One evening before dinner, the moldmaker returned to the inn and told us about meeting a man in a rather unsavory den near Tower Square. The man was alone and was gazing absently across the space. The moldmaker sat down next to him and the two shared a smoke. They started talking, and the moldmaker explained our dire and deteriorating situation, how we’d come from Enoch and were barely closer to finding the right idea for the city’s coat of arms than at the beginning. The man, at first distracted and not paying much attention, began to listen. “Yes,” he said, “I can understand this problem very well—very well—and indeed there might be no solution for it. Still, come with me. Let me show you something.”
My assistant agreed and the two left the den and set out into the city. They walked for a while before the man led the moldmaker a few paces into a narrow alley to a door. He unlocked it and ushered the moldmaker inside. It was a dark space, but the man rushed around the room lighting lanterns and candles, creating a murky glow. My assistant perceived that the space contained this man’s workshop, and that his principal work was the construction of a miniature scale model of the city of Babel built on top of a large table in the center of the room. The entirety of Babel—every brick—had been meticulously replicated. Each day, the modelmaker told my assistant, he would walk through the city, witness what had changed, and return to his workshop to update the model, such that when night fell the city and the model would be in a state of harmony as complete as possible.
The model was irregularly shaped, but in general had the form of an oval. It was about four arm’s lengths long in one direction, shorter in the other. The work was fine, detailed, betraying a tender dedication to even the most insignificant aspects of the cityscape.
“I wonder,” the moldmaker said to me as he led me back to the modelmaker’s workshop the next day, “if, by seeing Babel from above, in its totality, all at once, you might discover what symbol will give cohesion to the city, what symbol will create unity among the nations and the people.”
This was an excellent idea, and I allowed myself to hope. When we got to the workshop and I gazed down at the model, however, I felt a sense of cool detachment. Unlike the living, organic city, the model was lifeless, empty. Even though every detail was considered, the resulting effect was alienation, a disbelief in its reality. The modelmaker must have understood my reaction, for as I sank into hopelessness, he started to speak, interrupting my thoughts.
“I can tell, master craftsman, you don’t think much of my work. It seems pointless to you. Yes, I can see it in your eyes. I have shrunken and frozen the city—but what good is a shrunken and frozen city? What purpose does it serve? I have removed the people from Babel—but what is Babel without its people? My daily adjustments maintain the correspondence between the city and my model, but what would it matter if the model was a day, or a month, or a year out of date?
“You might wonder how I started with this endless task. Many years ago, I began this model with the goal of not only replicating the city of Babel but finishing it. If I could reproduce the city exactly, I reasoned, I could also go beyond the city, leaping the present into the future. If every present detail was in place, I could anticipate the next development, the next detail. And once that was done, the next, and the next, and so on until I’d reach Babel’s edge. When this was successful, when I reached the outer borders of the future Babel, I could construct the city’s walls. Finally, once those walls contained and completed the outer form of the city, I could construct and install the gates, first the three trading gates, then the final ceremonial gate. Now you understand, I hope. Once the walls and gates were done, the model would be ready for its final element—the tower.
“I worked frantically, ecstatically, for years and years. I did exactly what I said. I started at the beginning, at the origins of Babel, and built from the past to the present. Once I reached the present, I leapt over the line into the future. I found the edge of the city. I built the walls and the gates. I spent years working on the walls and gates—many months working on the ceremonial gate alone, which was a masterpiece of detail and precision. Unfortunately, as the present of my model faded into the past, the real city of Babel spread beyond my walls. I had to tear them down to add new neighborhoods. My future became a distant past.
“After succumbing to a period of hopelessness, I regathered my strength. Again, I caught up to the present. Again, I surpassed it and moved into the future. Again, I found the furthest edge of the city. Again, I build the walls, miniature brick by miniature brick. Again, I installed the gates—and again, based on the ancient plan, I built Babel’s ceremonial gate. This time, I had given myself ample space. I had pushed myself so far into the future that the present wouldn’t catch it during my lifetime. Finally, I would have the chance to build the tower.
