CSIS | Center for Strategic and International Studies

 REPORT ~ Credit to King_of_anything for formatting 

 -Clive Hamilton 

“It should be remembered that some of the defects that are associated with economic competition are rooted in certain selfish streaks in human nature. For example, a person may set his heart upon accumulation of wealth, and this passion may shut his eyes to the suffering caused by hunger, want and penury. His sole wish may be to accumulate maximum amount of wealth. Selfishness and indifference to tyranny and oppression are the result of certain incentives, which are mentioned in the Holy Quran...” [1]

“Adam Smith, who has strong claim to being both the Adam and the Smith of systematic economics, was a professor of moral philosophy and it was at that forge that economics was made. Even when I was a student, economics was still part of the moral sciences tripos at Cambridge University. It can claim to be a moral science, therefore, from its origin, if for no other reason” [p1]

“When a person is made responsible for a specific task, or is entrusted with something of value, he is answerable to the one who entrusted him with those responsibilities; but a person who regards himself free and unanswerable to anyone would be inclined to do whatever he pleases. This verse of the Holy Quran is a reminder that all worldly governments, kingdoms and powers are under God’s command and are granted to human beings only as a trust. Man must not consider himself unaccountable just because he has the power and ownership of material wealth that he is given in this world. He may appear to have authority and ownership on the surface, but in truth he is only holding a trust from God. Human beings are answerable before God that they rightfully discharged the trust that was reposed in them.”[8]

“These are the three basic economic systems that exist in the world today. The first system is not bound by any definite laws or rules; the second system is nationalistic in its approach, while the third is driven by individualism.” [9]

“We are thus taught that if we are holding some unfortunate people, whom the vicissitudes of life had deprived them of the power to stand on their own feet, they should be given the benefit of a portion of our resources, which really belong to God and in which every creature of God holds a share… Firstly, according to Islam, the world’s wealth belongs to all mankind. Secondly, the real master of all wealth is only God Almighty. Man is therefore not free to dispose of his wealth in any way he deems fit; what he can do is circumscribed by God’s prescribed limits.” [11]

“Everyone should collectively work to improve the nation’s well-being and support each other in that effort. The next stage is that, despite all the good works, they are still left feeling that nothing has been done. And in that spirit, they must continue to remind one’s fellow beings the importance of helping and caring for the weak and the poor and continue such exhortations up to the last breath of their lives.”[12]

“Role Played by Slave Labour in World Economy”[13]

“The Islamic Economic System… Upholding Individual Enterprise… Voluntary Efforts to Rectify Inequities… Wealth Created by God for the Benefit of All… Balance Between Individual Freedom and State Intervention” [14]

“It is clear that a person who follows the Islamic teachings would shun above motivations. Any wealth that he might accumulate would be devoted to noble causes that help to bridge the gulf between the rich and the poor, instead of widening it. Such a person has little reason to covet wealth for selfish ends. A man’s desire to earn money arises out of basically three impulses.
1) To meet his own legitimate needs;
2) Beyond meeting the personal needs, he might desire money with a view to helping mankind and earning God’s pleasure; or
3) He might seek money to fulfil vain desires described above i.e., personal pleasure, self-indulgence, pride or plain greed.
It goes without saying that only persons driven by the third impulse would stoop to unfair and foul means, and would exploit others. This situation would be avoided if the first two reasons for earning money were dominant. Anyone who earns just enough to satisfy his own needs or who spends the excess wealth for helping others and other good deeds would not hurt other Individuals or his nation in general.” [15]

“Prohibition of Interest (Riba)… Islam adopts a rather broader definition of interest. According to the Islamic definition, certain transactions, which are generally not considered to fall within its purview, nevertheless fall within its domain and are therefore prohibited. Islam defines interest as any transaction where the profit is guaranteed. Therefore all trusts, [local monopolistic arrangements] which are set up to guarantee profit by destroying competition, are to be considered un-Islamic. For example, suppose fifteen or twenty large businesses in a country got together and formed a monopoly that fixed prices and restricted competition. Then a commodity that sells for (say) two rupees in a competitive market could sell at an artificial monopolistic price of (say) five rupees. Since everyone would be colluding to sell the commodity at five rupees, consumers would not be able to shop around for the best price and would have no choice but to pay the higher price.” [17]

“If one were to examine the list of the world’s richest men, it would be found that it was made up of mostly people who owe their rise to interest. They start with a small amount of capital but soon establish a reputation of creditworthiness, which allows them to leverage their small personal capital many times over via bank borrowing and overdrafts, thereby becoming super-rich in just a few years.”[17]

“The reason for the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few rich people in Europe and the United States is that, under the British law, the eldest son can inherit the entire property, and in the United States, a person may pass on his entire wealth to just a single son. Thus, other children, parents, brothers and sisters, or the spouse may be left with nothing.”

