Ivan Vladislavić: The Folly

“He would never abandon the plan,” Mr insisted. “He’s not like that.”

But at the end of the day he was forced to investigate and found it harrowing. His knees were shaking as he slunk along in the shadow of the hedge, averting his eyes from the plan and blocking his ears with the fleshy palms of his hands. He made a brief tour of the camp and its environs. Although the ashes in the fireplace were cold and crusted over, the gadgets were all in place, indicating that the camp was still inhabited, and heartened by this discovery he crept closer to the tent and put an ear to the canvas. Ha! He heard the stirring music of Nieuwenhuizen’s breathing, in and out, round and round, like a spoon scraping the bottom of a pot.

He headed home to break the news, but got no further than the gutter, where he came across the letter-box. What a perfect symbol of his humiliation it was. . and yet it saddened him to see it lying there, all scuffed and down at heel. He cradled it tenderly, murmured comforting words, and balanced it on top of its post.

This small constructive gesture made him feel better.

He glanced apprehensively at the plan. It was looking a little the worse for wear. He went closer. His heart began to pound again. The signs of neglect were all too clear: the string was frayed and yellowing; a nail or two had worked loose; diminutive dunes of sand and ash had rolled up around the knots. Despite the ravages of the season’s bitter winds and frosts, some porraceous weeds were sprouting.

He crouched down and twirled a length of gritty string between thumb and forefinger. He became aware of Nieuwenhuizen’s breathing, which rose and fell like a tide in the background, and the sound gave him goose-flesh. A salty sense of transience washed over him, dumped him head over heels in its surf, and receded, casting up this disturbing conclusion: “I, Malgas, hold the new house in my hands. In the absence of Father, who is indisposed, albeit temporarily, or is it permanent? we don’t know, I, the Malgas, am custodian of the plan, and without me it is doomed. This bewildering blueprint, bewitching too in its way, produced with faith and discipline under difficult circumstances, will fade away. The nails will rust. The string will be poached little by little to tie up packages and truss roasts and fly kites and do the million and one other indispensable, insignificant things string does. The construction site will be reclaimed by the fertile veld.”

“Father has turned his back on us, it seems. But what if his heart, which is big, and strong, and soft in the middle, still cossets a spark of hope, as mine did once, even in its darkest chamber. As mine does now! What if Father emerges from his self-imposed exile — was I the sole and singular cause? I hope not — rested and restored, ready to have that spark fanned into a beacon to light our way to the future, which I see before me now, no, it’s gone again — I say, emerges only to find the plan in ruins?”

Quite overcome by his own grandiloquence, Mr Malgas stumbled to the tent and called, “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Zzzzzzz.” What a joker! Nieuwenhuizen had to think about his mortal remains rotting in the bowels of the earth to keep from laughing.

Mr Malgas turned back to the plan. Somehow it seemed less chaotic than before.

A voice he didn’t recognize said distinctly, “Malgas.”

“There must be more to life than Hardware,” he made answer. “Materials are important, I won’t deny it, they’ve been good to me. Tools too. Packaging is an art-form, the wheels must go round, these things are given. But surely one should also build, with one’s own hands, according to one’s own innermost desires, and be seen to build. Ask me: I’ve done a bit of building in my time. Do it yourself. See our display advert.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, to reveal Mr Hardware with his hammer and nail. Then he opened his eyes as wide as they’d go, walked steadfastly into the middle of the plan and chose for trial purposes an especially grubby triangle. He spat on his handkerchief and wiped the string. He dusted off a trio of nails and tightened a few knots. The improvement was dramatic. So he went back to the camp, soaked his hanky in the drum of stagnant water under the tree, wrung it out, and set about systematically cleaning the entire plan.

The following day Mr Malgas came prepared. He brought a tub of axle-grease to lubricate the shafts of the nails and safeguard them against rust, and some Silvo and a soft cloth to buff the heads. It was tricky work: he had to extract each nail from its hole, smear it and reinsert it, without undoing any knots or dropping any stitches. As if that wasn’t taxing enough, no sooner had the nails been removed than the wounds would want to heal themselves. The lubrication took three days.

Next he got to work on the string, massaging the lengths with raw linseed oil and treating the knots with dubbin and beeswax. While he worked many little tasks suggested themselves, and each new one took its place in the scheme of things to constitute a routine. Some, like sweeping between the lines, he attended to daily; others, like squashing the life out of unwanted seedlings between thumb and forefinger, only when the need arose.

For three days, morning and evening, he brought food for Nieuwenhuizen and left it at the tent-flap, but it remained untouched.

“He’s given up,” said Mrs, “and it’s the only decent thing He’s done since He arrived. Why should you worry?”

“It’s the least I can do. He’s neglecting himself and the new house, and all because of me. If only I’d been able to see it — he wasn’t asking much when you think about it — we’d have started the actual construction ages ago. We may even have been finished by now. It’s all my fault. I’m a spanner in the works. It shows you how considerate he is, that he won’t start without me.”

“He’s waiting for you because He knows you can be relied on to do the dirty work.”

“What’s gotten into you? Instead of carping all the time, you could help. Come over and look at the plan. You’ll pick it up in no time, with your artistic streak.”

“Never! What if He’s creeping around and I bump into Him?”

No matter what Mrs said, Mr Malgas refused to give up. If anything, her dismissive attitude made him more determined than ever to care for the plan until Nieuwenhuizen needed it again. As the days grew longer and queued up in weeks, he refined his daily duties into a satisfying and efficient programme. As soon as he came in from work he would change into his overalls and go next door. In the unlikely event that Nieuwenhuizen had regained consciousness, he would hail him cheerfully as he approached the camp. When there was no answer, and there never was, he would cock an ear to confirm that Nieuwenhuizen was still inside the tent and breathing. This superstitious little rite never failed to lift his spirits. And only then did he bring out his maintenance kit, which he kept in a cardboard box under the hedge, and begin whatever tasks were scheduled for the day. He would be home in time to eat supper with Mrs while they watched the eight o’clock news, with special reference to the unrest report.

Initially, Mr Malgas found Nieuwenhuizen’s invisible presence inhibiting. His stertorous breathing was a constant reminder of the one’s confinement and the other’s liberty, and insinuated a lamentable causality between the two. But he discovered ways of weaving this raucous conscience into his activities and before long he felt free to savour whole-heartedly the pleasures of caretaking. The work was absorbing. New techniques had to be devised to meet the unprecedented needs of the plan, new rhythms evolved to minimize effort and maximize effect. Concerns like these were dear to Mr Malgas. In his nurturing hands the lines became supple and beautiful again, and the nails regained their lustre. Moreover, he found that maintenance renewed his faith in the whole sphere of materials, and he began to enjoy his work in the hardware shop for the first time in months.