An Evening in the Nightclub of Eden
I have met many people in my life, nearly all of them lovely but there are rare exceptions where a single look conveys an immediate and definitive distaste. Tonight was one such exception.
John Steinbeck, in his classic novel East of Eden, created arguably one of the most venomous, abject characters in Cathy Ames.
Steinbeck introduces Cathy with the line: “I believe there are some monsters born in the world to human parents.” She is a creature of pure evil, missing the parts that make us human. She is evil not by choice, but rather by nature.
The core theme in East of Eden surrounds our capacity to do good or evil, suggesting the choice is ours. This appears in the theological debate over Genesis 4:7’s use of the Hebrew ‘Timshel’. Traditional interpretations of ‘Timshel’ – such as the King James Version’s “thou shalt” or the American Standard’s “thou must” – are deterministic. They order Cain (and by extension, Man) to rule over sin; your fate is sealed.
But Steinbeck offers a translation of “thou mayest” – introducing the concept of choice. Freedom, but also the possibility of damnation. If you can fail, you can also be redeemed.
Yet for Cathy, Steinbeck reserves a fate worse than death: she lacks choice. Her actions are deplorable; she kills, she lies, she robs, and she embodies every sin imaginable.
To say I dislike the woman would be an understatement; her evil almost flows off the page. Yet I cannot help but feel empathy for her.
Cathy is trapped in a world of evil with no choice and no redemption. How can we expect her to do good when she is incapable of it?
Cathy’s fate has stuck with me. East of Eden is a thinly veiled allegory for the Bible, and she represents Satan in the form of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
She is meant to be hated, but part of me thinks Steinbeck was intentionally overwrought in his description to prompt the reader to question her supposed evilness. The manifestation of this is my empathy for a character I should loathe.
By coincidence, this past weekend I had an experience that fed into this thinking. I was invited to a singles party – twelve people, six men, six women. It was an interesting premise and an opportunity for me to bake a Tiramisu; those who know me, know that to bake is a pleasure in itself.
On the day, whilst watching England get thrashed, I received a message. The person who invited me had also invited another to make up the numbers. This was a warning of the evening to come. Indefatigable as ever, I turned up ten minutes early, dessert in hand.
From that point on, chaos ensued.
For their sake, as well as mine, I have changed their names – not that it is likely they will ever read this.
I have met many people in my life, nearly all of them lovely but there are rare exceptions where a single look conveys an immediate and definitive distaste. Tonight was one such exception.
From the moment I shook Rory’s hand, I knew how the night would go.
Rory was brash, entitled, and arrogant – in every way, I hope, my opposite. To make matters worse, he was my mysterious competitor. He had also been invited by Lucy, my date. From the start, his intentions were clear: Rory was “going for gold.”
Once I realised this, I mentally checked out. My intentions shifted. I am sure many know the embarrassment of being second – the first amongst losers.
My goal became simply to enjoy myself and chat with interesting people. As the food began to roll and the alcohol flowed, the tone shifted. It was clear that others in the room had different intentions than I did.
At first, I was batted out of the kitchen; my attempts to help clean up were swatted away. But by the time of the main course, my persistence won out and I found myself in my favourite place at a party: the kitchen, washing dishes.
Some would argue it was a way for me to deal with the awkwardness; I wouldn’t disagree. But how many times have you found yourself in a room full of strangers whilst in direct competition for romantic affection with a man you detest?
In the end, the kitchen proved a fruitful place for conversation with one of the guests – a lovely person.
Finally, multiple protests dragged us from the suds and into dessert. As befitted its baker, I was the one to cut the slices. The night progressed like a river into a thrashing torrent. From the Tiramisu, we quickly found ourselves in a club.
A key detail to this ensuing travesty is that I had forgone alcohol from the start of the main course.
By the point I found myself paying £17 for the privilege of a mediocre Old Fashioned, I was almost entirely sober.
In the club, Rory was a practised operator. He had separated his date from the others and quickly shared a private kiss – although how one can describe a club as anything but public, I have always failed to understand. It is as though people think dimmed lights and blaring music combine to dim the senses enough to create a bubble of intimacy against prying eyes. An obvious falsehood.
At this point, I had mentally checked out of romance and was more interested in simply enjoying the music. As the early 2000s hits rolled on, the group dwindled as couples separated into their assumed privacy. Yet three things happened in quick succession – far too fast for me to comprehend.
Firstly, more of Lucy’s friends joined our group; secondly, Rory was told to “fuck off” by Lucy; and lastly, multiple people came up to me calling me a “great guy.”
The combination was far too much for my brain to handle at 1 am. I desperately needed to think, and a club is the last place for thinking.
But what was blindingly obvious to me was Rory’s dejection.
At that moment, I should have been the last person to feel sorry for him. He had already screwed me over before I knew him and from the moment we met I disliked him intensely.
Yet I saw him sitting down, staring into blank space. Surrounded by people using loud music and dark lights as escapism, he shone as the only one not partaking.
Faced with the possibility of speaking with a woman I was interested in or helping someone I detested, I gritted my teeth and chose the latter.
I tried to console him and get his mind off things – asking about his life, where he was from, what his goals were, any detail bar the current surreal situation.
Lucy’s friend, Heather, tried multiple times to get me to speak with Lucy, but by this point, all I could think about was helping Rory.
The fact that I was the only person who cared irritated me more than anything. I had the most reasons to ignore this guy and return to my original intentions, but I just couldn’t.
As the night progressed, Rory repeatedly wanted to speak with Lucy, which I persuaded him out of. When we were kicked out of the club, he tried to wait for her. All my senses were screaming at me to just go home; I had done what I could and I owed Lucy or him nothing. Yet, seeing him standing by the exit, I couldn’t help but dive back into the fray of his emotions.
Directing him away from the club – letting Lucy make an escape without Rory descending upon her – I simultaneously waved goodbye to the possibility of ever speaking to her again and subjected myself to a trapping at 2 am.
In the ensuing hour-long conversation, my preconceived biases were confirmed. I disliked the man more, not less, after our talk. Yet I could not help but feel empathy for him.
My point is not that Rory and Cathy are truly comparable. Rory, I am sure, isn’t a psychopath or the representation of pure evil; he is as human as the rest of us and likely has many redeeming features. But it leads me back to how Steinbeck portrayed Cathy. Was he intentionally overwrought to prompt the reader to question her supposed evilness.
Is anyone truly born evil? I don’t think so.
Is anyone irredeemable evil? I can’t possibly think so — Fundamentally I think we are all good despite our many flaws. Although maybe that is the naivety of youth.
This experience, correlating directly with my thoughts on East of Eden, has led me to two questions:
Can you be too kind?
Can you be too empathetic?
Should I have stepped up and pursued my date after consoling Rory? Should I have forgone his feelings, stripped off the empathy, and “gone for gold” as he intended? Should I have disregarded my understanding of how awkward it would have been for him to watch me do so?
To many, that would be a “no-brainer.” Of course, you make your intentions clear; it isn’t as though I turned up to a party of eleven strangers with entirely pure intentions.
Yet I find myself in this bizarre scenario where I care about the feelings of a person I intensely dislike, mirroring my exact feelings about Cathy.
I cannot quite say what I learned. Human emotions, and the moments they express themselves, are intensely delicate. There is certainly a book to be written solely on what occurs in the wee hours of a nightclub.
But I am sure that this experience, for better or worse, will stick with me for far longer than I expected.