Enoch's Folly

  “I wouldn’t say I am an academic, and I am no teacher, though I taught myself. I have a relative in New York, though they are not aware that they are a relative of mine. It will be a surprise visit in more ways than one.”

  “You have family back home, ma’am?”

  “My mother passed very recently, my father some time ago. My brothers and sisters all moved away, as far away as they could get. Do you know my town, Mr Rosti? It is called Matewan. No one really lives in Matewan.”

  Watson laughed. “You can say the same thing about Paradise”.

  She looked at Watson earnestly.

  “Oh I would not say that at all Mr Watson, not at all.”

  Rosti locked his fingers together on the table and looked set to pray. He was keen to ask more questions and sensing this Mrs Hatfield set him at ease.

  “I left my home town some 18 years ago now and I went, of all things, to work as an au pair in Boston. It was as though I had arrived in some foreign and exotic land. Did you know, Mr Rosti, I could scarcely read a newspaper headline when I arrived in Boston? The family I initially worked for, the Cannons, were extraordinary people. Knowing where I was from, and with their own social inclinations, they undertook to ensure that, while I would care for their children and teach them the importance of cleanliness, hard work and civility, I would learn as well. Mr Cannon seemed to take it as a sacred mission. I suspect he saw me as a project, all be it a well-intentioned one. He had ideas about what he called social construction and the…” she paused, fearing she may be losing her audience, but both men, being as they were totally unaccustomed to the company of a third party, let alone a woman, were in no danger of missing a word.

  “Well, Mr Cannon believed that there was no necessary difference in intelligence or character or moral fibre between the intellectuals and the wealthy and the poor and ignorant. He would always say that the differences were simply a question of environment and opportunity. He said I had been denied the opportunities I required to, as he put it, fully realise my capabilities. I would say, I would say my time working with the Cannon family was the most important time of my life. And the happiest.”

  Mrs Hatfield became embarrassed by her openness.

  “This coffee is a little strong, Mr Watson, and I do go on. I improved my reading, and from there all else followed. I read the books I had heard some of the union men talk about. I read the newspapers, some big, some obscure. I took the children to the public libraries and read for hours on end while they amused themselves. Mrs Cannon was always warm, always loving. She worked as hard as her husband and I believe it pained her some to not spend as much time with the young ones as an ideal world would have permitted. I worked for them more than ten years, and when the youngest of the children was old enough to go to high school, well, it was time for us all to admit what had been true for a while but possible to ignore until then. I wasn’t needed any more. It was easy to find new work through Mr and Mrs Cannon’s friends but it was hard to say goodbye. Of course we said we would stay in touch and I promised to visit often but you know how things go. Every Sunday becomes once a month, once a month becomes special occasions and eventually a card in the mail every Christmas and the occasional letter from one of the children. James Junior moved to England and he wrote most often, but…” She stopped again and felt indulgent.

  Rosti, sensing her discomfort, broke the growing silence before it got out of hand.

  “It’s tough. I got cousins in the old country, a brother in New Jersey. I miss him, and even those cousins I don’t know – because they’re blood, you know - but people have a way of letting go because it’s too hard otherwise, reminding yourself all the time that the people you care about aren’t around.”

  “I think you may be right, Mr Rosti. I could take their silence as high praise.” She laughed but it was forced, and the trio shifted uneasily in their seats.

  “It’s dark out already,” Watson responded to the hoot of an owl and Rosti looked out the window. “Indeed it is. I should make some arrangements for you Mrs Hatfield. Our quarters are the warmest and most secure around. I am sure Mr Watson won’t have a problem sharing his room with me, and I’ll prepare my room for you.”

  “Oh I’m not tired at all,” she smiled genuinely. “Mr Watson, I would dearly appreciate another coffee, if you don’t mind putting the pot on.”

  Watson grinned. “I was thinking of having one myself.”

  Rosti leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Make it three. It’s nice to have a crowd here for a change.”

  * * *

  Aldous Comely was home, which to him was an apartment not far from Greco’s. He took no visitors there and took pains to ensure he was not observed entering the building, let alone his own front door. Thirty bronze name plaques glittered above the thirty gilt mail slots. His read; ‘Mr. R.C. Doyle’ and Comely never collected his own mail, relying on the concierge whom he trusted completely for a number of reasons – some disquieting – to conceal any letters beneath a silver dinner tray sent to Comely’s apartment. This way, were someone to ascertain that Comely lived in the building, it would remain a challenge to determine where exactly; buying Comely enough time to detect the problem and solve it.

  Comely smoked in his drawing room, staring at an unlit fireplace. He sat in a blue-black Chesterfield armchair, far less common than the greens and deep reds, he believed. The once grand navy green velveteen wallpaper seemed suddenly shabby and Comely wondered how long this had gone unnoticed. Above the gaping empty maw and on the mantelpiece sat an old silver frame, simple but elegant, empty. The glass was perfectly clean and clear, behind it only the white felt attached to the wooden back. Comely looked at the frame, it was tilted up and he was seated yet somehow he convinced himself he perceived his own reflection in it. Impossible, he thought and looked away, dragging more heavily than usual. Looking back, he was once again certain he saw his reflection in it. He stood and walked angrily towards the frame; peering into it and seeing nothing at all.

