The Only Problem by Muriel Spark

Nathan Fox is
your wife’s lover?’
    ‘Please
stick to French if you can. Anyway, I am addressing this gentleman,’ said
Harvey, indicating the elderly Swede, ‘on a very important subject and —’
    ‘Oh,
no, Mr Gotham. Oh, no.’ This was a tough pressman, indeterminately British or
American, who spoke with a loud, fierce voice. ‘Oh, no, Mr Gotham. You’re here
to answer our questions.’
    ‘Keep
your voice down, please. The fact is that I am here because it is my home. You
are here to listen to me. The subject is the Book of Job to which I have
dedicated many years of my life. This gentleman,’ said Harvey, nodding to the
grave and rather flattered Swede, ‘has asked me an interesting question on the
subject. I have answered his question and I am elaborating on it. Your chance,
and that of your colleagues, to put further questions will come in due course.
As I was about to remark, Job’s problem was partly a lack of knowledge. He was
without access to any system of study which would point to the reason for his
afflictions. He said specifically, “I desire to reason with God,” and expected
God to come out like a man and state his case.
    ‘Mr Gotham
—’
    ‘Mr Gotham,
can you state if you would side with your wife in any sense if she came up for
trial? Do you yourself feel politically that the FLE have something to offer
the young generation?’ — This was from a lanky French journalist with bright
eyes and a wide smile.’ He was rather a sympathetic type, Harvey thought,
probably new to his trade.
    ‘I’m
really sorry to disappoint you,’ said Harvey with some charm, ‘but I’m giving
you a seminar on Job without pay.’
    A
hubbub had now started to break out. Protests and questions came battering in
on Harvey from every side.
    ‘Quiet!’
bawled Harvey. ‘Either you listen to me in silence or you all go. Job’s
problem, as I was saying, was partly a lack of knowledge. Everybody talked but
nobody told him anything about the reason for his sufferings. Not even God when
he appeared. Our limitations of knowledge make us puzzle over the cause of suffering,
maybe it is the cause of suffering itself. Quiet, over there! The baby’s
asleep. And I said, no photographs at present. As I say, we are plonked here in
the world and nobody but our own kind can tell us anything. It isn’t enough. As
for the rest, God doesn’t tell. No, I’ve already told you that I don’t know
where my wife is. How the Book of Job got into the holy scriptures I
really do not know. That’s the greatest mystery of all. For it doesn’t —’
    ‘Mr Gotham,’
said the tough pressman, ‘the FLE have held up supermarkets, jewellers and
banks at Gérardmer, La Bresse, Rambervillers, Mirecourt and Baccarat. Your
wife is —’
    ‘You’ve
left out Epinal,’ said Harvey. Cameras flashed. ‘Will you allow me to continue
to answer the question put to me, or will you go?’
    ‘Your
wife—’… ‘Your background, Mr Gotham —’ … ‘Your wife’s sister —’
    ‘Conference
over,’ said Harvey.
    ‘Oh,
no.’ — ‘No, Mr Gotham.’ — ‘Wait a minute.’
    Some
were swearing and cursing; some were laughing.
    But
Harvey got up and made for the door. Most of the reporters were on their feet,
very rowdy. The wiry red-faced woman, the possible police agent, sat holding
her tape-recorder modestly on her lap. The large fair man at the door had
grabbed a belt as if from nowhere and was fastening it rapidly round his waist.
Harvey saw that it was packed neatly with cartridges and that a revolver hung
from a holster, with the man’s hand on it. He recognised him now as the
sandy-haired policeman who, in uniform, had sat at the table throughout his
interrogation at Epinal.
    Harvey
said, ‘I must tell you that there is a policeman in the room.’
    ‘What
police? La Brigade antigang?’
    ‘I have
no idea what variety. Kindly leave quietly and in order, and don’t wake the
baby.’
    They
left without order or