“Responsibilities of the Government… Therefore, dhil-qurba refers to people dedicated to the service of religion and according to Islam this class of people has a definite claim on the State’s resources.”[19]

“Islam introduced the system of zakat, which is a 2.5% annual tax on wealth that is held in the form of gold, silver, currency or other assets for a period of more than a year. The proceeds of this tax are used to promote welfare of the poor.”[18]

Why Agnes Left

The woman with no hair has gone home. The body stocking woman has gone home. Agnes has gone. Everyone has gone home and so should I.
You should go home, my hostess Sulvie tells me. What are you waiting for? Everyone left hours ago, and Zephyr and I would like to get some sleep.
Zephyr adds her two cents.
The place is all cleaned up, no one would ever guess that a few short hours ago twenty-seven women were here talking, laughing, having a gay old time.
The place looks empty. Its emptiness has permeated my bones, brought me close to tears. It reminds me of a play on closing night when all the beautiful walls come down. Vanishing life. There and then gone.
Zephyr's two cents amount to this:
You should go home, Mr Banks. We don't know you all this well and in any event Sulvie and I don't allow men to stay overnight.
It isn't that so much, says Sulvie. We have no place to put you. The sofa isn't at all comfortable. You'd catch a cold sleeping on the floor.
Yes, says Zephyr. You'll have to go. Please leave.
It's true, I really must. I have no right to inflict my presence on these two no-nonsense, straightforward women.
Zephyr stands with my overcoat held high to receive my arms. Sulvie extends my hat. I slip my arms into the coat and button up. I put on the hat. A moment later, however -- I can't explain it -- I am again sitting down.
One more cigarette, I say. Let me finish this and I promise I'll get out of your hair.
Zephyr explodes. God! -- and stalks off to slam a door.
Sulvie, too, is no longer content to reason with me. Get out! she all but screams. My patience is exhausted! Get out this minute!
I drag on the cigarette. They have removed all the ashtrays and I have to thump my ashes into the palm of my hand.
It was a lovely party, I tell her. One of the best I've been to in years.
She smoulders.
I'm amazed that you two could so quickly clean up the place. What a lot of mess!
She mushes a pillow into a chair. I'm not talking to you, Mr Banks. We have asked you nicely to leave. You refuse. You don't frighten us, if that's what you're thinking. Not at all. You have about five seconds, then Zephyr and I are going to physically throw you out.
No need for that, I say. Just let me have this last cigarette.
You said that an hour ago.
Was it really that long?
Her nostrils flare. Her face has changed colour, gone a deep red.
Zephyr re-enters, drawing the cord on a long blue velvet robe. She has very pretty feet, I notice.
I've called the police, she announces. If you want to avoid spending the night in jail you'd best pack yourself off this minute.
Sulvie has decided to cry. Zephyr tells her to stop snivelling, there is absolutely nothing to warrant tears. I am an oaf, she tells her, but I will be gone soon.
She's only tired, I say. She will feel better in a minute.
They glare at me. Both women have spent all day preparing for the party, no doubt, and they are obviously exhausted.
I am, too, for that matter. I must be. Otherwise, I would not find myself in this awkward situation.
My palm is quite full of ashes. I look about for a place to put them.
The two women watch. Zephyr taps her foot. They are quite certain my ashes shall at any second despoil their vacuumed sky blue carpet.
I slide the ashes into my side pocket. I pinch out the cigarette and drop it inside as well.
You're finished, Zephyr says. She opens the door and stands beside it.
Just let me wipe my hands, I say. I stand. Would it trouble you too much, I ask, if I had a glass of water?
Sulvie screams. Zephyr rushes over to comfort her.
I go in and draw a glass of water from the kitchen tap. Dishes are piled up on the drain-board. The counter and the twin sinks have been wiped clean. The entire kitchen sparkles.
Suddenly Zephyr is behind me, asking what I think I am doing.
Oh, I thought I'd help out, I say. Put away a few dishes, the two of you have worked so hard. It was a lovely dinner you served, by the way. Don't know if I mentioned it before.
Zephyr snatches a golden serving tray from my hand. Out! she yells. Get out of here! The dish clatters down.
Sorry, I say. Didn't mean to offend.
I thump out another cigarette, heading out into the living room in front of her.
Sulvie, on the sofa, has her head buried under several pillows. I flop down into the nearest chair.
Won't be a second, I say. Just let me finish this.
Sulvie looks up, is horrified, then again buries her head. Zephyr leans against the sofa back, snarling to herself.
Go on with whatever it is you have to do, I suggest. Don't mind me.
Neither replies.
I make a stab at explaining this business of the cigarette. When I was very young, I tell them, I made a vow to myself never to smoke on the streets. A lot of people do, I think. At home, driving, at a restaurant, at these places okay, but never on the street. It's one way of controlling the habit, you see.
Sulvie, without looking at me, got up and left the room. A few seconds later I heard water running in the bath.
Zephyr approached, stopping directly in front of me. If you don't leave, she said, her teeth clenched, I'm going to kill you. I swear I will, I am not joking.
