Enoch's Folly

  “Comely.”

  Robert looked over his shoulder through his tiny window. Just a hint of blue light – sunrise barely getting started.

  “Robert.”

  They stood at the doorway – one facing the other, barely more than a foot apart. Robert stood aside.

  “I have a chair, a bed and a glass if you want some tap water.”

  Comely sat on the edge of the bed. “Would you prefer the bed?” He asked Robert with an earnestness that made him burst out laughing.

  “I’m fine with the chair!” He pulled it out and took a seat, glancing over his shoulder at the typewriter’s bare black roller.

  “How do I look?” Comely asked him, hands together, a serious expression now.

  “Serious.”

  “Come on.”

  “Seriously?”

  Comely allowed a grin.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You look fine. Actually…” He stopped himself.

  “Hm?”

  “Fine. I mean, you looked a little… tired recently, like you’d been working a great deal… which… you have.”

  “And now I don’t?”

  “No.”

  Comely seemed a bit surprised, even pleased. He was both.

  “I knew it too. I knew it – I was wearing down, wearing out. And it was the first time in a long time, and for the same reasons as the last time.”

  “Not quite a riddle, but definitely enigmatic.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The important thing is that we are on top, Robert – we are on top. How’s your… writing going?”

  “Ah, not going so well. I have one big idea, but no little ideas.”

  “Better that way than the other way around.”

  “Undeniable.”

  “What is the big idea?”

  “The duality of man.”

  “Nothing more engaging and honest than good against evil, especially in the same person, and that is what every story ever told is about – more or less, no offence Robert – because it’s the fundamental basis of every story that is even remotely true. Do you believe in evolution Robert?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. You’re a good materialist. A rationalist. I myself am not a rationalist. I wish I was; I’d probably be less afraid of the world. Or more afraid. What do you think?”

  Robert watched Comely closely, like a specimen in a jar – but the kind of specimen you treated with utmost caution.

  Comely continued without an answer.

  “So to me, you have the snake against God. Adam and Eve were neither good nor evil – because for that, one must have the requisite knowledge to choose between the two. Adam and Eve were simply unaware of the possibility of evil, and, as such, of good as well. It is why a man who is incapable of fear…”

  “…Can not be brave.”

  “Precisely. The snake introduced them to the possibility of evil only because he introduced them to knowledge. He did so with the express purpose of working against God’s purpose, which was to keep his… people… free of sin. And so, the first battle was won by the devil. Cain wanted to very badly to please God, and was so hurt by his failure to do so, that he struck his brother down. Was it the goodness in him that made him care that his offering was frowned upon? And then, of course, the evil within him lead him to kill. This is the beginning and it will be the end, good and evil – within us as individuals and as humanity. Does everyone have some instinct for evil? Arguably, as we’re made from the same basic materials, but the question is one of capacity – What do you want? What do you believe is permissible? How far are you prepared to go? You can't wrestle interminably with your own capacity for evil. You must either destroy it, or give in to it completely. Otherwise, sooner or later, the tension becomes too great and you shatter like glass." 

  "Are there any alternatives?"

  "None." 

  "So what did you do?”

  He grinned, an unrecogniseable grin, and aged for just an instant. 

  "I reconstructed the shards and splinters into something resembling a man."

  At this he rose, and made for the door. He turned as he opened it:

  “After you” and Robert went out without a word, though within a second or two Comely had shut the door and was ahead of him again, turning back over his shoulder and talking without watching his step, walking through the hall as though he’d walked it countless times.

  “How’s the Welshman?”

  “What?”

  “The caretaker. The reader. How is he?”

  Comely took a left into the stairwell without looking, then turned to watch his step on the way as he flew down the spiral, Robert taking two steps at a time to barely keep up.

  “I, I’m not sure. He seemed fine when I saw him last.”

  “It’s a statistically likelihood I know, but it’s Jones isn’t it? I’m certain.”

  “It is.”

  Robert stopped and Comely did, almost simultaneously.

  “Jones is a common name. Would you say the second most common name in the English-speaking world?”

  “I would,” Robert said.

  “Interesting then, that it is a Welsh name. They must be formidable breeders.”

  The air hit them hard as they emerged. It was cold again, Comely remarked absently on it.

  “His father was a good man. Solid, honest as they come. You could set your watch to him. Didn’t have the world’s greatest sense of humour but had the greatest sense of honour. Worked here a while, I think.”

  “The caretaker’s father? You knew him?”

  “Sure, everyone did. Everyone in this area did.”

  “Speaking of this area, where are we headed now?”

  “The museum,” Comely replied as though it were to be expected.

  “He was a clever man, Jones Senior. Perhaps he didn’t make the absolute most of the hand he had been dealt in life, but he made enough of it to be happy. I never met anyone who had a bad word to say about him – not one bad word. He was a rare fish – a wholly admirable figure.”

  A truck rumbled by, klaxon blaring, Comely didn’t jump, didn’t break step.

