Enoch's Folly

  “Take care of yourself,” he added.

  Robert took the subway steps two at a time despite the crush, people yelped and cursed as he thumped into them, but he was sick of the day and wanted it over before it got worse. He reached his apartment building and thumped up the stairs quickly to the landing on the first floor, where he paused with four levels to go. He thought of Mrs Cottlebridge and wondered if it would be rude to pay her a visit now. He walked quietly toward her door and could hear the wireless on behind it. He rapped gently and before long she opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain lock on.

  “Oh it’s you young man, how do you do?”

  She was dressed for home this time, a bed robe over a very simple wool dress.

  “Very well thank you ma’am, how are you this evening?”

  “Very well, would you like to come in for some biscuits and coffee? I was just listening to the six o’clock news. I am quite worried, very worried about the situation in Europe – have you been following it?”

  “Only what I read in the papers, ma’am,” he said disingenuously – he followed it more keenly than most Americans.

  She smiled but kept the chain lock on.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay long ma’am, but perhaps some other time – the sooner the better, I think.”

  “Well go along dear, and be sure to have a shave before you go to see your young lady – I trust you have one.”

  Robert reached for his chin as Mrs Cottlebridge laughed and shut the door rather abruptly. He couldn’t help but grin as he pounded up the stairs to get ready to see Anna, a sorry day already behind him and another not due until sunrise.

  *

  Comely stared at the wooden calendar on his desk. He read the date, looked away, looked back again and this time said the date aloud.

  February 14 1939

  He held the brass wheel and turned it slowly back.

  February 13 1939

  He switched to another and turned it back.

  February 13 1938

  It was not typical of desk calendars to feature the year. ‘Not necessary’ most designers – more accurately, manufacturers – would say. Of course they were right. Who needs to be reminded what year it is? The desk calendar was old. He wound it again.

  February 13 1937

  The man, suddenly old, rested his head on the desk. The leather matt upon the dark wood was surprisingly comforting and he found his eyes heavy. He never slept during the day and did not want to start now. It was 9.59am and he had not left the house, or even dressed. He felt as though he should feel like tea – though he did not - and checked his samovar, which he found empty and cold. The clock struck ten and he started a little, which he never did as he knew the clock well. He had slept wretchedly until his alarm clock rang in the morning some three hours earlier. Usually he awoke before seven and turned off the clock before it rang, so he had found its bells jarring and horrid when, after all these years of silence, it finally fulfilled its terrible duty. He went back and checked the samovar again; still empty, still cold. Comely had no butler and never would.

  “When I am too old to tie my own shoes,” he would say, “I will use my last drop of strength to leap from a window.”

  He never shuffled but today he shuffled, looking for tea with one hand while filling the samovar, the heavy, clumsy samovar, with the other. He loved the thing as much as a man could love a thing. It had been a gift from long before Comely was Comely. When he looked at it he remembered he had blood in his veins and a heart to pump it.

  But it was cold. Or was it? Comely lit the samovar and walked to the blinds, dragging them open and finding them unusually heavy today. The sunlight was bright and filled the room but he held his hand against the glass and felt no warmth. He pressed his forehead against the window and looked down to the street below, to the black roofs sliding sleekly past one another, still so few as to leave space for a living street of people. Comely saw kids rolling a cane hoop with a stick down the sidewalk and he wondered when he had last seen such a thing. For one frightening moment he wondered if he had ever seen it and noticed for the first time his memory had failed to deliver with precision.

  “I remember now.” He told the window without conviction. “I see every detail and remember the exact time and place.” He added now with a touch of triumph. The kids reminded him of Arturo, the urchin he’d met outside that wretched bar who’d looked right through him like no one else could. He thought of Rida, whom he had talked with for hours and walked home. She said “you know where to come to visit” and he had made no promises to do so. He hoped he would see her at Horne’s Books and dreaded the idea at the same time.

  Comely slumped into that blue-black Chesterfield of which he was so proud and stared at the samovar in the corner. The tiny blue flame licked gently away without a sound and only the ticking of the clock stopped him from screaming to break the silence. The room was elegantly furnished, well served by natural light, and thick walls kept it quiet and warm. But he was cold. Today he found the room, his much-prized sanctuary where no one but him had set foot for years – as he held any social functions or gatherings at a bar or restaurant or even some other place he owned – to be nothing more or less than a tomb. He ignored the tea and walked into the bathroom, hovering uncertainly at the mirror. How many times had he shaved using this mirror without looking himself in the eye he couldn’t say, or wouldn’t, and this time stared himself down. Forget shaving, he thought, and turned away from the mirror. It followed him, the gold-gilt extending arm pushing the round mirror further, pushing it into his shifting field of view. Comely looked back wildly, in terror, and grabbed it with his hand. It had not moved at all, he found, and this troubled him more than if it had.

  Comely tore off his robe and leapt into the shower at the exact moment the water thundered down – still cold at this stage causing him to roar and then laugh. He hooted and hollered in those first few exhilarating seconds of freezing alertness, suddenly high, suddenly alive. The hot set in and he adjusted accordingly, easing back against the tiled wall and looking up. He exhaled deeply and told himself everything was just fine.