I could see she wasn't.
She held the robe collar clenched under her neck. Her eyes were hard and blazing. Her skin was very white, all the make-up scrubbed off. Her hair needed brushing.
Who the hell do you think you are? she asked. We hardly know you. Know nothing about you. We didn't invite you. You practically ruined the party for everyone. You're a truly contemptible human being, do you know that?
I'm sorry you feel that way, I said. As far as the party-crashing goes, you know I came with a friend. My friend assured me you wouldn't mind, that the two of you were very open-minded about that sort of thing.
Yes, she said, her fists balled up at her side, but your friend had the good grace to leave at a proper hour. We didn't have to kick her out. As far as that goes, we hardly know her either.
This surprised me. It had been my impression that Agnes was on the closest of terms with these two women. That was all I had been hearing for months: what an amazing pair this Zephyr and Sulvie were.
She's almost a total stranger, Zephyr went on.
Don't talk to me about Agnes, I said. That woman can drop dead for all I care.
Zephyr was about to say something more when Sulvie appeared, going from the bedroom to the bath, a chocolate-coloured beach towel wrapped around her.
If that man isn't out of here by the time I finish my bath, she said, I am going to kill him.
Zephyr rushed over to her. I could hear them whispering. Zephyr was asking Sulvie not to leave her alone with me. She was frightened, she said. There was no telling what I might do.
It puzzled me that she should say this. I had not raised my voice to anyone all evening, had not got in anyone's way; since the party ended I had done little more than sit and smoke and say to them over and over not to worry on my behalf, that I'd be leaving soon.
The two women approached together and sat down on the sofa facing me. They stared. For a long time the three of us maintained a strained silence. My ash dropped on the carpet, but I scooped it up so carefully it left no mark. Then Zephyr bounced up, shot at me, and began shaking my shoulders.
What is it you want? she demanded. Is it sex? Do you imagine we will let you sleep with us if you stay long enough?
Sulvie snorted. Fat chance! she said.
You're sick, Zephyr went on, now yelling, slapping at me. You're a cockroach.
He's a bore, Sulvie said.
I wish you wouldn't abuse me like that, I told them. I assure you I mean neither of you any harm. I find you both attractive, to speak frankly, but I certainly have no intention to make advances.
Then what do you want? both shouted at once. Why won't you leave?
I raised my cigarette, nodding at it, by way of impressing on them my firm intention to leave once this last one was smoked down.
Zephyr stopped shaking me. She sucked on a broken nail.
We were all startled when the phone rang. Zephyr snatched it up. She listened a moment, caught Sulvie's eye, then said:
Yes, he's still here. He absolutely refuses to leave.
I moved to take the phone, thinking it was Agnes checking up on me.
Zephyr jumped back. Don't touch me! she screamed. Sulvie leapt to her side, both looking panic-stricken. You leave her alone! Sulvie hissed.
I sank back down.
No! No! No! Zephyr yelled into the phone. We can handle it! We are quite up to handling this ourselves, thank you! She slammed the receiver down.
The two women returned to the sofa. They sat close together, Zephyr's hand gripping Sulvie's knee, Sulvie with an arm slung around Zephyr's neck.
I was steaming inside my overcoat. My hatband had tightened, giving me a bad headache. I had no more cigarettes.
I had stayed too long simply to get up now and casually walk out. I'd have to exert myself, do my best to win the friendship of these two. I couldn't have them thinking Agnes would waste her time on the contemptible creature they took me to be.
My mouth tasted sour. It seemed to me that if I didn't brush my teeth that very minute I would gag.
May I use your washroom? I asked. That final favour and then I promise you I shall be going.
The women said nothing. They were like lifeless dummies staring back at me.
In their washroom feminine scent abounded. Sulvie's unused bath water had been drawn extremely deep, its steam dampening the blue tiles and mirror. The water was coloured blue. On a white stool beside the tub were folded two thick yellow towels. Their tooth brushes were an identical white. The bristles of the one I chose were hard and cut my gums. I spat out blood, rinsed the toothbrush under a quiet trickle of water, and returned it to its holder.
I looked out. They had not moved from the sofa, although their heads had come together. Their backs were to me; I could not tell whether they were sleeping.
The bathroom was amazingly warm. My face was soaked with sweat. I felt almost too dizzy to stand.
A skylight occupied one entire half of the ceiling. A clever arrangement of shelves extended up to it and on these shelves rested scores of African violets all in bloom and thriving.
Agnes, too, had lately been collecting these dwarfish, uncommunicative plants.
I am a shower person. It has been years since my body has known the luxury of a long hot bath. I slid in, and kept on sliding. The water rose up my chest, my neck, stopping at last just short of my mouth. I sighed back with closed eyes, half-afloat now, very much at peace with myself, wishing only for a book, soft music, or a cigarette.