  Comely found himself calculating how long it would be until he next saw Robert and laughed. He liked the big moose, and couldn’t remember meeting as genuine a human being – though he was sure he had at some stage in the early days. He threw his half-finished smoke into the toilet and compulsively flushed – what a waste of water, an old voice nagged in his ear – before washing his hands and caving to his sudden urge to leave. He headed at a brisk pace past the gilded lobby and into the cold crisp street, making a purposeful line for Horne’s Books. Comely hoped there’d be something both good and new awaiting him, something he wanted to read and hadn’t already.

  Comely walked past the prophet on the corner of 5th Street and Lee. A tall man with long arms, clad in a filthy coat over what seemed to be a sack and long johns, tucked into fisherman’s boots, with short unevenly cropped black hair and a wild greying beard. Today he bore a sign that read BabyLoN Is FaLLeN and Comely did not doubt it for a second. He nodded at the prophet who nodded back. The prophet was Comely’s favourite kind of preacher – silent, and utterly faithful to his calling. He found Horne’s had closed early and seeing from some distance the closed sign on the door didn’t not stop him advancing, perhaps hoping it was some mistake or Anthony would see him from inside and invite him in. Closer he observed a note of explanation; Anthony had taken ill. Behind Comely came a voice that would have made most people jump.

  “Must be serious, Tony would come in with one leg broken long as the other was workin’ fine.” The voice was lower east side and sharp, almost a rasp but still feminine.

  Comely turned and was surprised to see a woman in her late 30s, with her left arm crossed and holding the elbow of her smoking right hand, which she held up just to the right of her earlobe. She wore a small fur pillbox hat and a dark red woollen dress, heavy for the cold, under a black coat. Comely involuntarily smiled.

  “I do believe you’re right.”

  “It’s no laughin’ matter.”
r />   His smile vanished.

  “You took me by surprise. I sometimes smile when I am startled. A biological defence mechanism, I am sure. I believe it is what makes infants smile before socialisation teaches them what a smile means.”

  “Or teaches them what’s supposed to be funny. You a doctor?”

  “I can be.” Comely looked back at the door, concentrating hard on the note neatly folded over the top of the closed sign. “I am sure he’ll be fine.”

  “You much of a reader?” She stared intently at Comely as he looked back from the door.

  “I don’t keep a tally (he did, though not voluntarily), but I am fond of reading.”

  The woman took a drag.

  “You heard of Scott Fitzgerald?”

  “No.”

  She grinned.

  “Some reader.”

  “I am sure you can and will enlighten me.”

  “You wanna stand in the cold all evening? Let’s go in there.” She pointed to a small bar near by, one Comely studiously avoided.

  “Sure, but, you know – I could be a strange man.”

  “I am sure you are, but did I say let’s go to my place?”

  Comely didn’t react, instead standing side on and motioning towards the bar’s front door with a gentle sweep.

  “After you madam.”

  “Oh I’m no madam, I’m a respectable businesswoman.” She laughed.

  He followed her towards the bar, all the while almost all of his mind screaming;

  It’s a trap

  -

  As Comely grew older no one noticed.

  As Comely grew older sex became less important to him. Romance, romance had been entirely irrelevant to him for longer than normal people would have been able to remember.

  As Comely grew older he became more easily cynical about seduction, then, logically, almost entirely indifferent. Despite what some people whispered in the safest ways in the safest places he remained a man of flesh and blood, and for some years his weakness for pretty girls and beautiful women was his lone apparent Achilles' heel. He was careful, of course, about who and where and how, and didn’t leave a trail of broken hearts or worse. Comely cared about people, but often did not seem to care about their relationship with him.

  He sat opposite the respectable businesswoman and felt something unfamiliar and disturbing creeping into him, creeping up the back of his neck with an at-first gentle heat that grew with their rapport. It was fear.

  “How long you known Tony?”

  “For as long as I’ve lived in this city,” he ducked. “I’m Aldous,” he weaved, extending his hand.

  She shook it.

  “Pleased to meet you Aldous. Just one name like a king huh? Since we’re playing that game, my name is Rida – with a dee.”

  “I like that. So, how’s business?”

  “Booming. I barely get time to read. Fortunately I don’t need much sleep. I don’t like leaving things to people I can’t trust. I can trust family, mostly, but I make a point of keeping my kids out of the business so I tend to do a lot of work myself.”

  “So they can focus on their studies, no doubt.”

  No ring, no mention of the father of the kids, he thought.

  “Mostly. I never had much of an education myself so I appreciate that they should take that chance. How about you?”

  “I appreciate it as well.”

  “I mean education, you’re educated, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Sounds like more to me. Where did you go, Harvard, Yale?”

  “Neither. I was kicked out of a few schools though. Drove a few tutors to suicide. The usual story.”

  She didn’t laugh and Comely quickly moved on.