“Unlike the ceremonial gate, Babel’s founders hadn’t left a plan for the tower. As you must know by now, the main instruction—their only instruction—was that the tower was to reach heaven. Model builders, and I count myself among the best, are exquisite copiers, and from time to time we can imagine extensions to a clear design to fulfill a predictable pattern, as I had done in pushing present Babel into the future. To imagine something radically new, on the other hand, falls beyond the modelmaker’s capacity, and it proved for a long time to fall beyond mine.
“Yet, my Babel was not complete without the tower. The essence of the city, and thus the model, was the tower. The city gained its final form from the centrifugal movement out from the tower and from the centripetal pull of the tower inward. The city gained its meaning from its role surrounding and encasing the tower to heaven. Ask yourself, as a master craftsman: what would it mean to build a model of a tower to heaven? How could the distance be determined upon which I should apply my 1:1200 scale? Another question: if the model reaches heaven, how should this heaven be represented? As I thought about these questions, it occurred to me that the distance between earth and heaven might be infinite. And what is infinity on a 1:1200 scale but also infinity!
“I’d come too far to be deterred by pesky doubts. The problem with the typical Babelite is timidness, a fear of beginning what he sees as an insurmountable task. It is a fear of failure, and the failure of the tower would mean the failure of the city and an unraveling of the city’s precarious social balance. Since my Babel was a model, and therefore contained no social element, having only space, there was no need for me to be constrained by this fear. Still, I was constrained. I had been conditioned to be constrained. First, I had to liberate my mind. I had to meditate until I could see in my dreams a tower rising from my scale model of Tower Square to heaven.
“After many tests, I determined that a round, tapering structure would be best in terms of strength, stability, and aesthetic perfection. It would be especially pleasing if the structure spiraled up to a point in a conical fashion with the tip of the tower ending exactly where heaven began. One day, I woke before dawn with the vision for the intricate pattern of brickwork that would be necessary for such a wondrous tower. It was a way of joining the bricks that would last forever, and as I understood it immediately, no better method would be possible even in the most distant future. The pattern of the brickwork, I thought, was sent to me by the gods. As the first rays of light rose over the distant horizon, I set down the first of my miniature bricks for the tower’s foundation on Tower Square.
“With minimal sleep, day and night, taking only short breaks to eat and nap, I worked. The tower rose above the model city. Don’t ask me how I came to understand the tower’s dimensions. You can see the place in the ceiling where I had to cut out a square for the tower to grow. It outgrew my workshop. It passed through the upper level where I have my quarters. It continued through the roof and a considerable distance above it. As you’d expect, having a conical tower sticking out from one’s roof is bound to draw unwanted attention. I invented various explanations, none of which are important here. The essential thing is that I finished it. I reached the goal. The tip of my model tower touched the boundary of model heaven.
“It was exhausting work. By the time the tip of the model tower reached the model heaven, I was at the end of my energy. I basically collapsed in my bed, which had to be relocated when the tower broke through the ceiling. I slept for days. I slept soundly. It was the deep sleep that comes after a long day’s work, especially when the work fulfils the worker’s goal.
“When I woke from my long sleep, I was rejuvenated. I considered running into the street to announce my breakthrough—the completion of a model Babel with a model tower reaching a model heaven—all at a 1:1200 scale. I imagined myself inviting my fellow Babelites into my workshop, one by one, or in small groups, to see the reality of what they’d only been able to dream: the possibility, the actuality, of the tower to heaven. Yes, I would do it. Children, from their lower vantage point, would be even more astounded than adults, as they’d perceive the model’s grandiosity.
“Before calling out to the people, I decided I would spend one more moment completely alone with my work, a private moment to appreciate and contemplate my accomplishment. I entered the workshop. I lit the lanterns. I inspected the model of the city. I paned my way to the center and settled my gaze on Tower Square. I found the tower’s foundation and slowly allowed my eyes to take in the tower’s dimensions. I traced its smooth, elegant curve upwards, absorbing every detail, every nuance, perceiving each element in relation to the magnificent whole.
