The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
thought you would simply grow tired of your investigations and reach the
same conclusion anyone else would have: an old man had died alone. Then
we thought receiving a rotten tooth nailed to your door would frighten you
away. Finally we hoped—”
“So you did that. Who’s ‘we,’ though? And whose tooth was it?”
Tonu paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth, then looked upward,
as though waiting for an answer, then shrugged. “The tooth belonged to a
rather avaricious bartender of our acquaintance. As for ‘we,’ I have heard the
phrase ‘doing God’s work’ several times since coming to America. Is it familiar
to you?”
“Sure, I’ve heard it.”
“Well, this is who we are. We do God’s work.”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“I think I’m tired,” I said, raising the gun level with his head, “and I’m not
above shooting you.”
“You are very far beneath shooting me, you know,” said Tonu, laughing.
“But still, doing God’s work, the way I have understood it, means doing work
of which God would approve, yes?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Charity, ministry work. Sometimes used ironically, but mainly this is the
meaning, is it not?”
“I just said yes.”
“Doing God’s work means doing work for God, work on the side of God.”
“Yeah. And?”
“This is what we do. God’s work. Except instead of work for God, we do
the work of God.” He took another gulp of my whiskey. I counted three swallows
left in the bottle.
I laughed. “Oh, right. That explains everything. Thanks.” He didn’t crack
even a small, sympathetic grin. “Impossible,” I continued. “Blasphemy.
Besides, why should—”
“Blasphemous? Yes, absolutely. Impossible? Impossible, impossible . . .
You know, I have no idea anymore what that means,” he joked. “No, not
impossible.”
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