Enoch's Folly

  As the staff busied themselves with the removal of what remained of Conlon to some uncontemplatable end (no next of kin), Mrs Hatfield and Watson helped Rosti into a procured wheel chair and carted him to the lift doors. They waited as she scoured the premises, using her not inconsiderable (though deeply lamented) expertise to find what he needed and smuggle it out to him. They were forced to clatter Rosti down the stairs on the way out, causing all three of them to curse the burghers of Havana for their lack of the most rudimentary planning nous. At the foot of the stairs, the driver was waiting – holding his helmet in one arm, his goggles hanging loose around his neck and his scarf open – simply looped over his shoulders.

  “You can’t take him out of here like this.” He said.

  “They can and they are,” Rosti responded.

  He shook his head.

  “Nope. How long is it going to take you to get to wherever it is you need to go?”

  Mrs Hatfield and Rosti looked at one another. Even Watson grew impatient.

  “Son, if you want to say something you say it.”

  “I saw what happened to you last night. I was ashamed by the way that goon acted, but what was far worse was the way I acted; I didn’t do a damn thing.” He shot a guilty look at Mrs Hatfield. “Sorry for the language ma’am.” He turned back to Watson.

  “I just stood there though I knew it was wrong. It’s so strange, after what I’ve seen and done, I’m just like everyone else; all the well-intentioned folk with strong opinions and weak backbones; we watch, we get upset and we do nothing. The least I can do is to get you where you’re going.”

  “We’re going to New York City,” Rosti said, almost casually. “How about it?”

  The driver looked from Rosti to Mrs Hatfield, to Watson – who smiled beneficently – then back to Mrs Hatfield.

  “I’ll need to get some gas on the way. Apart from that, I don’t see why not.”

  *

  The road was vast – and the three passengers, in different ways, could understand why the driver was so in love with it.

  It was nearing midday and out there spring could be cruel. The light was a uniform searing yellow and the heat dry. Rosti’s morphine was wearing off and he said nothing, preferring to talk his way through it – or simply clench his teeth when it got too much. He noted, with a strange little smile, that as the pain worsened (with the subsiding effect of the opiate) the less frequently he looked over his shoulder to see if death was following them.

  Watson was in high spirits and enjoyed the driver’s company immensely. They had little in common to the naked eye, but shared a passion for exchanging stories – some borrowed, some first hand, some diplomatic, some polemical, some familiar, some fanciful.

  Mrs Hatfield spoke little, preferring to listen to Watson and the driver. Rosti chatted with her quietly now and then – and she engaged with him as much as possible – but he would nap at times, or simply watch the woods and clearings, tiny towns and vast bridges whirr past; as she did herself. Small children gaped at the car, mules pulled overloads and kept their faces serene in contrast to the ubiquitous desperation of certain scenes, scenes in turn contrasting with the humming prosperity just out of reach (further down the same road). The distance between two worlds was sometimes less than one thousand yards. In the 1920s the finest of the nation had gotten thoroughly drunk. The hangover struck three months from the end of that decade and in some places had lasted until the end of the next. She knew this country well, and it knew her no matter how well she hid.

  Watson was telling the driver a story about Canada and the driver was nodding.

  “Fascinating place. I’m keenly interested in the history of the seven-year war.” the younger man said at the end. “A civilised country should have more than one official language, I believe.”

  “I never did learn French. In Toronto, there was no real need.”

  “Neither did I. Actually; it’s the strangest thing. I speak my mother tongue without any trouble. I can understand French, and Italian, well, but I can only speak a few words in either. It’s like a certain part of my brain connected to language works very well, and another part doesn’t work at all.”

  Mrs Hatfield looked up. “Pardon me?”

  The driver looked back over his shoulder, causing her some alarm though the road was straight and there was not another vehicle in sight.

  “I can understand French and Italian – but I can’t speak either. I don’t know exactly what I did wrong – but I can read it, I can understand it… And can’t speak it or write it. Well, I can tell you it has not been a barrier in my career as a driver.”

  “That’s quite interesting. I learnt French before I moved to Boston, and it helped as a governess – but it was hard for me, very hard. I barely mastered one language as a child, I had some catching up to do to learn a second.”

  Mercifully, the driver turned back to watch the road.

  “I find that hard to believe, ma’am, you speak very well.”

  Mrs Hatfield thanked him graciously but felt uncomfortable. A lull in conversation followed and he shifted in his seat.

  “Do you know much about the Acadians?” He asked Watson to break the silence. “When they were driven from Canada they went to Louisiana and, over time, became known as the Cajuns.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I spent some time in New Orleans; if variety is the spice of life – that’s the most piquant place in the USA.”

  Rosti woke from one of his naps and rasped something at Mrs Hatfield, then pointed at his throat. It was warming up and they’d taken in some dust from the road. The driver’s flask was empty so their options were limited. Mrs Hatfield had planned to primarily rely on the train’s dining car and so packed light in regards to provisions. The driver accelerated and the passengers tightened their grip on their seats as he tightened his on the steering wheel.

