the place to practice. Immediate gratification tempts. But patience rewards in the long term. That and the miracle of compound interest.” She smiled to herself. “Now, if you are looking for a more Manichean philosophy of life, I would have you ask Zoë.”
The waitress and busboy arrived with the dinners. The two set out the sushi and tempura, miso and rice. Troy thanked them in Japanese. The waitress grinned and bowed in return.
Milada cradled her miso bowl and sipped the hot, salty tea. She hadn’t tasted miso in a while. She had forgotten how much it reminded her of blood.
Troy dipped a slice of the sushi roll into the soy sauce. He used chopsticks with a practiced dexterity. “Zoë?” he said, picking up the thread of the conversation.
“The younger of my two sisters.”
“What does she think the purpose of life is?”
“Killing people she doesn’t like.”
The surprised look on his face was followed by a suspicious expression that his leg was being pulled. Milada shrugged. “She battles evil, if you like. Rather haphazardly. I agree, I can think of better occupations.”
“Is she a police officer or soldier or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
The sushi wasn’t bad, Milada thought.
“So you believe in evil then.”
“I believe people can be bad, can be cruel. Perhaps can be clever enough to be evil. But even the clever ones eventually end up against the wall like the Ceausescus. Or erased from history like the Gang of Four. Evil accumulates. It eats away at the core. It destroys its host. For evil to survive, it must find some good that justifies its existence. Some higher purpose—if nothing else, making the trains run on time—or else it collapses almost as soon as it begins. So kingdoms rise and fall. In the meanwhile, a well-run corporation outlasts any government. And most nations.”
“Which means you do or don’t believe in the devil?”
“I believe there is evil enough in ourselves. I’ve never met the creature myself. I have met a few of his foot soldiers. And in their time most were thought to be—and thought themselves to be—good and decent men.”
Troy nodded.
Milada said, “I knew someone once, a person who did evil with purpose and intent.” Briefly, she looked past Troy, through the window at the shadowed sidewalk, at a man and woman pushing a stroller, a boy coasting by on a skateboard. “She thought she was doing the right thing. Or perhaps was doing the only thing she could do. Or perhaps was merely frightened. Fear and ignorance are so easily confused in the moral imagination.”
They ate in silence until Troy asked, “What about God?”
“Were I to believe in God, a personal God, as Christians would have it, I must believe in a God who values life much differently than we do.”
“But in the end, good triumphs over evil.”
“No, my experience is that mediocrity triumphs over all. Hence the need for grace, would you not say?”
He conceded the point.
Milada finished off the last of the tempura. “This is quite good.”
“As good as what you can get in New York?”
“Hardly Nobu Matsuhisa. But not bad.”
Troy checked his watch. “We’d better get going.”
He paid the check at the front desk with a Platinum Visa card. They arrived at Troy’s car, a red Jeep Wrangler. Milada’s initial reaction was dismay, and she didn’t stop it from showing.
“Don’t worry,” Troy said, “I keep it clean.”
The Jeep was indeed tidily kept. Milada’s concern had not so much to do with cleanliness. She had a phobia of convertibles, regardless of the time of day. It was light, though the sun had settled safely behind the Oquirrh Mountains. Get a grip, she told herself and buckled herself in.
Steven had pointed out Abravanel Hall on their informal tours of downtown Salt Lake. It stood kitty-corner from Temple Square, southeast from Energy Solutions Arena. If she were still around later in the year, she should take in a Jazz
The waitress and busboy arrived with the dinners. The two set out the sushi and tempura, miso and rice. Troy thanked them in Japanese. The waitress grinned and bowed in return.
Milada cradled her miso bowl and sipped the hot, salty tea. She hadn’t tasted miso in a while. She had forgotten how much it reminded her of blood.
Troy dipped a slice of the sushi roll into the soy sauce. He used chopsticks with a practiced dexterity. “Zoë?” he said, picking up the thread of the conversation.
“The younger of my two sisters.”
“What does she think the purpose of life is?”
“Killing people she doesn’t like.”
The surprised look on his face was followed by a suspicious expression that his leg was being pulled. Milada shrugged. “She battles evil, if you like. Rather haphazardly. I agree, I can think of better occupations.”
“Is she a police officer or soldier or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
The sushi wasn’t bad, Milada thought.
“So you believe in evil then.”
“I believe people can be bad, can be cruel. Perhaps can be clever enough to be evil. But even the clever ones eventually end up against the wall like the Ceausescus. Or erased from history like the Gang of Four. Evil accumulates. It eats away at the core. It destroys its host. For evil to survive, it must find some good that justifies its existence. Some higher purpose—if nothing else, making the trains run on time—or else it collapses almost as soon as it begins. So kingdoms rise and fall. In the meanwhile, a well-run corporation outlasts any government. And most nations.”
“Which means you do or don’t believe in the devil?”
“I believe there is evil enough in ourselves. I’ve never met the creature myself. I have met a few of his foot soldiers. And in their time most were thought to be—and thought themselves to be—good and decent men.”
Troy nodded.
Milada said, “I knew someone once, a person who did evil with purpose and intent.” Briefly, she looked past Troy, through the window at the shadowed sidewalk, at a man and woman pushing a stroller, a boy coasting by on a skateboard. “She thought she was doing the right thing. Or perhaps was doing the only thing she could do. Or perhaps was merely frightened. Fear and ignorance are so easily confused in the moral imagination.”
They ate in silence until Troy asked, “What about God?”
“Were I to believe in God, a personal God, as Christians would have it, I must believe in a God who values life much differently than we do.”
“But in the end, good triumphs over evil.”
“No, my experience is that mediocrity triumphs over all. Hence the need for grace, would you not say?”
He conceded the point.
Milada finished off the last of the tempura. “This is quite good.”
“As good as what you can get in New York?”
“Hardly Nobu Matsuhisa. But not bad.”
Troy checked his watch. “We’d better get going.”
He paid the check at the front desk with a Platinum Visa card. They arrived at Troy’s car, a red Jeep Wrangler. Milada’s initial reaction was dismay, and she didn’t stop it from showing.
“Don’t worry,” Troy said, “I keep it clean.”
The Jeep was indeed tidily kept. Milada’s concern had not so much to do with cleanliness. She had a phobia of convertibles, regardless of the time of day. It was light, though the sun had settled safely behind the Oquirrh Mountains. Get a grip, she told herself and buckled herself in.
Steven had pointed out Abravanel Hall on their informal tours of downtown Salt Lake. It stood kitty-corner from Temple Square, southeast from Energy Solutions Arena. If she were still around later in the year, she should take in a Jazz
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