NATHAN LOVE SHILOAH

[AMERICONORMAN]

And now the last Patrick Verder story ....

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Nathan Love Shiloah, The Radiant—

A Sketch

By Jose Gainza

Based on a story by Arnold Post, Nathan The Radiant, from a book called, Israeli Tales and Legends

Rest assured that there is no god of retribution—there is no god. I know—this from the lips of a philosopher and a profound storyteller. There is the will of Man, there is his sacred code of action, and there is his conscience. A man must be honest and accept this, or suffer the consequences of his delusions.

Nathan Love Shiloah was not a believer, knowing this since his days of high school; perhaps earlier. And he struggled ever since to be a moral man, to be a happy man, despite his renunciation of supernaturalism. He investigated the issue in books and he soon found the infamous Nietzsche: the philosopher who declared that men are no longer commanded to action by their fear of their leper-loving god, nor their biased-racist god, and therefore, men find themselves in the midst of a crisis of values. Men, therefore, historically, go through a stage of Nihilism, which is necessary for the grand cleansing of mankind, to lay way for a superior type of animal. His is the philosophy of the Superman. And though this philosophy was quite attractive at first to Nathan Shiloah, he could not escape the horrors that his logic led to when following Nietzsche’s premises.

Soon he decided that this was his philosophy: A man must work for his own keep, he must buy his own way. A man must find his one love, his work; he must excel in it and be satisfied with the joy that it brings him. The standard of his goodness would not be charity, or obedience to god’s morality of altruism, or the breaking of his “metaphysical” pre-determined inferiors. It would then revolve around his efficacy, translated into a practical profession, providing for a fundamental sense of joy for life. It would be about the joy of achieving values, engaging in productive, even artistic activities, and the joy of creating his, sufficient wealth. And charity would not be beyond his reach, though; surely he would help a friend in need, or a worthy stranger who became impoverished by some tragedy, or an allowed ignorance. He would thus detest sloth. He would not lie, cheat, or steal—and know the first causes for why. He would work and think.

In his twenties he moved from Toronto to Alberta. At first he learned the cattle trade, and developed a tremendous strong body, though lean, to compliment an already strong mind. Soon he moved on to the booming oil industry and became a favorite of his of his foreman and managers. He had few friends, few vices, except for a bottle of good scotch every few months; and so, his savings account grew vast to a point when he decided he would invest in real property.

He moved back to Toronto to invest his money. He bought a house and rented it out to boarders. After some years he bought a few more. Soon he bought a string of small apartment buildings. By the age of thirty five, with the help of an honest and brilliant stock broker, he became a millionaire.

But something was missing in his life. It was obvious he wanted someone to hold at night, someone to eat meals with, to go shopping with, someone to scold lightly on occasion, someone to forgive, someone to worship, someone to pamper, someone who could predict his motivations, and someone who could move him. For years now in his easier life, he had taken up poetry. He had become quite prolific for a man just starting out in his thirties. Though the muse was there in his mind and in that sphere forever willing, she was not there, existential, and in the flesh; just a hope was she.

One night after dinner, he knew he was tired of writing poetry and that it was time for a break. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few weeks, he would write again. Tonight, he would buy himself a good bottle of scotch and watch a good movie or two on television, and order some Chinese food.

He walked on Queen West eastbound from Brock, from where the government liquor store was. He passed a few small private art galleries, and passed them by with indifference, for they resembled kindergarten arts and crafts. Soon he saw her. She was standing in a window, and she was smiling with pride, in a simple dress, but the contours of the folds making prominent her feminine sexuality. The Toronto skyline, the eastern wall, was behind her, so that she was at some window at the east side of the Don River, somewhere on ledge close to Queen East. Nathan Love Shiloah was in love for the first time in his life.

He could not help but enter the gallery, this time. It was a small gallery; there was almost as much space in the window display. There was only three more painting on the walls of the tiny show room almost as beautiful as the one in the window. One was of a beautiful man, young, Nathan’s age, like the woman, seeming to be a self-portrait of the artist. Another was of the city, and Nathan knew the vantage point: a school yard at Dufferin and Davenport, atop a hill, seeing the skyline from the Northwest from the property’s southern ledge. The third was of a town in a small productive valley.

Soon Nathan heard a voice call out from the back room, “I’ll be right out!”

And in a moment the beautiful painter came out, with the most angelic and benevolent aura, though smeared by paint.

“I love your work,” said Nathan.

“You have good taste,” was the artist’s answer, underscored by a welcoming smile.

“Who’s the woman?” was Nathan’s blatant question.