  “Went down the pit at ten, from memory, or younger, but got out at fourteen and ran ran ran. All the way here. Mrs Jones died in childbirth. Jones Junior was his only child. Jones Senior looked after the boy on his own. He didn’t make a hell of a lot with his caretaking, but they had that apartment, so no rent. You know what Jones Senior did with what he had left over from food and heat and all that? Books. He bought books from Tony Horne’s books place – from the exchange section. I saw him in there all the time. He’d ask Tony advice, and then pick up one or two. What a library he had. You know, later, Jones Junior had gone out on his own, of course, and tried his hand at a few things, hawking mostly, but when his father died he went back and took over, and he lives there now.”

  “So it runs in the family.”

  “What? Caretaking?”

  “No – reading. Jones Junior is always reading.”

  Comely turned to look at Robert, but didn’t slow down.

  “Jones Senior was illiterate.”

  As they passed through the doors of the museum he fell silent.

  They walked side by side, slowing down for most exhibitions, speeding up past some. Comely smiled beatifically, saying nothing. They paused at a portrait of John Brown. Beneath it was bronze plaque with three lines on it.

  John Brown.

  Fighter for the abolition of slavery.

  Hanged, 1859.

  “My favourite part. Very simple isn’t it?”

  “It is. How often do you come here?”

  “I haven’t been for nine years.”

  He turned to Robert.

  “Did you know Wilberforce fought slavery for thirty years. It exhausted him, and it broke him, but he won. It hastened his death, but he won. The ox is slow, Robert, but the earth is patient.”

  He kept walking. Robert
had had enough, the town - and the world - was seemingly on the brink of cataclysm and Comely was meandering around the museum, reciting proverbs.

  “Comely – You come to my place unannounced, pretty early in the day even for me. Even for you. And for this? I mean, I don’t mind the museum and all but there’s a hell of a lot going on, and I’m not getting that many answers from you. You didn’t tell me about your button men at the yard, for one, and you haven’t been straight with me about the blue man either.”

  “They’re not button men. Button men intimidate, my men protect. They’re not around to push a button on a guy. They’re around to keep your workmates alive. And what do you want to know about the blue man?”

  “Why is he after you?”

  “He isn’t after me, he’s after everyone.”

  Comely took a seat on a marble bench, between two blinding white marble pillars, and leaned back against the wall, looking up to the huge glass and steel dome above. The sun beat down through the frosted glass. Robert sat down beside him.

  “Robert. I don’t believe in killing. John Brown took up arms for a holy crusade. A jihad, the Moslems would call it. Killing people is not what I want. I do not think it is permissible. However… it is as far as I am prepared to go when the cause if right. My survival is immaterial. It’s living I’m interested in, not surviving. If good people are harmed because of me - what kind of life is that? How could I face myself after that?”

  Robert joined Comely in looking up at the dome and they sat in silence some time before the older man spoke.

  “Do you know what I like best about that portrait of John Brown? His eyes are on the heavens. Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “There’s no slavery there.” Comley looked down at Robert.

  “For Brown, that’s what the future looked like: paradise. And he saw it - no doubt in my mind. He knew that the day would come - but not on its own. He understood that nothing is inevitable, no matter how right - and no matter how untenable the alternative. There is no tide of history. History does nothing; it does not possess riches, it does not fight battles.”

  “History is nothing but the activity of man pursuing his aims?”

  Comley grinned. “A disciple of Karl Marx?”

  “You pretend you didn’t know. You’ve always known.”

  “So Brown pursued his aims – and gave his life for them. It is a great shame he had to die to get to heaven. But he understood, I believe, that his sacrifice would represent an historical lesson: That this was something worth fighting for. Therein is history’s power.

  Had enough of the museum?”

  “Sure. Where to now?”

  “A good question.”

  As they left the museum, Robert turned to Comely.

  “I can tell when a man is carrying a gun. I’ve never told you this before, because until recently I didn’t need to. But you don’t carry one, do you?”

  Comely grinned.

  “The question is - why is it that can you tell when a man is carrying a gun?”

  “I was raised on a farm.”

  Comely laughed.

  “Yes I’m sure there were plenty of farmers carrying pistols under their suit jackets. We’re walking to Anna’s shop. Don’t worry – I’ll decamp from your caravan beforehand, I need to drop in on someone - an old friend.”

  “Is there anyone in this town who isn’t an old friend of yours? Or an old enemy?”

  “You, of course, my dear Mr Harte.”

  “And why Anna’s? You know her as well?”

  “After a fashion, but that’s beside the point. She misses you, and if you’re leaving soon you should see her as much as possible. You’ll write letters of course, and you’ll come back for her, but life is a series of moments. Knowing someone is returning doesn’t change the fact that at that moment, you are without them. And someone you love - you’d take every chance you get to be with them, and now you’ve a chance, so take it. And don’t worry about my men. They’re guards - self-defence - and they don’t shoot to kill.”

