young face.

  “Kid.”

  Arturo spoke without looking back, he spoke colder than before – spoke harder.

  “They are hungry, you know. I know you know, that’s why you are here. We haven’t spent your money, you know, but I know you know. That’s why you are here. Do you want to give us more? I carry this family. I am the head of this family. Do you understand? I can not take your money, not more. Perhaps I should not have taken it the first time, but I knew this was coming – this long winter. I did not like to take your money, but I do not like being awake at night thinking if we will have enough. You understand, I know.”