In the Garden

The woman -- the one who stands here at her apartment windows in her blue stockings and blue shoes and a blue raincoat that hangs to her heels -- the woman up here behind her windows high over the city's wayward slopes (Oh snow, oh hoary winter's drool!) and over the murky green waters (Needs stirring, I'll say) of Fisherman's Bay ... is thinking: What next? What to do with myself today that can be half the fun yesterday was?
"Life calls!" she suddenly trumpets, surprised herself by the sound of her voice and by all the joy that, like a grinning lunatic, has leapt inside her. (I'm happy as a tick, one might conclude I've been drinkin'.)
She carefully puts down her glass.
"Eleven A.M.," she gloats, "all's well."
She steps out on her narrow balcony, shivering (Merciless winter, oh sweetjesus will spring never come?), bending low and dangerously over the railing to peer inside the recessed sliding doors of the apartment below.
Feet, feet, she thinks, that's all I've ever seen. Shine your shoes, Mister-Man-Down-There.
No feet today, however. The glass needs cleaning and he ought to throw out those two dying ferns.
"I'll call Estelle," she says. "My good friend Estelle."
Do do call Estelle, give the little lady a fine thrill.
But Estelle, it turns out (Dear me, I've split my britches), is not home. (Not in? At this hour? What is that elfin horror trying to prove?)
So Rebecca -- woman by the window -- goes back to the window and again looks out over the close-rippling water (Ten years in this place and I've yet to see a fisherman there, only boats and more boats, teensy putt-putts, you'd think civilized people would have better things to do) -- looks out over the city slopes to the high, snowy mountains beyond (Oh fold upon fold upon fold, tedious and exhausting, but rather exquisite; yes, I do like it, this is such a friendly part of the world).
Oh, she thinks, what can I have been thinking of!
Of course.
She goes into her bedroom and takes her time selecting a nice scarf from her dresser drawer, something in a fetching complimentary blue --
"Yes, this one I think," and ties the silk loosely about her throat.
"Now I'm so pretty," she remarks aloud, "I am pretty enough to sing sing sing! And why not, while I'm at it, telephone Estelle?"
Estelle's phone -- can you believe it? -- rings and rings.
But Rebecca -- following a crow's black flight across the bay (Oh look at him swerve and dive, if only I could fly like that!) -- is not fooled. Oh, she's home, she thinks. Certainly she's home. Where else could she be but at home!
In one of her moods, possibly.
Mustn't discount her elfish moods.
One of her I-don't-want-to-see-anyone days. Doubtlessly nursing old grudges by the tonne. Got the brush-off from Harold, could be. Oh, the poor little downtrodden bird.
"None of your business," Rebecca tells herself. "Honey, you stay out of this."
She laughs. Estelle is so funny when she's in her moods. No, one can't help laughing.
A fruitcake, that's what Estelle is on her rainy-day days.
"No way out of it," Rebecca says. "I'd better shoot right over."
A swarm of gnats -- fruit flies, she supposes (Genus Drosophila, diptera, transparent of mind and wing, oh go away, gnats!) -- hangs in the air just short of Estelle's door, which swarm Rebecca steers straight through, thinking surely they will scatter. But they come right along with her, a net of floating black dots. They swirl about, an inch up, an inch down, untouched, as she swats. "Shoo, shoo!" she says, "oh, scat!" Finally she wades through, knocks on Estelle's bright red door.
All the curtains drawn, house sealed up tight. Estelle, honey, is it as bad as all that?
"Yoo-hoo! It's me!"
She can hear music playing over the stereo -- or radio -- something classical. Harpsichordish, may be. Old Worldish anyway.
Estelle being grand.
Grim church music to aid and abet the foul downspin.
"Let me in at once, darling!"
The door opens an inch and no more. The chain remains in place.
"Why have you kept me waiting here for so long?" Rebecca says.
"You should do something about this plague of wild gnats."
All she can see of her friend Estelle is one eye in the crack. She appears to have a bandage of some sort half-covering it.
"Go away," whispers Estelle.
"But I've walked miles," replies Rebecca, not worried in the least by such rudeness. Ooo-la-la, that's Estelle. "My feet hurt. It isn't easy in these high heels. I've probably got a blister, if you want to know. Anyway, I've got to talk to you. It's imperative. You are my best friend."
The door quietly closes.
Uncanny. Oh Estelle, why are you treating me this way?
She can hear Estelle's footsteps across the floor, something clattering down (Temper, temper, oh what a temper she has!) -- then the music coming on again, bit louder this time, some kind of silly piano piece, like four birds chirping from a high fence.
Rebecca swatted at the gnats. "Shoo!" she said. "Shoo! Oh, rats! . . ." She walked slowly out to the street, her head down. At the curb she turned and regarded Estelle's house most pensively. (Drab, Estelle, very drab. Most shoddy.) The house was indeed drab, small and lowslung, like a Crackerjacks box down on its side, and ridiculous with its red door.
Rebecca patted one foot against the pavement. She knotted the scarf tighter against her throat.
Poor Estelle, she thought, how can I cheer her up?
