Enoch's Folly

  “Hello kid. What’s with the watching?”

  “What else am I supposed to do?” She motioned at the otherwise empty room.

  “How has your father been?”

  “You asked him yourself when you came in five minutes ago, and now he’s just there in the kitchen. Do you think the situation has changed?”

  Comely burst out laughing.

  “You’re a smart kid, in fact I shouldn’t patronise you. I won’t call you kid, Laura, if you don’t mind me calling you Laura.”

  She shrugged. Comely used the Arabic for ‘little sister’ and asked her if she’d prefer that. Laura’s eyes were wide.

  “You have been learning. Why?”

  “Not deliberately learning. It’s just one of a few things I picked up a long time ago.”

  She leant on the table and looked hard at Comely.

  “I don’t trust you.” She said bluntly.

  “Does your father trust me?”

  “He does not give away his trust easily.” She paused, then asked in Arabic what else Comely had picked up.

  “Only a few things.” He answered in English.

  “You told me you didn’t speak Arabic. You’re a liar. I don’t think you should come here anymore.”

  Laura walked away into the kitchen and Comely felt sick, profoundly sick and lifted a hand to his already slick forehead. He scrawled a note on a napkin and left money for the coffee and a tip on the table. Laura heard the bell ring and darted out to find him gone, then picked up the note which read ‘forgive me – I am always frightened of giving away too much’. She considered it and stuffed it into her pocket, hoping Comely would, after all, come back.

  Outside the morning was still blue. It was properly cold, at last. Comely fixed his scarf, replaced his hat and strode along purposefully with no specific destination or purpose in mind. He liked this town, he decided, and didn’t like the import export business so much. He thought about his options and realised he only had one; he had always only had one. He thought of the scorpion and the frog.

  “I’m not going to drown myself.” He said aloud, drawing the confused glance of a man carrying a crate of tinned food.

  “You okay mac?”

  Comely smiled – “sorry, just thinking out loud”.

  “Sure. And not drowning yourself sounds better than the alternative to me.”

  The man kept walking and Comely smiled, hoping everyone in Winsted was a wit.

  I’m a scorpion, it’s what I do.

  A scorpion is an animal and I am a man, Comely thought.

  ‘The only thing that separates us is the capacity for rational decision making above instinct. I can choose not to sting.’

  No one beyond Comely knew about the noose closing around his neck. The Blue Man was not even half the problem. Walter Rubin would not have to worry about The Blue Man or anything else. Here was an opportunity to start everything anew and get it right. An opportunity Comely would not take.

  I’m a scorpion, it’s what I do.

  ‘No I am not’. Comely walked on, finding the town beautiful in its simplicity. He wondered why he’d want to slowly poison such a lovely place and considered what it would take to make a good honest living.

  Ahead of Comely a woman screamed, one young man was pushing her aside as the other tore her bag from her. Her hair was red and now wild and eyes terrible, green coat flapping – not a rich woman’s coat - mouth cavernous in despair and the faces of the thugs were squeezed up and trying at inhumanity and probably failing. They were still young. She was pushing a pram, and it was an old trick Comely recognised – it was a move for sick punks only, but it was undeniable that someone with a pram will never chase a bag snatcher.

  Comely saw they were coming his way then saw the pram skid off the still ice-slick sidewalk and on to the street, it jumped the gutter and missed a chance to be slowed down and a delivery truck was not far off. Comely bolted, knowing it would never stop in time at this time of day in this weather, letting the thieves pass him as he baulked a stunned newspaper boy and onto the black and white wet asphalt and threw himself, getting just his right hand to the pram and pushing it towards the kerb, unable to hit the ground running he stumbled on landing and managed only to right himself enough to go shoulder-first into the truck’s left headlight. It had slowed but not enough and the crunch was sickening to the bystanders; a horrible dull thud with a touch of wetness followed by a grotesque snapping sound as his body was spun and thrown into the gutter as the truck hissed and squealed to a halt.

  The pram had hit the kerb and kept from tumbling, the baby screaming but unhurt. Comely could not hear it; he stared straight up at the white morning sky, shop awnings and concerned faces crowding around him, their mouths yabbering noiselessly. The redhead in the green coat took up her baby in her arms and wept in joy and terror, fervently kissing the top of the kid’s tiny head. Comely stared straight up and felt strangely warm on the ice-slicked road. He still heard nothing. Someone draped a coat over him and he wondered if he was dead, then remembered they had not covered his face.

  I’m alive.

  This revelation lead to another and he cried out one word like it was the last he’d ever say:

  “Rida.”

  * * *

  Comely had gotten loose. While he had meticulously concealed his departure and destination, after two days his absence from the city had been noted. The Blue Man saw an opening. In his bunker he smiled at some of his men.

  “We are going to be busy today. You know boys, the Iron Duke said Bonaparte’s presence was worth 40,000 men on the field. I could say something a bit like that about old Comely.”

  He might as well have been speaking Afrikaans. The blank looks on their faces filled him with revulsion.

  “Morons. Comely is out of town – hit his joints hard. Now. Today. That’s what I’m saying.”