  “I can see a roadhouse up ahead – not long now,” he shouted over the now alarming rattle of the Chevrolet.

  “I am sure you can slow down a little…” Mrs Hatfield offered and he obliged.

  Shortly, they pulled in, the inertia of the motorcar sending enough force to move the wooden sign which moaned on painful chains. It read ‘Hamburger Hill’ – someone’s idea of a joke against the backdrop of the relentless flats. The driver leapt out without opening the small half-door and pulled his goggles up to above his peaked cap.

  “Who’s hungry?”

  “We’ll just need that water at this stage.” Mrs Hatfield said. “Mr Watson?”

  “Oh I’m quite alright ma’am.”

  “Mr Rosti, would you like some food as well?”

  “Just water.”

  The driver looked at them, half turned back over his shoulder, arms hanging limply in surprise, a stark line on either cheek where the sweat marks of his goggles began and the clean white dust ended. Against this pallidness his eyes seemed darker still, seemed piercing to Mrs Hatfield who found the way he looked at her now unnerving. She had lived a hard 39 years but the features that had seen her pursued by a number of suitors in her middle teens and once again aged twenty-six had been left intact, even enhanced by time. The ebullient glow of her eyes in their youth had been replaced by a mature warmth; a resilient radiance as entreating as any and undimmed by even the unimaginable hurt she’d seen. He saw it, and she knew it.

  The driver turned his back and headed inside. Watson and Mrs Hatfield headed towards the roadhouse but stopped, startled, when the driver emerged again.

  “I lost my appetite,” he said. “But there’s a well just back here where we can fill our canteens. You don’t have any? I’ll buy some.” He vanished inside then emerged again carrying two large silver canteens. “I’d recommend drinking your fill while we’re here, then filling these up.”

  They headed towards the rear of the place, where a single cast iron pump over a bucket and a drain waited for them. It struck them as strange that a well
would have been built in such a place; wells were common in older, populous places – piped water was for the far cast such as this late nineteen century roadhouse.

  The driver stopped and looked out, his back to the road.

  “This is a place of uncommon beauty, and as good as any at which to stop. Too many of my kind simply stop where gas is available, in other words, at the most functional and least worthy sites. I’m sorry Mr Rosti was thirsty, but I’m glad we came here.”

  As Mrs Hatfield began to respond, he motioned for her to stay silent. Around the well and in the lone tree beside it were a number of tiny birds – each no bigger than a salt shaker – singing beautifully, no doubt to celebrate finding the only tree for miles and a reliable source of water alongside it. Watson listened. The driver did his best to give the cook time enough to enjoy the moment. Eventually he crunched along the dry earth towards the well.

  As he reached the pump, a woman emerged from behind the tree without warning.

  “Christ almighty,” he exclaimed, jumping.

  She was wild, ice blue eyes under a severe forehead and wiry grey hair tied tightly back – long and unkempt. She stared at Watson. The driver smiled at her and pointed to the wide and empty expanse.

  “Beautiful day isn’t it ma’am?”

  She looked at him as though he’d murdered her mother.

  “The day is always ugly as the light shows the world’s ugliness… Under the cover of night; it is uglier still.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence and Mrs Hatfield looked back to keep an eye on Rosti in the car. He waved to her with a surprising degree of cheerfulness.

  “I can’t argue with that last part.” The driver offered, unsmiling.

  She looked back to Watson again.

  “You have brought Tierisias to us.”

  The driver looked behind the tree as best he could, then back to Mrs Hatfield.

  “He speaks the truth, and has the power to forgive.”

  Watson had realised she was referring to him when she answered the driver, he extended his hand and it hung in the air.

  “The name’s Watson ma’am.”

  She flew forward and held it tightly in both hands.

  “You are going to the east?”

  “We are ma’am.” The driver answered. She turned to face him, still clutching Watson’s hand.

  “My brother also speaks the truth. He is bringing the word to Babylon itself.”

  “Washington DC?”

  “New York City!” She cried the city’s name with an almost terrified excitement, letting go of Watson and slipping back toward the tree.

  Mrs Hatfield thought she may have recognised the woman and, though she decided this was not possible, she felt she ought to protect her somehow.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, is there anything we can do for you?” She moved toward her slowly.

  The woman reached one hand out towards Mrs Hatfield but slowly edged away as she did. She spoke in a hushed tone, almost whispering.

  “You are no stone, but you have already become hollow from many drops. You will break and fall apart from many drops. I see you wearied by poisonous flies. I see you bloodily scratched in a hundred places; and your pride does not even want to be wrathful.”

  Mrs Hatfield went white and stopped approaching the woman, who glared now at all three of them in turn.

  “May the hand of God go with you.” She said, and walked past the tree and beyond, going west alongside the road. They did not follow.

  The driver turned to Watson and Mrs Hatfield.

  “What she said,” he began. “I know it from somewhere.”

  “It was from no bible I know,” Watson offered.

  Mrs Hatfield stared after her and spoke quietly.