She wondered if any of the other people in their houses along the street were watching her. I certainly should be, she thought. I would continue the investigation until I knew precisely what was going on. Who is that woman? I'd ask myself. What can she possibly want? Or, if I were another woman watching me, I'd think: where could she have found that beautiful blue coat!
I'd smoke, that's what I'd do. I'd light up a lovely blue cigarette, oh I'd have a killing-good taste of the weed.
I will anyway.
No, no, children might be watching.
An old man, four houses down, was out in his driveway washing his car. Rebecca studied him. Wouldn't it be pleasant, and a nice thing to do, to go and talk to him?
". . . I was dropping in on my friend up the street," she said, speaking from a distance of several dozen yards, "but she does not appear to be receiving."
The man, less old than she had presumed, was down on his knees sudsing a hubcap; he did not look up.
"Her name is E. Beverly Sims," Rebecca went on, drawing closer. "She lives in that flat house with the scrawny box hedge by the front porch. I'm sure you must know her well. Estelle is the very outgoing type, and she has a splendid figure. In a nice friendly neighbourhood such as this one is everyone must know everyone."
The man, she now observed, stepping up beside him, had a pokey face and practically no hair. He was chewing on the nub of a cigar while squinting up at her. She admired his way of sitting on his heels.
"Where I live it is not the least like that. I live in a small but very efficient apartment down by the Bay. A condominium. You wouldn't believe what it cost. I'm way up on the twelfth floor, and can see for miles. Do you know that huge ships pass my window at night? Far out, of course. But I have a large telescope mounted on a nice tripod. I am continuing my investigation of these ships. It's easily the most interesting hobby I ever had."
"I'm washing this car," the man grumbled.
Rebecca realized that the remark was somehow meant to put her in her place. She laughed.
"I can see that. It must have been extremely dirty."
This comment clearly interested him. He rose up off his haunches, backed up a few paces, lit his cigar, and stared appreciatively at the automobile.
"It was filthy," he said. "My son had let this car go to the dogs." He spat, very close to his feet, and backed up a bit more. "They tell me young boys like nothing better than sharp cars to show off with the girls, but I give this car to my son and he has not yet got behind the wheel once."
"Oh my," said Rebecca. "That is curious behavior indeed."
Soap suds all along the car side were drying in the sun. But the man seemed more interested in the hubcap. He stooped beside it, buffing up the chrome with his sleeve. "Of course, he doesn't have his license yet. I give this car to him for his sixteenth birthday, but he has some months to go." He peered up at Rebecca. "Do you know Harold?"
"Your son? No, I -- "
"You wouldn't like him. He is the most stuck-up boy I ever saw. Something of a sissy, too, you want to know the truth. Bet you can't guess why."
"Hormones, I bet," said Rebecca. "I bet his hormones got sent straight up a tree."
"Not hormones," he said. "His mother. His mother has pampered the little rat since the day he was born." He paused, flipping his cigar in the dirt. Then he walked over and ground at it with his heel. "He is out now at Symphony School. Harold. He plays the oboe." He picked up the cigar, examining its mangled leaves between his fingers. "This cigar," he said, "it's real Havana. I got a pal sends them to me from Canada. Real cold up there. I got maybe twenty, twenty-five these rascals left." He spread the tobacco out in his palm and poked at it with a finger. "Real beauties, these cigars. I bet they cost my buddy a mint. But he owes me. He owes me a fortune, tell you the truth. You know why?"
Rebecca batted her eyes. "Why?" she asked. It had struck her that this man was somewhat odd.
"Because I stole his wife. I stole her right out from under his nose. One day there he was, married to the prettiest woman you ever saw, and the next day she wasn't there anymore. She liked me best, you see. I had the real goods but Ralph -- old Ralph -- well, old Ralph didn't have nothing and the next thing he knew he was out in the cold. Yep, between the two of us we really put it to him."
Rebecca considered this. She wasn't sure she liked it.
"Happy?" the man said. "You never saw two people so happy as the wife and me. Regular lovebirds." He shot a hasty look at Rebecca. "Then we had Harold. Beginning of the end."
Rebecca laughed. That phrase had always been one of her favourites.
"You probably know what I mean," he said. "Kids! Look at Job. He had a house full of kids, but what good did they ever do him? Only more misery."
Rebecca felt that she had been silent far too long. She thought it only right that she should point out there was another side.
"You would not think that," she told him lightly, "if you were in India, or in Greece, or even in Japan. Suppose you were in China and believed as you do? At the minimum, you'd be ostracized, and probably you'd be shot."
"Fine by me," he replied. "If I had to live in those places I'd want to be shot."
Rebecca walked over to the concrete steps leading up to the front door and sat down, crossing her legs prettily. She lit up a cigarette with her gold lighter and closed her eyes, holding her head back, blowing out the first draw of smoke in a long, measured stream.
"Nobody told you to sit there," the man reproached her. "This is private property." He seemed suddenly very angry. ". . . But sit there if you want to. What the hell, who ever listens to me?"