  “Body shots are the most reliable. No one aims for a leg. Your average shot is a shot to kill.”

  “If we had a national health service that might not be the case. Robert, the men are there to protect you and your colleagues. I didn’t conceal a danger from you – just a source of anxiety. No one likes having armed guards around until someone is trying to shoot them.”

  “And you don’t carry a gun yourself. Isn’t that a risk?”

  Comely stopped. They were on the corner, near a mail box. A kid, maybe eleven, pulled the handle on the box and slipped a parcel wrapped in brown paper through the gap, then turned to look at them.

  “A birthday present for your dad?”

  The kid looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  Unconvinced, the boy walked away.

  “Kid’s father’s in the marines I’d wager. Within three years he’ll be in Europe – mark my words. It’ll be a slaughterhouse. Jesus wept.”

  Robert watched Comely closely. The older man spoke.

  “I knew a guy in the Black Hills who smoked opium, ate opium – took it any way he could get it. He was a smart guy though, and smart enough to see his own ruin coming. Ran a hardware store with the sheriff, of all people, and made plenty of money but understood too much of it was slipping through his fingers, and that it would slip faster and faster. He couldn’t break from opium, not in his head – so he impelled upon himself a new rule, more than that, an iron law. He would never buy opium again, he’d only smoke it or eat it or take it any way he could get it if he could get it for free. He was banking then, and indeed he did set up that town’s first bank, on the mean-spiritedness of his fellow men to save him. This slowed down his use by so much as to demote it from an addiction to a sporadic habit.”

  “And this is why you don’t carry guns – so you only kill people when it’s a crusade? That’s what makes it only a ‘sporadic habit’?”

  “Do you know any vegetarians?”

  “No.”

  “I knew another guy, in Austin, who decided he was going to stop eating meat. Try that for a challenge in Austin. He set himself the first task of only eating what he could kill himself. Soon enough he was fishing and that was about it, and the fishing in Austin is not great, so in time he accomplished his mission. He was more successful than the opium eater I suppose, though their aims differed in terms of totality. But he was successful because he forced himself to think about the consequences of his actions. He was morally opposed to killing animals, and he had to make himself connect action and consequence, the effective demand and the inevitable supply. Sooner or later, we need to start thinking about the extent to which it has become an easy thing to kill another human being.”

  They fell silent, and turned to face down the street heading east – the sun in full force now, lighting up the stalls and stands and windows.

  *

  “God creates man.

  Man returns the favour.”

  Shanks asked the wretch if he got it, the patronising bastard, and the wretch screwed his mouth up tight, buying a second, then called him what he was and bought another.

  Shanks held the last of his now terminal rolled smoke between two blackened stubs, thumb and middle finger, and saw it was out. He crouched low besides the wretch, close enough from the wall for it to break the gale and far enough to avoid the rolling slick through moss and dirty bricks, seeping in and out of the failed grout and glittering ugly in the electric neon of the successful and the last-ditch desperate.

  “When you’re about to lose it all, you can afford extravagance.”

  Shanks asked the wretch if he understood that one, too proud of himself, and the wretch did not need to play for time, this time. He understood plenty. He understood they were all out of anything worth having and had no trouble communicating the fact.

  Shanks wanted liquor and needed tobacco, vice versa for
the wretch. He was, after all, the wretch, and his addictions did not stretch to the refined affectations of the best of his class.

  Shanks either lacked the sophistication or the courage or the gullibility to manifest kindness outwardly, but maintained a certain degree of human warmth – enough for him to give his arm to the wretch for leverage and haul them both out into the street.

  The rain and wind was calmed suddenly, and the two men swaggered into the light of the nervous shop keeper, who smiled and nodded and hoped they’d keep walking as he knew white drunks were still above him in the eyes of cops and anyone with clout, for now, but through that little place and over the counter, behind the curtain, his three kids studied by the wan yellow light of three weak globes and knew, one fine day…

  And the wretch wondered about the moment where the slide started, a moment he was once able to call and call again to the minute, and now – that once most and then least clear memory was sliding itself, along with everything else. Maybe it was a good thing. Obsession can destroy you, he thought then laughed. Destroy what? He asked himself. Shanks stepped over a sleeping man on the sidewalk, skinny and ragged and wrapped in his own garbage. He told the wretch that there for but the grace of God went he and they both laughed in an awful way.

  They called the day of the crash Black Tuesday, Shanks would joke. Every Tuesday is a Black Tuesday for us, and every Wednesday a Black Wednesday.

  The pipes were in, red and white by the flickering gas lamp and steam cut slowly back and forth through the tiny patch of sky trapped between the dark slabs of sleeping commerce. They must be working on the pipes, Shanks began to explain to the wretch who knew already, finishing the line; they use the pipes to release steam from the turbines that power the city, so it’s not a little hell down there for the workmen.