  He burst out into the street with less care than usual and found it was not as cold as he expected. Winter was in retreat early, it seemed. Good, he thought, it is better to manoeuvre on dry ground. He had thought only of himself, then remembered the cancer in Europe and frowned inwardly. He wondered when it would start; tomorrow? In five years? No. Not that long – hungry animals are never patient.

  Comely walked briskly past the prophet on the corner of 5th Street and Lee and saw today he bore ‘the Peacemakers wiLL be caLLed the chiLdren of GOD’. He thought ‘I hope so’ and nodded to the prophet, who nodded back. He thought of Robert and wondered if the kid was raised in a laboratory; such was the purity of his spirit.

  Comely walked without a destination in mind, saying hello to the people who knew him, and keeping his face open to the light and soft wind. He was fit despite his bad legs and covered a fair distance without tiring. The pulsing of the streets grew slowly as the day wore on. As he approached another corner he slowed and took his hands from his pockets. The light angled around the figure in the distance, standing with his back to the intersection and his hands in his pockets; a small figure but stark against the white wall beyond and unmoving. The figure was staring at Comely and had been for some time, for how long he could not say, he was certain the figure had seen him before he saw them but he kept going, heading towards them. No one stands like that without intent, Comely thought, and quickly looked around for anything he could use or jump behind if he needed to, but a few more paces and he stopped looking. It was the kid. Arturo.

  The kid looked up as Comely slowed to a halt.

  “Hey mister.”

  He held out one hand.

  Comely crouched.

  “I didn’t see you trying to sting anyone else. This whole time you were waiting for me.”

  Arturo
said nothing and simply watched Comely’s face.

  “Listen to me kid. You remember what I gave you last time?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Where’d it go?”

  “No where.”

  “No one spent it? You didn’t give it to your mother?”

  “No and no.”

  “You look hungry kid. You should have bought some food with it.”

  Arturo turned and pointed down the street.

  Comely followed and saw nothing in particular.

  “What is it?”

  “We grow our food.”

  “Even in winter?”

  Arturo nodded.

  Comely smiled. “Saving it for a rainy day?”

  “Gas and rent. All coming, then again, and again.” The kid pointed his finger up and made a circling gesture; it was simple, but couldn’t have more eloquently told the eternal story of the tenant.

  “You have an… apartment?”

  “A room.”

  “The whole family?”

  Arturo took Comely’s hand and started walking, hauling him along with surprising strength.

  Comely, so long consumed by a need to control all variables it was possible to control, gave in to Arturo’s will with ease. The tenement at which they arrived was one of the worst he’d had seen, and he had seen – and lived in – places to make you doubt the existence of human kindness. Dark brown and crumbling, it seemed held up only by virtue of being jammed between two apparently more sturdy buildings. Five floors high and prematurely old, one of the two front doors was missing and stray dogs loitered at the landing of the central stairwell.

  Arturo weaved through the dogs and the junk and wordlessly led Comely up to the fifth and final floor. Comely noticed the floor outside their door was well swept. Arturo rapped seven times on the door and a bolt ground aside. The door opened and a tiny dark-haired girl opened the door. She looked at Comely with enormous eyes and he raised a hand.

  “Hello.”

  The girl was silent as she hugged and kissed Arturo on both cheeks. He spoke to her in Calabrian – so quietly and so rapidly that Comely picked up only half of it. The kid told his sister, and it was his sister, that he wanted to show The Mister that he was wise with his gift. Beyond the open door Comely saw two more little ones sharing a mattress and a blanket. They sat up and smiled. One of them spoke in a tiny voice, so tiny Comely couldn’t make it out. He saw they had a tin bath and a wood cooker. A radiator in the wall – off. Another child sat on a second mattress reading a book and sometimes gazing out the window. She didn’t look up when Comely came in but he figured she was the oldest, then Arturo, and was impressed she could read. The two mattresses took up a third of the floor space. The room looked and smelled immaculately clean and Comely knew someone had cooked and cooked well the night previous. Two tin buckets sat by the stove and Comely assumed they used them to carry water into the room as there was no tap. A door in the wall was locked and painted shut. Beyond he heard their neighbours. Arturo went to one of the mattress and pulled a book out from under it. The kid opened it to show Comely and Ben Franklin looked up at him.

  “I believed you.” Comely said.

  “No, you didn’t.” Arturo said with no apparent feeling.

  He took Comely’s hand and led him out and to another set of stairs – these tightly rolled and cast iron, leading to a trap door. On the roof, Arturo pointed out the garden. It was exquisite. Comely approached it with genuine enthusiasm.

  “How do you keep it so healthy in winter?”

  “What sun there is, we get it. Not much wind with these,” he pointed at short walls framing the garden. “We carry earth up the stairs to make this.” If Arturo was boasting he did not show it.

  Comely turned to the kid.

  “So why did you bring me here?”

  “For a visit.”

  He laughed but in a good natured way.

  “Kid, listen, are your parents at work?”

  “Morte.” Arturo was matter of fact.

  Comely felt the colour drain out of his own face. Both of them were silent. The traffic below was muted at this height.