  They didn’t need to be told twice. Without a word, they were up and out the door, not even pausing to put their chairs back under the table.

  It was three in three afternoon.

  Hudson had been working since 6am and was starting to fade. He sat down, the worst thing a tired man can do if he isn’t done for the day.

  Wolinski had arrived at 9 and was sharp as a tac. He slapped Hudson on the back.

  “Sport. Look alive.”

  Hudson put his feet up on a crate. “How’s this?”

  “What if the boss was here?”

  “Then I’d know it was perfectly safe to go to sleep. Ever seen him in a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I. And that tells you something.”

  Wolinski laughed. “That he’s got more sense than to do the fighting himself?”

  “It’s Dreadnought theory old boy. People are too afraid to get within range.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “The Blue Man’s been doing his thing, but he hasn’t laid a finger on anyone the boss has even shared a subway carriage with. I mean – if a street grocer gave Comely an orange once, he’s safe. He isn’t touching anyone, anyone at all, who is connected with us.”

  Wolinski sat down. He lowered his voice. “Romero left. Left town.”

  Hudson took his feet off the crate. They sat in silence.

  “Well. Romero has kids. A wife. He’s vulnerable. You can understand it. It doesn’t really mean anything.”

  “It means a lot to the boss. They went way back – they knew each other since before the beginning.”

  Hudson looked around. Carpentry. Metal works. Cabinet making mostly. Bed frames. A little manufacturing outfit turning a moderate profit in the good seasons. Comely had them peppered around the state. Not always like this, sometimes wholesale spices, herbs, salt… Sometimes typesetting, typewriter ribbons, spare parts, desk lamps. Nothing grandiose, but always something purposeful. Hudson wondered ‘how much was enough?’ Comely could have been a great American success story. Why did he have to reach furthe
r and further? Maybe Romero could have explained it, but Romero was gone.

  But Hudson had it the wrong way around. Comely had started big, and then moved into the small. He began with an overreach, and ventures one might politely call high risk had delivered the dividends necessary to establish his respectable little places. Comely loved his respectable little places. In the end, it was all he had ever wanted. A ‘mom and pop store’ writ large. Difficult to achieve when you have never been a mom or pop, and have never had either.

  Wolinski heard it first – the engine roaring. The doorman blew a whistle hard as the truck bore down on the gate, seconds later smashing through it, sending splinters of timber flying. Wolinski and Hudson – now very much awake – put slugs through the windscreen, the white frost of shattered glass flecked with red. But the driver never intended to make it a return trip. The truck was loaded with drums of oil and two sticks of dynamite. No timer required, the driver had lit the fuse, hopped into the cab, turned the corner and slammed down the accelerator. Simple. The fuse was a little short, and it all went up sooner than planned – just inside the gate. The doorman was blown to pieces. The force of the blast threw Hudson backwards through a window, and Wolinski into the wall, knocking him out cold. Hudson, bleeding and almost blinded by smoke, rolled into the doorway and peered out, aiming his piece at the burning wreckage as if expecting more trouble to somehow pour out of it. One of the metal workers had been walking across the lane when it happened. He was gone. Another was hit by shrapnel. Gone. The front office was destroyed, and the roof blown off two of the workshops, which were now on fire. They’d been lucky, really.

  Hudson found Wolinski and checked his pulse. An accounts clerk staggered over to them, clutching a file to her chest. She’d been reading something in it and was still holding it, maybe for some sense of normality. Hudson looked up, and saw the horror on her face. He reached to his forehead and his hand came away wet with blood.

  “I’m ok. Call an ambulance for this guy.” He heard screaming. “Tell them we have a warzone here.”

  Across town, other places did not fare as well. It was on.

  *

  Evo did not participate in the sacking of the manor. The guards had been beaten unconscious, but the civilians left alone – even Stefano’s aged mother, who berated the workers as they stripped the home of furniture, art works, silverware, and pots and pans. She was angry at them, but livid at her son – who’d gone so far as bump her aside in his haste to exit. The workers laughed, and then dumped the booty in a huge pile in front of the house before running back to their shanties – not one thing was stolen from the manor. They’d smashed the front door, but broken not a window or even a plate. They all understood it was madness. A joke. A deadly joke. They collected their meagre possessions from the shanties and disappeared into the forest, where Stefano’s men on horseback would lose their advantage. It made sense, but the decision filled Evo with dread. Stefano’s men could trail them and come across Saha’s camp.

  Evo pressed on, pushing himself faster than any of the others, deep into the woods. His legs began to burn, his lungs screaming, but he ran across the unpredictable earth and knotted roots, knowing a twisted ankle could mean he’d end his days on a rope in those very woods. He pushed on, with no idea of where, exactly, the camp was. They’d have dogs, Stefano’s men, and recent human scents would be enough to lead them to Saha’s camp. His feet ached, he sweated like an animal. Evo burst through a huge plant and stumbled into a stream. Before he knew it, he was mid-calf deep in clear water. Metres away, two of Saha’s people looked up at him. He’d scared the fish, and they still held their fishing spears up, reading to strike. They were irate until they recognised him.