"I'm sure you've a very strong character," said Rebecca. "I'm sure you must dominate any circle you enter."
He puzzled over this a moment, then, shrugging, dropped down on his ankles again and began scrubbing the rear hubcap, his back to Rebecca. She noticed for the first time the baseball cap stuffed into his pocket. She found this intriguing, a strongly personal touch. She wondered what kind of hat he would have stuffed there had he been born in India. She found it charming, where men put their hats. He looked so round and full, stooped like that, a complete little world, total to the point even of where he put his hat. She smiled. She liked the way he bobbed up and down on his ankles, how his heels lifted up out of his shoes; his little grunts, too, were very charming. She could see an expanse of pink skin and now his underpants -- swatch of black polka dots -- rode up over his hips. She wondered if he would be interested in hearing what she had read about Babe Ruth -- not so long ago that she had forgotten -- in The New Columbia Encyclopedia. Sixty homers, imagine that. And born of people so rag-tail poor he had to be sent away to a training school, made to sweep floors for his daily bread. A pitcher, too. Eighty-seven wins in five years, now that was true pitching, that was real horseshoes.
She became aware after a while that the man was watching her out of the corners of his eyes.
She took off one shoe and held it above her head, shaking it as if to dislodge pebbles. But secretly she watched him.
He dropped his sponge into the sudsy bucket, spinning on his heels. His jacket was wet up to the elbows. "Harold's brother now," he announced sullenly, "he's another case. Been begging me for a car for years, but I wouldn't give him the time of day, not even if he got down on bended knee."
Rebecca nodded. "He must have done something extremely reprehensible," she said.
The man gave her a blank look, then shook his head. "Not my son," he explained darkly. "No, Norman's the wife's son. I keep telling him he ought to go off live with his real father, but he just whines 'Aw, Dad.' Can't even wipe his nose." He picked up his bucket and went around to suds up the grille.
"Estelle is like that, too," Rebecca said.
The man hiked up his pants. He looked off at the closed windows of his house and over at a stunted, leafless tree at the edge of his yard. "That friend of yours," he said gruffly, ". . . that Estelle, she's moved out, you know. That place is empty now. No, you'll waste your time knocking on that door."
Rebecca decided to let this pass, and the man dropped back down to his bucket. "I wouldn't give ten cents," he grumbled, "to know anybody on this block. Including your long-gone friend."
Rebecca ignored all this. "Beverly was her maiden name," she told him. "She married a man named Sims when she was twenty-eight, and although that union lasted only a short time she and Mr Sims remain good friends to this day." She smiled mischievously. "Nowadays Estelle has other interests, I understand. She's in love."
"Spit," he said.
"Actually, she's feverish about this particular gentleman, but I have reason to believe the relationship is undergoing its difficult moments."
"Pa-tooey," the man said.
"I'm sure you must have seen him. He drives an orange Toyota."
At this the man perked up. He wheeled about, pointing to a spot on the street vaguely in front of Estelle's house. "Orange?" he said. Rebecca took this to mean that he had seen the car in question parked out in front of Estelle's house through nights too numerous to mention.
"They may be good cars," he said gruffly, "but only a traitor would buy one." He smacked a flat, wet hand against the top of his own automobile. "I've seen him," he said. "He wears a hat."
This news tantalized Rebecca. She had never seen Estelle's lover wearing a chapeau of any sort. She stood up now. She had smoked her cigarette and had her visit and was now ready to leave.
"Where you going?" the man asked her.
She smiled, surprised. "Why, I don't know," she said. "I haven't thought about it."
He strode past her to the side of the house, beckoning. "Come inside," he grumbled. "Something to show you. I bought my son a .22 for his birthday. I've got it on a gun rack in the den. I don't suppose you shoot, being a woman -- my wife hates it -- but what I say is if Harold doesn't go out and shoot something with it the very minute he turns sixteen I'm going to throw him out of the house." He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, scowling back at Rebecca who was lingering. "It beats me," he said, "why women don't like hunting. And fishing. There is not anything more fun than that. Character-building, too. My old man had me out on the marsh with a rifle in my arms before I was two years old. Women! I'll tell you about women. Women have got themselves into this trouble out of their own choosing. They deserve everything they get. Bunch of fools, if you ask me. Silliest thing on two feet. Look at you, for instance. All sky-baby-blue in that silly raincoat and those silly shoes. Well, it's feminine all right, but that's all I can say for it."
Rebecca laughed, a low breasty chuckle that brightened her face. She loved insults. She wished he'd say something else -- perhaps about her hair or her nice scarf or her blue pocketbook. She wished he'd put on his funny little cap.
"Come on," he ordered. "Want to show you that gun."
