Giacomo Sartori - I Am God

But can I be sure that this gimpy language hasn’t already contaminated me with some human germ, some deadly infection still in its latent phase? No, I can’t be sure. Even without wishing to be a prude there’s no way I can compare this girl to the alleged mother of my son: virgins don’t have so many casual and unplanned sexual relations, they don’t steal crucifixes and burn them, don’t stay up all night trying to hack the Vatican website. To be perfectly frank—one thing I infallibly am—it’s not clear my appreciation of her is one hundred percent divine. And that’s making me a little crazy.

Just as she steps over the threshold of the one-bedroom/animal shelter Vittorio hands her a present: the box of a famous brand of gym shoes (no product placement in my story!) full to the brim with crucifixes. “Awesome!” says Ms. Einstein, running a hand through the contents and flexing her fingers like a fisherman who knows in a flash which are the no-account fish and which the inestimable. “You’re fabulous,” she adds, continuing to rummage through the Christs, from time to time taking one out to examine it. Euphorically appreciative, she stretches out her long neck and gives him a peck on the cheek.

Of all the things that make me laugh, militant atheists are the funniest. They think the universe gave birth to itself, along with the Earth, the animals living on it, the plants, and of course the humans. Without any help from beyond, any higher purpose, just a magic wand —whoosh—and there it all was, working perfectly. They’re not alone in this; children, for example, believe their presents come from Santa Claus.

When these same ladies and gentlemen get into their cars they’re perfectly aware that the big gizmo that sends them racing down the road didn’t build itself, it was designed and put together by someone with skills. They know that the steering wheel and the gearbox, not to mention the engine and the clever anti-skid mechanism, aren’t trinkets you can improvise, there’s a lot of work behind them. They’re not so naive as to think perfection, or something close to it, popped up one night from a cabbage patch. But when they look on a regal sequoia, a slender giraffe grazing, a magnificent heron poised in flight, a breathtaking mountain chain or any other natural wonder (as if nature had anything to do with it) no matter how crafted and fine-tuned, they become as silly as penguins and start to mutter about spontaneous generation. Instead of worshiping me, they worship Evolution . For that matter even automobiles can be made to seem the product of natural selection. When cars grow bigger, more efficient and more beautiful every day, isn’t that thanks to Evolution?

The little zoologist appears delighted that their new friend has dropped by. She seems oblivious to the fact that her partner is a philanderer, just as she’s oblivious to the large white cockatoo on her shoulder. The house smells of a truce, like when a couple tires of quarreling. He’s proud of his Maoist street cleaner’s jacket; his arm is still in a sling. For some strange reason, as the traumatologist had said candidly, the fracture was slow to heal. Once the cockatoo has been settled on its perch and the visitor has met the numerous other birds crowded into a large cage next to the refrigerator, they sit down for the meal.

They’re eating an appetizer of basil sorbet when Ms. Einstein shrieks and jumps to her feet: she’s caught a glimpse of a black and gray snake slithering unctuously across the opposite wall, where the refrigerator stands. It’s moving without hurry but decisively, as snakes do. The wee one, instead of screaming, seems happy to see it, like she would a friend who’s just showed up after a nap. He’s cute, isn’t he? she says tenderly.

Ms. E. hunkers down in the chair, her feet perched on the cross post. Snakes have always bothered her, she says. Convalescent Casanova shoots her an understanding look. And that’s absolutely normal , says his expression. Is it very poisonous ? the tall one wants to know. Somewhat hesitantly, the tiny animal-rights activist acknowledges that yes, it is. Smiling one of her doe-eyed smiles at the cockatoo to reassure him, she explains that it’s very rare that snakes bite and even when they do, they usually don’t inject their venom. They’re very pacific animals, as it happens. Ms. E. asks the seducer if snakes often hang out at their house, and he sighs and says Yep, twenty-four seven.

Now if there’s an animal I personally have never liked it’s the snake. [22] The problem for me isn’t that they make me nervous, nor that they represent the bad guys in a certain religion we’re all familiar with. I’ve no intention, with these reflections that nobody’s ever going to read, of grinding my own axe here; I was doubtful about these reptiles for many millions of years before those Bible stories came along. Sometimes I even think I was mistaken to create them, although once there were moles and mice you needed some type of hungry creature to complete the trophic cycle, and of course snakes being things that slither on the ground, they can be spotted by large birds from above and snatched up in turn. If I’d given them legs, at the first sign of danger they’d have legged it out of there and goodbye carbon cycle closure. If I’d stuck fins on them they’d have jumped in the water, and the birds of prey would have gone home empty-stomached. This is the way it had to be, long flexible salamis with no appendages to facilitate escape and no ears to prick up in response to danger.

The little zoologist asks the big girl if she’d like to touch the viper (he’s a Vipera ammodytes, aka a horned viper) and without waiting for an answer, she grabs the animal by the neck and picks him up firmly. The beast hangs from her hand like a length of rope and allows himself to be petted like a cat. From time to time, his mouth springs open, but he doesn’t seem angry. You know you’re not allowed in the bathroom, ’ cause of the mice, the little one warns the viper as if she were talking to a naughty kid.

The male hottie (I fished this tasteless term from Ms. E.’s left cerebral cortex) is telling her that their bathroom is actually an intensive care unit for animals in difficulty. When people in town find a bat with a broken wing or a lame duck, what do they do? They call the city cops, who in turn tell them to consult the Science Museum. Nine times out of ten, the strays that go to the museum end up at their house to be spoon-fed, bandaged and splinted, given their medicines. Badgers hit by cars, baby eagles stunned by high-tension power lines, owls hit with hunters’ BBs, foxes vomiting up pesticides, cats fallen from balconies, ducks with bronchitis, insomniac marmots, depressed hedgehogs, et cetera—all have passed through their bathroom. Once the patients are well they’re conducted back to their habitat. The iguana, however, is different; he’s not going anywhere.

Still holding the viper as if he were a necktie and stroking him, the diminutive zoologist replies that sooner or later the iguana will find a home with someone who loves her. The zoophobic seducer raises two fingers, which seems to mean two years. Each new potential adopter that comes along is ruthlessly rejected—too little iguanaesque fellow feeling. The big lizard continues to scarf down pounds of organic carrots and will probably grow up to be a brontosaurus. Don Giovanni’s aiming to sound jovial, but his voice betrays how exasperated he is, or would like to sound.

Would you like to have a look ? asks the wee herpetophile. Rather than engage in polemics with her boyfriend, she smiles, her gum-colored gums showing broadly, and addresses Ms. E., who flushes red, the unexpected invitation catching her off-balance. The doe-eyed one now puts the viper on the floor, tapping him on the neck the way you might give your dog a pat. She reassures the cockatoo, who’s thrashing his head from side to side like a mad rock star.