  “I need to see the chief. I’m sorry if I should call him something else. Mr Omatec. The father of Saha. It is desperate. A matter of life and death.”

  They trusted him, the way two armed men can trust one unarmed man, and led him to Omatec briskly.

  Omatec was working, weaving, which surprised Evo.

  “Tell me.” The older man said simply.

  “A mob being led by the lord of the plantation is coming through the jungle. They may find you by chance.”

  “Why are they coming?”

  Evo explained. Omatec showed no emotion.

  “The ways of your world, which I know too well, are full of death, leading always to this. Your hunger for gold killed millions here, and you have learned nothing.”

  “The landlord is … a sick man, I think. His men will be enraged. If they come through here, the innocent will suffer with the guilty. And… I have seen the way he looks at Saha. She is in danger.”

  “We all are now. What is it that you propose, Spaniard?”

  “She can come with me.”

  Omatec laughed. It was not a forced laugh, but it carried a streak of despair.

  “Instead of being protected by her people, or at worst dying among them, you would have her chopped down screaming in this jungle, with a stranger by her side.”

  “I can get her out safely. Perhaps they will come through here and he will seek her, and if she is not here they may simply go on after the workers. But if she is here, there will be fighting – this is certain.”

  Omatec studied Evo.

  “Get her to safety, then return.” He stood and left, returning minutes later with Saha, speaking to her in their own tongue.

  Evo, barely believing it, took her by the hand. “We will be safe.” He said, and on foot they headed for dense jungle, quickly vanishing from view.

  One of the men turned to Omatec, baffled.

  “Forgive me, but why?”

  The older man sighed, still watching the place he’d seen her last. “I have always known it would be. It’s her mother’s blood. Their blood – it washes ours away, even that which they spilt into this earth. They wash everything away. This village. Our language. Both will still exist but not in this world.”

  He turned to the younger man.

  “Prepare for a fight.”

  When Evo and Saha had returned three days later, they found charred huts and tents, and the bodies of some of Stefano’s men. Saha’s people were gone. None living or dead. She looked around the jungle. She called out to them. Only the screams of the animals answered her.

  She looked at Evo, her face contorted. “Why?”

  They were both hungry, scratched, filthy. Evo shook his head.

  “We need to go.”

  They stole fruit from a nearby orchard and it was enough to see them through to a carriage station in a small town eight miles from the plantation. The ticket seller eyed them with suspicion but Evo had enough coins buttoned in a cloth purse he’d sewed into his trousers to put him at ease. They shared the carriage with four other people who did not complain. They faced each other on the ride, but Saha stared out the window for hours. The carriage jarred and shuddered as its wooden wheels struggled with the dirt road.

  Evo rented a tiny room with two single beds. Saha would not speak. They washed and dressed in silence. She had brought a small sack of things with her, including European clothes. They were both exhausted, and slept on their tiny beds in the sunlight. At night they were awake, and in the darkness – lying on those beds – she spoke. They spoke until the sun came up, and they fell asleep again. Hunger woke them, and after lunch, they were married in a small chapel.

  It was all madness, they both seemed to know, but they felt that time was against them, that it would always be against them. Each second together was vital and life-altering. The steamer to the United States cost Evo the very last of his savings. Saha never got accustomed to her new country. One year later, in the first year of the new century, she died in childbirth. She was twenty years old. Evo devoted his life to raising his daughter, who he gave the name Saha had wanted if their child was to be a girl: Rida.

  *

  Kristian felt as much as home as he ever did. The earth around him had turned from yellow to green, then
a mixture of green and blue and black and grey as the frequency of houses and stores and truck stops increased. The road became smoother, the electric lighting more prevalent. He thought about the skin and hair on the bonnet, just once more, then put it out of his mind.

  At the last stop, Watson and Hatfield had swapped. Mrs Hatfield now sat in the front, alongside Kristian. Rosti and Watson were cheerful, but the journey had been a drain on them. The heat combined with the vibrations of the ambulance soon put them both to sleep. Mrs Hatfield, who had spoken enthusiastically with the two older men, fell silent. Kristian had been almost mute since leaving Carter’s house.

  What seemed like one hour passed before she began to speak.

  “I imagine you want to know what happened to my husband.”

  Kristian did, but said nothing. He raised his index finger while still holding the wheel. She wondered what this was. A greeting? Affirmation? It irritated her, so gazed out the window and said nothing.

  Kristian, embarrassed, spoke.

  “I’m sorry. I just. I went so long without talking. My tongue felt like a piece of wax in my mouth. I have wondered. I have a lot of questions, about everything.”

  She continued to look out the window. After a few seconds, though, she began.

  “Cabell Testerman was a decent man. He wasn’t a brilliant man, but he was sweet natured and he had a quiet courage. When he knew something was right, no one could scare or push him off that path. That’s how he died. He was mayor of our town. He was young, I was younger. He took the side of the mine workers and the Baldwin Felts men shot him down. He was not armed. He never carried a gun. He died in my arms, you know. He was so heavy. In his eyes I saw so much fear, but not for himself. I knew he was afraid for me.”

  Kristian held the wheel tightly. He felt sick. He was at a loss as to what he could say.