«I’ll be damned,» was all I could say .
O’Rourke was studying the menu. I looked at it distractedly, unable to decide what I wanted to eat. All I could think of was Harcourt. So Harcourt fucked them all! Jesus Christ, I was furious. I wanted more than ever to do something about it. Maybe Monahan was the man; maybe he was already laying his traps.
I ordered something at random and sat looking disconsolately at the diners.
«What’s the matter?» said O’Rourke. «You look depressed.»
«I am,» I answered. «It’s nothing. It’ll pass.»
Throughout the meal I only half listened to O’Rourke’s talk. I kept thinking of Mona. I wondered what she would say if I were to mention Harcourt’s name. That son of a bitch! Fucking everything in sight ‘and then, b’Jesus, almost fucking me out of a job! The gall of him! Well, another clue to work on. Things were happening fast….
It took several hours for me to break away from O’Rourke. When he wanted to hold you he could tell one story after another, gliding from one to another with the most dexterous ingenuity. I was always exhausted after spending an evening with him. It exhausted me just to listen, because with every sentence he let fall I watched like a bird of prey for my opening. Besides, there were always long interruptions in the stories, demanding regressions, recapitulations and all manner of acrobatics. Sometimes he’d keep me waiting a half hour or more in a telegraph office while, with that patience which exasperated me, he laboriously went through the files in search of some trivial detail. And always, before resuming his story, he would make a long, windy detour, as we went from one office to another, concerning the clerk or the manager or the telegrapher in the office we had just left. His memory was prodigious. In the hundred or more branch offices scattered throughout the city he knew all the clerks by name, the record of their progress from one job to another, one office to another, and thousands of intimate details about their family life. Not only did he know the present staff—he knew the ghosts who had occupied their places before them. In addition he knew many of the messengers, both of the night and the day shifts. He was especially devoted to the old fellows, some of whom had served the company almost as many years as O’Rourke himself.
I had learned a great deal from these nocturnal inspections, things which I doubted that Clancy himself knew. More than a few of the clerks, I discovered through the course of these rounds with O’Rourke, had been guilty of embezzlement at one time or another in their seedy, cosmococcic career. O’Rourke had his own way of dealing with these cases. Relying upon the good judgment which his long experience had given him, he often took amazing liberties in dealing with these unfortunate individuals. Half the cases, I am certain, never became known to any one but O’Rourke. Where he had confidence in the man he would allow him to make restitution little by little, making it clear, of course, that the matter was to remain a secret between them. There was at times a twofold purpose in this benevolence. By handling the incident in this irregular way not only was the company certain of retrieving all that had been stolen but, because of his gratitude, the victim could henceforth be relied upon to act as a sort of stool pigeon. He could be made to squeal and squawk when occasion arose. Many a time, in the beginning, when I wondered why O’Rourke was taking such an interest in certain rat-like characters, I discovered that they were of the lost tribe whom O’Rourke had converted to useful instruments. In fact, I learned one thing about O’Rourke which explained everything, so far as his mysterious behavior was concerned: that was that every one to whom he gave the least time or attention had some importance in the scheme of his cosmococcic life.
Though he gave the illusion of running rings around himself, though he often acted like a fool and an ignoramus, though he seemed to be doing nothing more than wasting time, actually everything he said or did had a vital bearing on the work in hand. Moreover, there was never just one case which occupied him exclusively. He had a hundred strings to his lyre. No case was ever too hopeless for him to drop. The company might have scratched it off the record—but not O’Rourke. He had the infinite patience of an artist, and with it the conviction that time was on his side. There didn’t seem to be any phase of life with which he had not familiarized himself. Though, speaking of the artist, I must admit that perhaps in that realm he was least sure of himself. He could stand and look at the work of a pompier in a department store window with dewy eyes. His knowledge of literature was almost nil. But if, for example, I should happen to relate the story of Raskolnikov, as Dostoievski unfolded it for us, I could be certain of reaping the most penetrating observations. And what it was indeed that made me cherish his friendship, was the kinship he had, humanly and spiritually, with such writers as Dostoievski. His acquaintance with the underworld had softened and broadened him. He was a detective because of his extraordinary interest in and sympathy with his fellow-man. He never caused a man unnecessary pain. He always gave his man the wide benefit of the doubt. He never held a grudge against any one, no matter what the man had done. He sought to understand, to fathom their motives, even when they were of the basest. Above all, he was to be relied upon absolutely. His word, once given, was adhered to at any cost. Neither could he be bribed. I can’t possibly imagine what temptation one could put before him to deflect him from the performance of his duty. A further point in his favor, in my opinion, was that he was totally lacking in ambition. He hadn’t the slightest desire to be anything other than he was. He gave himself body and soul to his task, knowing that it was a thankless one, knowing that he was being used and abused by a heartless, soulless organization. But, as he himself had more than once remarked, whatever the attitude of the company might be was none of his concern. Nor did it matter to him that, in the event of retirement, they should undo everything be had labored to build up. Having no illusions, he nevertheless gave his utmost to all who made demands upon him.
He was a unique being, O’Rourke. He disturbed me profoundly sometimes. I don’t think I’ve ever known any one before or since who made me feel quite so transparent as he did. Nor do I ever remember any one who so abstemiously withheld giving advice or criticism. He was the only man I’ve ever known who made me realize what it means to be tolerant, what it means to respect the other person’s liberty. It’s curious, now that I reflect on it, how deeply he symbolized the Law. Not the petty spirit of law which man uses for his own ends, but the inscrutable cosmic law which never ceases to work, which is implacable and just, and thus ultimately the most merciful.
As I lay in bed wide awake, I would, after an evening such as this one, often ask myself what O’Rourke would do it he were in my boots. In endeavoring to make the transposition it had occurred to me more than once that I knew nothing about O’Rourke’s private life. Absolutely nothing. Not that he was evasive—I couldn’t say that. It was just a blank. Somehow the subject never came up.
I don’t know why I thought so, but I had the feeling that in some period long past he had suffered a great deception. A frustrated love, perhaps.
Whatever it was, he had not been soured by it. He had foundered and then recovered. But his life had been irreparably altered. Putting all the little pieces together, putting on one side the man I knew, and on the other side the man whom I caught glimpses of now and then (when he was in a reminiscent mood), comparing them one with the other, it was impossible to deny that they were two quite different beings. All those rugged, sterling qualities which O’Rourke possessed were like protective devices, worn not outwardly but inwardly. From the world he had little or nothing to fear. He was in it and of it, totally. But against the decrees of Fate he was powerless.
It was strange, I thought to myself as I closed my eyes, that the man I should owe so much to must remain forever a sealed book. I could only learn from his behavior and example.
A wave of tenderness swept over me. I understood O’Rourke in a bigger way than I had before. I understood everything more clearly. I understood for the first time what it really means to be «delicate».
13
There are days when the return to life is painful and distressing. One leaves the realm of sleep against one’s