  “Solitude – that’s how she wants it. Because the world is ugly; full of poisonous flies.”

  She looked down at the baked and crumbling clay beneath her feet. The wild woman had mixed myths and faiths but had spoken directly to her heart – the mad have access to truth through channels not readily available to the sane; and out there in the blistering sun the woman had found that for which she had searched.

  The driver watched Mrs Hatfield intently, then turned to Watson.

  “Seems strange I haven’t done this sooner; but the name’s Kristian; with a K. And it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Mrs Hatfield looked up and smiled.

  * * *

  Anna’s store was busy and Robert hovered outside, peering through the window. There was not much room and five customers filled the place, bustling against one another and the dark wood cabinets and armless, headless mannequins as Anna handed out finished work wrapped in brown paper and received new written orders. Their relatives were outside, waiting around Robert and chirping to one another in a mixture of English and other tongues. The customers subsided one at a time, though in short intervals as she was dealing with them, as far as practicable, contemporaneously. When one was left he made his way into the store. It was a short, stocky woman with tightly curled hair a seeming even split between jet black and perfect white, her navy coat buttoned high and dark-stockinged legs secured in the tough, dependable square-toed shoes he’d become used to seeing on the Mediterranean grandmothers. She was very quiet, watched Robert without a word, and waited calmly while Anna made a last minute alteration. The woman observed the finished product (which even Robert could recognise as superb) and smiled very briefly, speaking quietly to Anna just a few words he did not catch before slipping out to her almost identical sister or cousin.

  She smiled at him excitedly.

  “I have made something for tonight!”

  “To eat?”

  “To wear!”

  “Oh… Good. Fantastic, even, because I have good news. I am going to take you out for dinner – anywhere in the city you have ever wanted to go and never have. You name it; that’s where we are going.”

  “You are hiding something. The party is not happening; why not? Or, it is happening and we are not going. Which one is it?”

  He leaned against one of the dummies.

  “We’re not going. Trust me, it’s for the best. Also, I need a new job, can you teach me how to sow?”

  “Trust you trust you – why not tell me if it is best? Your Comely is not a saint. You are intelligent and knew this for some time. Is it dangerous? You must take care Robert. And you are mad too – anywhere in the city I have never been? That is many places, and do you think I have a… wish list? I do not. The dress I have made is more for this place your Comely would have his party – because I have made dresses for women going there; this is how I know it.”

  He saw the way she had searched for the word ‘wish’ – showing her unfamiliarity with the notion of groundless hope.

  Her words were traced with the kind of manic energy that pushes hard against exhaustion or dread as the last line of defence. Robert held her by the shoulders.

  “Better for it to be just you and me somewhere, without some crowd of people bothering us. Wear the dress – no matter where we’ll go. I have a suit at my apartment – I’ll go get it and then come back here to meet you. Are you hungry?”

  “Must you always think of food?”

  “I’ll be fast. Really fast.”

  Robert bolted to the nearest station and then to his apartment; bounding up the stairs two a step. Once in his suit he walked more calmly; spring had at last arrived and while already evening he took pains to avoid breaking into a sweat. He got back to Anna’s store in record time and she was already downstairs, already transformed, her exhaustion gone – he saw her through the window and she smiled at him like liberty’s torch; and he did not notice the dress until much later.

  As they walked she took his arm, reaching up, and he couldn’t stop grinning – forgetting all the troubles of the world for that shining moment. His smile wavered a little as he thought of a place to go. All of the places that cam
e to mind had been introduced to him by Comely.

  *

  Romero too had seen Comely that morning but not by chance. Comely had always been as straight with him as anyone and had given him the news in a quiet, even voice.

  “You know the holy church made a collection last night. They killed a young guard, even beat his dog. I want you to know that it’s not all dollars and cents – so, you might… Well it’s hard to predict what will happen until there’s a plan in motion. This guy moves like a wounded elephant and I’ll see him coming for us. I didn’t see last night coming because I don’t know the people who ran that place. And let me tell you something – that place had nothing to do with anything. He’s a mad dog. But even a mad dog follows a certain pattern of behaviour. I’m a legitimate businessman, as you know – do you think I want to be a murderer, Romero? Do you think I can just wait and if he attacks our interests do something about him? In other words – when it is too late?”

  Romero knew what it meant and that Comely may ask him to be a part of it. Comely knew Romero had experience – fifteen years earlier he’d been one of Zapata’s men. The death of the general had meant the end of one life and the beginning of another. There had been no Tino then. No peace. No future to risk.

  Romero would not quit, but he would not attend the damn party either. He remembered; It is one thing to be in the Devil’s classroom, it is quite another to be his star pupil.

  *

  There was an Austrian place which clung to survival on the very fringe of the fancier part of town. The rents were high but Ivo hoped against hope that the quality of his food would triumph in the end. Comely loved the place but Robert knew he would not be there that night so chose it for dinner. The night was cooling fast which made hot mulled wine ideal. Ivo brought it out for openers. Robert wrapped his arm around Anna’s shoulders and smiled.