It is the rare piece of writing that is powerful and meaningful enough to make me feel anything more than enjoyment at the strings of words expertly crafted. But I just read a short story that had such a simple elegance and meaning to it that I was literally breathless. "Monday," by Mark Helprin, is the tale of a successful construction company owner who yanks his men off every job he has to work on a woman's house, to finish it six times faster than would be expected. He loves her, but not in the traditional sense of love. He tells his foreman, Gustavo, that he wants to charge her nothing for a half million job.

"Why?" Gustavo asked. And, when Fitch was noth forthcoming, Gustavo commanded, "You've got to tell me why."
"If you could see her ...," said Fitch.
"I saw her when we did the kitchen. She's pretty. She's beautiful. But she's not that beautiful."
"Yes, she is," said Fitch. "She bears up, but I've never seen a more wounded, deeply aggrieved woman. It's not because she's physically beautiful. What the hell do I care? It's because she needs something like this, from me, from us, from everyone. Not that it would or could be a substitute, but as a gesture."
"A substitute for what?" Gustavo asked.
"Her husband."
"Her husband left her?"
"Her husband was in the south tower when it came down," Fitch said. "For Christ's sake, they'll never even find the bodies. Vaporized, made into paste. What can she think? What can she feel?"

In response to that, Fitch's entire crew chooses to work nonstop for free in order to complete the job, all because of a highly developed sense of honor. "They knew that they had made something beautiful, and, because of this, they were content."

As Fitch explained to the woman, Lilly, when she couldn't understand why he would take a job that was seemingly entirely in her favor: "Look, I don't know what happened to the country, but everybody tries to screw everybody else. More so than in my father's day, more so than when I was a child, more so than when I was a young man, more so than ten years ago ... more so than last year. Everybody lies, cheats, manipulates, and steals. It's as if the world is a game, and all you're supposed to do is try for maximum advantage. Even if you don't want to do it that way, when you find yourself attacked from all sides in such fashion, you begin to do it anyway. Because if you don't, you lose. And no one these days can tolerate losing."
"Can you?" Lilly asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Tell me."
He hesitated, listening to the clink of glasses and the oceanlike roar of conversation magnified and remagnified under the vaulted ceilings of the dining rooms off to the side. "I can tolerate losing," he said, "if that's the price I pay, if it's what's required, for honor."
"Honor," she repeated.
"Honor. I often go into things--I almost always go into things--with no calculation but honor, which I find far more attractive and alluring, and satisfying in every way, than winning. I find it deeply, incomparably satisfying."

(Later, she asks him to explain why he values honor.)

"I'm fifty-three," he answered with analytical detachment. "My father died at fifty-nine. What good is money? If I have six years left or thirty, it makes no difference. My life will be buoyant, and my death will be tranquil, only if I can rest upon a store of honor."
"There are other things."
"Name them," he challenged.
She met his challenge. "Love."
"Harder than honor, I'm afraid, to keep and sustain."
This startled her into silence.


I don't know if I agree with all the sentiments expressed about human nature and values in this short story, but the sheer import of it, the focus on generosity, kindness, and humanity, makes for some of the most powerfully affecting pages I have read in years. It is a pure message, in response to the realities of the world, and sometimes, everyone needs a little bit of such idealism.