Rebecca was tempted. Few things pleased her more than seeing how other people lived. She could imagine herself inside browsing through his cupboards, checking out cereal boxes, opening the refrigerator door to read out the brand names on frozen foods. But she'd been looking at Estelle's house; she was certain she'd seen the front curtain move. "No thank you," she said. "Perhaps another time. I'm often in the neighbourhood."
"Buzz off then," he said. "Who asked you? I got better things to do."
The gnats had moved on from Estelle's door. They were now up around the telephone wire where it entered the house, a larger body now, black patch silently lifting and falling, swaying, against the clear blue sky.
"It's me again," Rebecca called, knocking.
The house was silent. Four or five rolled newspapers were on the ground beneath the hedge, soiled and wet, further indication to Rebecca that Estelle's love life had reached the cut-throat stage.
"I've brought you your reading matter!" she shouted, bent at the keyhole, thinking she detected shadowy movement inside.
"I'll huff and I'll puff!" she called. "Stand back!" Estelle didn't respond.
A tomb.
The back of the house was deserted, too. Curtains were drawn over the windows, and a beautiful spider web had been spun over the upper portion of the door. Crumpled newspaper filled a hole down in the corner of one cracked window. Under the roof line stretched a series of old hornets' nests, or dirt-daubers' sturdy quarters. The garbage can was overturned, but empty. A rusty barbecue stand was down on its side in the tall grass. Numerous tin cans and milk cartons lay about; a huge cardboard box had been flattened by the rain.
Rebecca took her time contemplating the debris, seated in a white metal chair out near where a composting fixture once had stood. She smoked, and pitched her head back to catch the sunshine. She would have been happy if only she had a drink to sip on.
Gloves, she thought. Why haven't I bought myself a pair of nice blue gloves?
The silence of the place fascinated her. She realized she was genuinely enjoying this.
A large fluffy cat, golden in color, hopped up on the picnic table in the neighbouring yard. It took turns idly scrutinizing her and, just as idly, licking its fur.
"Gin," said Rebecca. "Gin and tonic, I think."
And she stayed on another ten minutes or so, enjoying the invisible drink.
Someone not far away was calling. A woman's fragile, unhurried voice repeating: "Oro! . . . Oro! . . . Come home, Oro." Very musical, Rebecca thought.
A breeze played gently across her face, further subduing her mood, and she let herself drift along in a sweet, dreamy doze, seeing the world before her as though through a haze in which all things moved in tranquil, harmonic order, pleasant and kind.
The sun dropped down rays thick as a lattice fence, golden and alluring.
What splendour, she thought. I could be in someone's enchanted garden.
Afterwards, drawing the blue collar up against her neck, feeling somewhat chilled, she stepped again up to Estelle's rear window. She rapped on the glass, looking for a peephole through the curtains.
"Estelle? Estelle, darling, please open the door."
She heard a quick catch of breath within and could feel Estelle's presence on the other side of the wall.
"It's lovely out here, it truly is. You should come out and talk to me. He hasn't hurt you, has he?" She heard a whisper of footsteps, the creak of floorboards, and beat her knuckles sharply against the window. "Oh don't be unhappy!" she pleaded. "Please let me in. He isn't worth this pining, Estelle . . ."
The floor creaked again.
A cat squawked somewhere in the neighbourhood, much as if someone were repeatedly pulling its tail.
Rebecca stiffened; she shivered. She whipped her head around, certain that someone had stolen up and was about to hit her on the head.
No...
A very old man with an enormous stomach, wearing a checkered shirt and carrying his shoes in his hands, was out on the steps next door, watching her. He leaned against the door frame, putting on one shoe. Then he leaned the opposite way and put on the other.
"I think she's left that place," he said. "I think she moved out four, five days ago."
Rebecca smiled at him.
The man backed up, slowly withdrawing into the house.
Nearby, someone was singing, or perhaps it was a radio.
Rebecca stared a moment at the dusty, faded newspaper stuffed into the window crack. "I've got my troubles too, Estelle," she said. "My phone rings every night. It's that man I told you about. He refuses to let up. Every night I think, 'Well, tonight he's going to threaten me' . . . but he never quite does. He's extremely cunning. What do I do, Estelle?"
When Estelle didn't answer, Rebecca went up on tiptoe and tugged the stiff paper free. Then she went up again on tiptoe, straightening her arm, and poked her hand into the small opening. She worked her hand past the jagged glass and past the curtain edge and thrust her arm deeper into the room. It felt cold, very cold, in there.
Something brushed or cut or struck against her flesh and with a faint cry of pain, of fear, she snatched back her arm. Shards of glass tinkled down, her heel twisted in the uneven dirt, and she stumbled back, holding in her breath; she staggered, banged one knee against dirt, then lost her balance totally and landed gracelessly on one hip.
Dizzily, she got to her feet. Her coat sleeve was torn, scar in the blue fabric scarcely larger than a dime; a straight line of blood was popping up in droplets across the back of her hand. It stung.