  Comely wanted to give Arturo more money but almost felt as though the kid would be insulted if he did.

  “You have a very beautiful garden.” He offered and for the first time Arturo smiled and smiled broadly.

  “Is cold… It is cold.” He said, motioning for Comely to follow him downstairs. Comely waved goodbye to the children and Arturo hurried him downstairs again and out of the building.

  “I don’t really know why you brought me here,” Comely said though he’d a fair idea but was interested in what Arturo would have to say. The kid baulked and looked a little hurt.

  “You do not like our garden?”

  “Of course I do,” Comely exclaimed. Arturo softened but continued to brood somewhat.

  That was it, Comely realised. The kid had wanted him to know he hadn’t thrown away his money when he gave it to him. The kid wanted him to know he was sensible and industrious. That – and only that – was the reason for the visit.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven years.” He held up both hands, then a solitary finger to show the number, a habit he had picked up while learning his new language.

  “And your older sister?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Does she have work?”

  “It is very hard. She is lettered, but she does not hear. She can sew, but some people…”

  “She’s… She has no hearing?”

  “Si.”

  Comely did not ask about Arturo’s parents. If the kid wanted to talk about it, he would talk about it.

  “How do you make money?”

  “We do some things. We clean sometimes. Maybe sweeping, maybe picking things up. I do deliveries because I am strong and fast. We sell papers when there is a big story and…” he paused, looking for the words “special edition” and not finding them. Arturo suddenly looked very upset, and he waved Comely away and darted back into the building. Comely was left startled on the stoop. He thrust his hands into his pockets and made for Robert’s yard – charged with the kind of renewed sense of purpose only an unanswered question can bring.

  * * *

  Watson packed his bags and was at first shocked to find that between the two men they filled only two cases, with all his worldly possessions and what he believed to be Rosti’s as well. He pondered it… It made sense. One case was that with which he’d arrived in Paradise, and the other, somewhat older, he took to be that originally used by Rosti. And what had they accumulated since that could be carried in a case? He could hear Rosti stir just moments before his first words after waking were drowned out by the motorcar bearing the nurse from Havana.

  A powerfully built, short young woman, the nurse smiled at Mrs Hatfield and attended to the now conscious Rosti. She gently lifted the cloth over his leg and her face betrayed no emotion. “It’s not so bad. In fact, just last week I saw one a lot worse and that fellow will be up and running in a few months.” Rosti groaned. Watson, standing at the bottom of the stairs, called out. “He’s not much of a runner miss.”

  Mrs Hatfield looked out the open door, the driver stayed in the car; a dark brown leather captain’s hat pulled low to reach his dark goggles. He wore gloves and a scarf like a flying ace, the part of his face visible seemed young. ‘A character’ she mused before turning her attention to Rosti. He groaned again and Watson, still distant and still worried, called out “You got something for the pain, miss?” The nurse looked up “you can call me sister, or Judy if you like”. Watson smiled when he heard the voice and felt safe to come forward a few steps. Judy took out a small bottle and poured some of its contents into a spoon. “Hold his head up a little,” she told Mrs Hatfield and between them Rosti took the liquid easily.

  Mrs Hatfield recognised the smell and recoiled a little. Rosti soothed fast and she knew her memory served her well. Judy work
ed fast, once it set in, and cut the leg of Rosti’s torn and bloodied trousers away before washing the wound with ethanol. She prodded him an inch from the tear with some firmness and, seeing no reaction, looked up to Mrs Hatfield. “Hold down his leg” she mouthed and Mrs Hatfield did. “Look away,” Judy mouthed and Mrs Hatfield shook her head. “It’s alright sister.” Judy washed her hands in the alcohol and did not hesitate before slowly pushing the broken shin bone back, reaching into the ripped flesh and press it into place. Rosti cried out but his leg was held fast and Judy worked with agility. She dressed and strapped the wound and whipped a splint around his leg with both speed and care. Rosti opened his eyes wide and smiled a strange little smile.

  “I’ll be up and running,” he whispered.

  “He needs more treatment. All I’ve done is prepared him for the drive to Havana.”

  The nurse went out to talk to the driver. The car was a 1928 Chevrolet factory utility but looked like it had been converted in a backyard workshop. The cab had a soft top, folded down, and a covered wagon rear. There was a bench front seat and in the back a stretcher flanked with one small bucket seat.

  “This is the ambulance?” Asked Mrs Hatfield.

  “It is for now,” the driver said. “The two regular ambulances are in the shop – which was pretty stupid timing if you ask me, but no one did.”

  It would be a rough ride with the thin tyres offering little give to the shabby road between Paradise and Havana. The young man leapt from the motorcar and walked in with Judy. He nodded to Mrs Hatfield and Watson without a word and the four of them carried Rosti out. Watson sat in the back with his boss, holding too the three-foot tan cane he’d snatched from a cupboard inside – which had grown dusty with disuse in recent years, holding Mrs Hatfield’s umbrella open above Rosti’s head to give him some relief. Rosti smiled when the shade fell across him, and he mumbled to Watson in the dialect of his native land.