“Finally, I made it to the highest point of the tower, the place where the tower’s tip met heaven. As I gazed at it, I understood something that had previously been concealed from me. I understood the evilness of the tower. No, I didn’t understand it. I simply felt it. I knew it.
“It was clear to me that nobody in Babel could see what I had done. The tower had to be destroyed. I jumped onto the table with the model as if possessed and began, hammer in hand, to strike the tower. The model was strong, and it took many blows to weaken it. Soon chunks of the tower began to loosen and fall away. I kept hitting, I didn’t stop. Finally, my eyes stinging from the dusk, I looked down at my model of Tower Square. It was empty again.
“You might think that by destroying the tower I destroyed the evil. Instead, what I discovered—to my horror—was that the evil persisted. Apparently, it had seeped from the tower into the model city itself. I thought it would fade. I thought the more time that passed since the tower’s destruction, the less I’d feel its nefarious presence. It didn’t fade; if anything, it seems to have grown stronger. I’m certain the evil soon will seep from the model city into the actual city—and from the actual city into the wider world. I have no choice but to demolish my model city. With you as my witnesses, master craftsman, with you and your assistant here, model Babel shall be obliterated. Evil shall be vanquished. Goodness shall prevail!”
At that, the old man flung himself on his model. Without a hammer or tool, using his own fists, he smashed house after house, street after street, neighborhood after neighborhood, until nothing remained standing on the table except the modelmaker himself, covered in dust, dirt, and blood.
As I walked toward the inn with my assistant, I couldn’t get the scene out of my mind. “The old man’s fists were magnificent,” I said to the moldmaker. “Even as they dripped with blood, even as his frail bones crashed into the city of mini bricks, as they delivered blow after blow to model Babel, they never hesitated, never relented.”
“Do you think he succeeded in eradicating the evil?” He asked.
“What kind of evil? There was no evil. The modelmaker is clearly insane.”
The moldmaker sighed. “If only those fists could find the real source of evil, both it and the modelmaker’s madness could be overcome.”
“You’ve got it! The old man’s fist, a bony and bloody fist with those gnarled knuckles. That’s our symbol. It’s the symbol of the buried fury that animates this place, and the centerpiece of our coat of arms.”
When we arrived at the inn and told the calligrapher what we’d experienced and the conclusions we’d drawn from it, he appeared abstracted, lost in thought. We waited until we could no longer bear his silence.
“Well, calligrapher,” inquired the moldmaker, “what do you say?”
“I say,” he whispered softly so none at the inn could overhear, “that the evil the modelmaker felt wasn’t in the model of the tower, and it wasn’t in the model of the city, it was inside himself. He destroyed the model, which was the externalization of his selfhood, to discover—or recover—inner peace. The essence of Babel, and the meaning of the fist, is this: destruction as self-destruction, and self-destruction as the only pathway to social cohesion. Thus, Through self-destruction, Unity.”
The following day we entered the workshop with a sense of purpose. My design for the fist came easily, as its image was etched in my memory. I worked with the moldmaker to create a mold for a large iron escutcheon with the fist in relief. By nighttime, we were able to cast it, and the effect was magnificent, exceeding our expectations. The vivacity of the fist was incredible, its realism never in doubt despite the exaggerated size. Done with the moldmaker’s fine touch, the fist seemed to break through the iron shield as it flew outward to deliver the fatal blow. Then the calligrapher went to work, engraving a second strip of iron with the city’s motto: Through Self-Destruction, Unity. His letters were, as usual, flawless. Like my moldmaker, I had the best calligrapher in the business. We attached the long plate with the motto to the bottom of the shield.
When the escutcheon was fully designed, after the motto was affixed, it was time to add color. For a city coat of arms in a city like Babel, only the most luxurious colors would do. Again, my calligrapher, who was also in charge of mixing colors, did perfect work. The key here was the deep red of the blood that would cover the knuckles and parts of the fingers, mixing with the brown, earthen tones of the skin. Decorative purple, yellow, and blue would feature on other parts of the escutcheon. The motto’s letters were inlaid with gold, a significant extra expense but well worth it. Surely, I thought, as I gazed at our finished work, this coat of arms, together with the motto, would earn us the right (and the financial reward) to produce a full heraldic achievement.