"You've cut me, Estelle," she said, her voice calm, amazed.
She had a clear vision of Estelle inside the cold room, pressed against the wall, eyes slitted, knife poised, waiting for her again to poke her arm through.
But she wasn't sure. It could have been the glass.
She licked the line clean, hastily pulled free her scarf, and wrapped it around her hand.
"That was uncalled-for, Estelle. That was very mean."
She drew back, watching the window.
"But I forgive you."
At the corner of the house she turned, calling again.
"I know you're not yourself today. I really wish you'd let me help you."
She went once more to the front of the house and sat down on Estelle's stoop, brooding on this turn of events.
No, the fault wasn't Estelle's. The fault was Arnold's.
She unfolded one of the newspapers. The moisture had soaked through and the sheet had to be peeled apart. Displayed across the front page was a photograph of Nureyev leaping, his legs flung wide, bare buttocks to the camera, arrow pointing to where his tights had ripped. DANCER SHOWS TRUE FORM, the caption read. But Rebecca shivered at the black headlines. Shivered, and let her head swoop down against the page. 58 DIE IN BLOODBATH . . . OIL RIG GOES DOWN OFF NEWFOUNDLAND, NO SURVIVORS ... WARSAW ERUPTS.
Yes, she thought, and my mother is dead, my husband has left me, I have no children, hardly any life, and no one knows anything at all -- or cares! -- about poor Rebecca.
But when her head came up she was ruefully smiling.
Yes, all true, she thought, but we shall continue the investigation.
She turned, peering through Estelle's keyhole.
"Peace Promised for One Zillion Years!" she shouted. "Happiness Lays Golden Egg! . . . Man Steps in Pothole, Breaks Leg!"
She removed the scarf from her hand and closely observed the wound. "Nineteen Stitches Required!" she called. "Noted Plastic Surgeon Called In! . . . Lady Recovers from Heartless Attack!"
The tear in the coat bothered her more. She wondered whether a good seamstress could save the day.
A boy was approaching, yet some distance down the street, slouching, his hands deep into his pockets, small black case tucked up under one arm, his face white as plaster in the sunlight.
Harold.
The man who had been washing the car was no longer in the yard, nor was the car. A woman now stood out in front of the house, arms crossed over her chest. She was looking past Rebecca at the dawdling boy. She wore a print dress, too bold for her thick figure; the hem hung unevenly and the grass cut off her legs. She called wanly to the boy:
"Harold! Harold! He hit me, Harold!"
Harold stopped. Now nearly abreast of Estelle's house, he looked not at his mother but at Rebecca coolly watching from the stoop.
"You don't live there," he said to her. "That place is deserted."
Rebecca loved this frontal approach. He was sullen, nasty even, but she wanted to reach out and hug him. He was abusive, yes, but it seemed to her that those who were most insulting were also those who most willingly offered enthusiastic praise.
"What's that under your arm?" she asked him. "Is that an oboe?"
The boy's face clouded. He kicked a shoe against the pavement, standing with his body bent like a quarter moon.
"I wish you'd play for me," Rebecca said. "I haven't heard an oboist play really well in years."
"Who are you?" he growled. "What are you doing in our neighbourhood?"
"Harold! He hit me, Harold," called his mother.
The boy put his case on the sidewalk and, crouching, took the instrument from it, polishing the bulbous end on his sleeve.
"I give the pitch to the whole orchestra," he said, standing, glaring at Rebecca.
He blew a strong, high note, which then seemed to falter -- but the note came back stronger, more penetrating, thin, only a little plaintive, and it intensified and kept on coming.
"Harold!" called the mother. "He really hit me hard."
His mother now stood at the edge of her yard, her hands twisting around the narrow trunk of a leafless tree.
The boy scowled at Rebecca. "Sure, I could play," he said. "But I won't. Harold only plays for money."
Rebecca nodded doubtfully, her thoughts drifting, watching the swarm of gnats at the side of the house, hovering a few feet above the scraggly grass.
"You're a very good-looking boy," Rebecca said. "I'll bet you must be every inch of six feet tall."
"He hurt me, Harold!"
The boy came up and sat down on the stoop beside Rebecca.
"I'm very advanced for my age," he told her. "I'm very unusual. In fact, I'm eccentric."
"Well, it is a strange neighbourhood," she said.
"Not that strange. The woman who lived here -- what was her name?"
"Estelle."
"Estelle was strange. I saw her one night out back of this house, practically naked -- in a flowing gown, I mean -- down on her knees in front of that chair she's got back there, bowing and bowing, like an Arab. That's strange."
Rebecca smiled. "Not if you know Estelle," she replied softly.
Across the way his mother advanced a few paces, her footsteps weighted, as if deep holes were opening in front of her. When she saw them looking at her she backed up, returning hastily to the tree.
The boy moistened the mouthpiece, allowed his head to settle deep between his shoulders, then played several quick, rather piercing, notes. "Listen to this," he said.
He closed his eyes.
He played.
When the last lingering note faded, Rebecca, only now opening her eyes, clapped enthusiastically. "Oh God," she sighed, genuinely moved. "You're going to be immortal."