  “I don’t usually start drinking this early,” he said and instantly regretted it. ‘Why reveal something about yourself? It suggests two things – that you regularly start drinking, just at some time later in the day, and maybe you’re judging her, Rida, for ordering first… and choosing port. Port? Who drinks port?’ (he had chosen scotch and dry.) ‘Why are you even worrying?’ “I don’t usually start this late,” she replied. Rida had sensed his discomfort and moved to ease it. Comely appreciated the thought behind her attempt but it made no difference. When he advised her he was feeling ill and probably couldn’t stay long, it was only partly contrived.

  Comely had examined the bar carefully when they first went in. Little had changed since his last visit apart from the staff. He was taking a risk but was certain from their expressions that the barman and waiter did not know or recognise him. During the brief but awkward pause after his comment about drinking, he detected someone in the room behind the counter, either a woman or slightly built man, rustling through papers at a table. He wondered if the bookkeeper was part of new management. They sounded panicked, which set him slightly at ease.

  The place was unusual for the absence of booths, with only antiquated dark wood chairs, padded with red velvet over withered down, single and fragile, loitering around small scratched wooden tables. Matching sets, once elegant, now threadbare and fading. New management had changed little. Comely wondered how new the new management was. He spotted a record player and radio behind the bar. This was something.

  The bar seemed smaller than last time. More tables, Comely realised in a quick count. Three new tables. He felt sheepish at having been duped by a cheap optical illusion, even for a splinter of a second.

  “Rida”, he turned back to her. “Sorry about that, I’m not myself today.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she sipped at her port.

  He eased down some scotch.

  “Do you like music, Rida?”

  “Sure, who doesn’t? It’s a little quiet in here don’t you think? But that’s really not much of an observation on my part, and not much of a question on yours.”

  “You’re an enthusiast though, you like it more than most people.”

  She looked surprised.

  “I go to shows some, when I can, there’s nothing like live music.”

  “You have a record player as well as a wireless?”

  “I do.”

  “Hm.”

  “Hm?”

  “Your original answer was quite non-committal. ‘Sure who doesn’t?’ but music is special to you. It’s as essential as food.”

  “You obviously didn’t grow up poor.”

  “Please don’t be offended.”

  Comely suddenly felt his fear vanish.

  “I saw the way you looked at the radio and gramophone behind the counter. You were pleased to see them but disappointed neither was on, then curious as to why. Also, you were humming something on the way here – and it was a short trip.”

  Rida softened but looked troubled.

  “Are you an obsessive type?”

  He feigned an unconcerned expression.

  “Just observant.”

  Rida paused.

  “I have never seen you in Tony’s before, but you know him well I’m guessing. It seems you’ve been in here before, right?”

  He shifted uncomfortably and watched a young boy walk by the front window. The kid stopped and looked in – looked in right at Comely, who looked back. He would have been about fourteen but from where Comely sat looked maybe twelve. He was a street kid and they always look younger at a distance and older close up. He would have the face of a sixteen year-old, Comely guessed, and the eyes of a veteran. Comely looked back and the kid didn’t flinch. He wondered why this place had such a big and low-lying window, unlike almost any other bar. Who’d want to be seen in a bar like this? he thought. He was answering Rida but concentrating on the kid and his thoughts about the bar.

  “I have but not for a long time. I see I’m not the only one with eyes around here.”

  The bar had no arches – no visible rafters or beams – no exposed brickwork and the frames on the walls were empty to the last. That one large window – starting just two feet from th
e ground – one huge pane of glass rather than a grid of small panes, taking up most of the front wall but for the door in. No readily apparent rear exit.

  Rida was saying something but Comely lost it, that kid was still staring at him. Dark hair – only a bit greasy, no hat – black eyes and no smile. Clean-faced and pale, wrapped up as best he could in a ratty black scarf, black coat. Not an orphan, Comely assumed, because he was all in black which was easier to leave without washing. Sometimes a poor parent will stick with black to save face that way. An orphan street kid will wear whatever he can get; stains don’t bother him.

  In the back room, the accountant had stopped shuffling papers and pushed their chair back from the desk or table. Comely turned to Rida.

  “Can we get out of here and go some other place, anywhere at all? I’ll explain everything when we get there.”

  “Where?” She said, startled, but he was already half-way to the door. The kid was moving to meet him there and Rida was still turning around, holding her glass. Comely’s wasn’t on the table or in his hand, but that was a matter for the staff to ponder, not her. She got up and darted after him, more out of curiosity than anything else and certainly against her better instincts.

  Comely stopped to hold open the door for Rida and looked down at the kid. He’d been wrong about him - he really was about twelve years old. He looked up at Comely and held out a single tiny white hand – bare and clean.

  “Hey mister,” he rasped softly.

  “Sounds like you have yourself a cold young man,” Comely said, working hard to maintain his composure. “Here, buy yourself some mitts. And a warm hat.”

  He put a carefully folded note into the kid’s hand and balled it into a fist.

  “Don’t flash this around. Put it in your pocket.”

  The boy obeyed and nodded.

  “God bless,” he whispered.

  Comely stared at the kid for a long time and he stared back.

  “What’s your name kid?”