“Yes, she’s real. She’s my precious one.”

“Is the commitment forever?” continued Nathan with such daring.

The painter grinned like a champion and answered, “I’m glad you’re so honest. She is bewitching, isn’t she? Yes, we’re married.”

“I’m sorry for being so frank.”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I buy one?”

“Any one but her.”

“I’ll take the valley. How much?”

“How much you offering?”

“Ten Thousand.”

“Wow!”

“You can buy your wife some precious things.”

“I will.”

“Who do I make the cheque out to?”

“Richmond Virginian.”

“What!”

“Blame my parents. That’s my name. The surname was inescapable. They chose the first; they were fanatics of revolutionary America.”

“Okay.” He handed over the written cheque bearing his own name and address in gold bold calligraphy.

“What do you do … Nathan?”

“I made my wealth in real estate. Will you join me for some scotch? I was going to go home and watch some movies as a rest from work.”

Richmond led Nathan to the back room and locked the front door of the gallery. The room was several times larger than the showroom, well-lit, with several paintings covered by white blankets. Richmond would not reveal even one more no matter how much welcomed scotch he consumed.

After Nathan listened attentively to Richmond talk about his work and how his motivation was to capture in one frame the most profound and blessed themes, Nathan asked, “What’s her name?”

“Hannah Josiana Virginian,” and Richmond’s eyes sparkled.

“What does she do?”

“She’s a poet. She’s not published but she’s a poet.”

“I can change that.”

“Perhaps.”

And Nathan spoke of anecdotes from his time in Alberta. He spoke of the time he tamed ten horses in one night. And how he found a missing herd of cows, that had fled a hundred miles, and how he brought them all back to a suburb of Calgary in unprecedented time, alone. And he spoke of the time he, by his forethought, prevented a destructive oil hemorrhage, which he had to fight so hard to make others see. And he spoke of how, for a time, he was the greatest shot in the Greater Calgary Area. He spoke about his philosophy of work and Richmond agreed. It was clear in that one night that they were of the same soul.

Now that their cheeks were flushed due to the scotch, Nathan regrettably proclaimed that he had to go back home, and to call it a night.

“You know, Nathan, my wife needs another poet in her life. We haven’t met her yet.”

“I write poetry. That’s actually what I’m taking a break from.”

“I’d love to read it.”

“I have a website under a pseudonym.” Nathan handed him a business card with the URL.

Nathan walked home almost overcome by his love for Hannah. But he did not feel guilt for coveting his brother’s wife. He was “scheming” in his mind to conquer her, to prove that he was a better man than Richmond, though a great man too. He thought of situations that would bring about a happy ending to the usually fatal triangle. He was confident that he would succeed.

Meanwhile, Richmond had finished reading all of Nathan’s poetry on the internet. And Hannah can be pictured at home, asleep on the couch from waiting for her love, and a cold pasta dinner getting colder on the dinner table, the candles long since blown out, and the cork back in the wine bottle. Richmond turned off the computer with a sense of torment and torture.

For the next month he suffered silently from the guilt a man feels when he knows he possesses something he does not deserve, as if his marriage were now some theft. And Nathan could not bring himself to face Richmond and tell him of the upcoming competition, though he knew one day very soon he would. And then one day rational and honest Richmond knew what he would do …

Hannah came home one night to discover several bouquets of flowers positioned throughout the apartment, a provocative dress draped over the living room futon, and pearl earrings hanging from the key rack. A note bore an address of a restaurant and a time of rendezvous. That same day, Nathan received an invitation to have dinner with Richmond. At the same hour that Hannah and Nathan were sitting across the same table, after both giving the receptionist the name of Richmond as the party to meet, with a pleasant bewilderment on both of their faces, Richmond was on a plane to Miami, just for a short trip, wearing the most radiant, brilliant, benevolent, and unprecedented glow of his life. And the waiter, after meeting with the receptionist, was walking over to Hannah and Nathan’s table prepared to present them with a note from Richmond:

MAY WE ALL LIVE FOREVER HAPPY APART … AND TOGETHER … TOAST TO THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS AND THE COURAGE IT REQUIRES. I LOVE YOU BOTH.

THE END.

[AMERICONORMAN]

I've been meaning to correct an error in my introductory line to this story. The author of ISRAELI TALES AND LEGENDS is Arnold PosY, not Arnold Post. The cover of the book I have, the Y looks like a T. If you recall, I read a story in there called Nathan, The Radiant, and it inspired my story, which is very different, but still some significant parallels.

Jose.