The day came for the unveiling of the ceremonial escutcheon at a meeting of the council of elders. The piece was designed to hang over Babel’s ceremonial gate, should the gate ever be built. None of us had the slightest worry. We were confident in the vision and knew no better idea was possible. With help from a local carter and his crew, we loaded the piece at the workshop and wheeled it to the courtyard where the council held its meetings. I’d wrapped the shield with a thick piece of fabric, first because I didn’t want it to get covered with dust, and second because I wanted to build anticipation before the unveiling.
It wouldn’t do for me, as the master craftsman, to pull the fabric from the escutcheon. This was a job for my two assistants. I stood in front of them, just to the side of the escutcheon so as not to block the council’s view. On my signal, they pulled down the fabric and revealed the coat of arms.
The council members fell into clamorous discussion. Some pointed at the piece with wild gesticulations, others turned away. Gasps could be heard, declarations, some of praise, many others decidedly hostile and threatening.
A member of the council approached. “I recommend, master craftsman, no, I strongly suggest, you take your assistants and wait at the inn for word from us.” It was a great insult, an egregious insult, and I considered refusing the request and standing my ground. The look in his eye, however, told me it would be unwise to do so.
When we got back to the inn, I hurried to my room. I’d had enough of everyone for the day, including my assistants. I paced back and forth in the small space, trying not to replay the scene of the unveiling in my mind. When this became tiring, I laid on the bed and closed my eyes. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I was awakened by a loud knock on the door. The messenger had come, the same man who’d accompanied us from Enoch.
“Master craftsman,” he said in a harried voice, “gather your belongings. We must leave the inn at once. Your assistants are already packed and waiting for us in the dining room, ready to depart. I’ve been instructed to bring you back to Enoch, and to give you the following message from the council of elders: never return to Babel or you will be killed.”
“Outrageous,” I shouted at him. “I expected news that the council had granted the funds for a full heraldic achievement and instead you bring me word I must leave Babel immediately!”
“The heraldic achievement is out of the question,” replied the messenger, now adopting a calmer tone. “The council has already ordered your coat of arms melted down.”
I learned the rest of the story later, long after I’d returned to Enoch. The council had the escutcheon destroyed the very day of the unveiling. Somehow, however, word of the design spread beyond the council. First it was the motto—Through self-destruction, Unity—which began to appear in public spaces. Babelites found it engraved into brick walls, onto paving stones, and in the public squares, including at the center of Tower Square. Nobody knew who was reproducing the motto, or where they had first seen or heard it. Later, flags started to appear with our coat of arms—the modelmaker’s bloody fist bursting through the background, striking out in fury at the world beyond. Flags with the fist rose over public and private buildings, bathhouses, and temples. Then the fist and motto, in combination, were added to the top of documents, such that every new contract was stamped with it, every new law emblazoned with it.
I heard these stories from travelers passing through Enoch, merchants mostly. They’d take out a document, for example a trade agreement or a bill of exchange, and there, at the top or the bottom, functioning as the city’s seal (whether official or unofficial I never knew) was our coat of arms with the motto underneath it, a precise miniature of the work we’d presented to the council of elders. The people who told me these stories had no idea I was the craftsman who had made the coat of arms, and I was more than content to remain anonymous. In the intervening time since leaving Babel, my assistants and I have gone on to produce two full heraldic achievements. Both are flawless. These successes have not enabled me to overcome the strange feeling I get when I think about the Babelite fist. We managed to capture Babel’s fury in such a way that its people came to love the symbol of their impending doom. Through Self-Destruction, Unity. God help us! There will be no unity. There will be self-destruction for no greater purpose. Only fools could fall in love with such an idiotic idea.
This reminds me of our present state of the world, the love for nationalism, the longing for self-destruction, the stupidity of the motto. The finding of evil outside ourselves in the Other, rather than in us. Also like the story within the story, the labyrinth of streets, the microcosm/macrocosm of the model maker.