Giacomo Sartori - I Am God

It breaks my heart (figure of speech) to see her in this state. Of course I had the bus come right away and made sure she found a seat even though it was crowded. Take it easy, your bike will soon turn up , I wish I could say to her. And little by little all the rest will be resolved too, my sweetheart (my sweetheart!) But no, I’m mute as a fish. I am God , I tell myself. God .

There’s a knock at the door of the old fishmonger’s, and Daphne, her spirits lower than her shoes, drags herself across to open up, convinced it will be the only person who ever stops by without telephoning first. And in fact, it is an Indian. But he’s younger than the fellow next door, and better looking. Actually, he’s gorgeous: two large coal-black eyes; wavy gleaming dark hair with a petroleum shine; smooth, luminous skin over cheekbones that are expressive but gentle; elegant, almost violet-colored lips that seem to be drawn with a single, very fine stroke of the pen; the whitest teeth, sparkling with saliva; a beautiful neck, beautiful clavicles, beautiful wrists, beautiful hands. I am the cousin of your neighbor , he says, his angel’s hand pressing his chest. She says nothing, overwhelmed by this unexpected masculine annunciation; for a moment she truly thinks she sees something glowing around his head. We need a cable to connect the computer to the printer, would you be able to lend us one ? the angel goes on, as if reading her mind, and almost excusing himself. He traces a cable in the air, arms as light as a dancer, or maybe a funambulist, maybe a bit ironic and with a melancholy grace.

I’m Aryaman , he says, holding out a hand as smooth and cool as a bolt of silk. His smile is the smile of an irresistibly friendly and appealing angel, a secular angel (I put myself in her shoes). Not even his voice seems earthly; it’s as enchanting as a baroque cantata (my comparison this time). Daphne’s mouth hangs open; so much beauty is disturbing, outrageous. She’s certain this apparition hasn’t appeared by chance; he’s the one she’s been waiting for a long time, forever. It’s him . I watch the words pop up in her left cerebral cortex, like huge red letters suddenly appearing on a screen.

She invites him in, a steadfast smile on her face, euphoric, unmindful of the mess. He, too, seems to pay no attention to the graveyard of dead soda cans and the plates of decomposing leftovers that fill the room. It’s clear his thoughts soar very high, despite two magnificent feet shaped like slender dugouts that are firmly planted on the ground. He sits down on the polystyrene-chip sofa; she asks if he’d like tea, and he, extending his swan’s neck forward, says yes . She fills a pan with water and takes the teapot out of the chest full of crockery. But then, rather than light the burner, she grabs two large tumblers, pours in rum, adds some ice cubes, some liquid cane sugar and a squeeze of lemon. Then some pineapple segments that were in her electric cooler, and some cinnamon. And a mint leaf. She walks toward him, wagging her forefinger in the air to say wait, I had a better idea.

The angel stares at the tumbler, a very fine line snaking across his faultless, very lofty brow. You might almost think it was the first time he’d ever held a glass of rum in his hand. As if he is wondering how the devil his cherubic body will take to this earthly substance. He sniffs it and drinks a minuscule sip. Excellent , he says (and he means it). He seems delighted to be there, seems to have forgotten all about the printer cable. He gazes at her the way you might some delicious dessert, but his anthracite eyes are also full of admiration, if slightly abashed by his secret appetites.

My cousin tells me you’re pretty good with the computer , he says in a fluty voice. I understand you can find your way into any network. His delicious, slightly lopsided smile hints at IT skills and connivance. Once I was able to take down a large bank for a couple of hours, he adds, lifting his shoulders. She’s been concentrating on the Vatican site this year, Daphne tells him; it’s one of the most impregnable strongholds there is. It took her an age, but she was finally able to hack into the banking system and she’s also downloaded a bunch of reports from a top-secret investigation of pedophilia. Now she wants to publicize them, but she hasn’t figured out how to go about it yet.

She doesn’t have a clue why she’s blabbing about such matters to this stranger; she hasn’t even told Aphra about the big flaw she discovered in the Vatican software, or the secret reports. Well, actually she does have a clue; she’s certain that this angel—even atheists are awed by angels—is the soul mate she’s been awaiting for years, forever. She knew it from the minute she saw him, she knew he’d been sent by magic. That’s why her heart is pounding like an African war drum, and at the same time she feels terribly calm, with that peace of mind that accompanies solemn moments and important decisions. She’s finally met the man of her life .

Daphne looks at him and he looks at her, as when the conversation is about to undergo a change of topic. Instead, and without consulting her brain, she stretches out her long neck in his direction, and he, at the same time, moves his head toward hers. They suddenly find their mouths glued together as if the matter had been decided long ago. Taking possession of those hard, violet lips that taste faintly of bay leaves, she greedily drinks in other hints of incense and deep stellar space; he seems to like the vanilla-and-lightly-oxidized-copper flavor of her tongue. They drink in each other’s breath and exchange saliva. The boyish Indian is very grave; he seems to savor every least sensation with a surgeon’s concentration. It’s almost as if he were touching a woman for the first time.

After a long appetizer of feverish kissing and touching, Daphne drags him confidently to her bed. He sinks into the fish tank, a kind of rough baptism. In no time they are half naked and she opens her legs for him. The speed of it all rather stuns him, maybe even intimidates; he doesn’t seem quite sure what to do next. However, he takes his courage in two hands and propels it stiffly toward her abdomen. Everything seems to suggest a long amorous skirmish, but then his pelvis suddenly jerks forward and he’s taken by violent shivers. He looks down, shocked, two long furrows lining his brow; he’s devastated, trying to understand. He can’t take it in; he’s terribly embarrassed.

Daphne, when she understands what’s happened, begins to laugh. The more downcast he looks, the more she laughs uncontrollably. For her, the thing isn’t serious at all, it’s a gas. She wets her hand with his angelic sperm, and still laughing, spreads it on her thighs and belly. With her index finger she paints three lines across her forehead, and dots the lobes of both ears. Now he laughs too, not entirely willingly. She understands it’s better not to make too much of it, and begins to caress his head, his fine, very black hair. She kisses his neck and his lovely neatly shaped Indian nose. Sorry , she whispers between one kiss and another. Afterwards you get another chance , she says. It’s not easy not to laugh, but she’s determined to control herself.

They begin to kiss and touch each other as before. He’s smiling now, but his breathing is a bit odd, like a dog when it’s terribly thirsty. Or as if he’s had a great fright, or is still fearful of something. She makes every effort to put him at his ease. She’s not worried; she’s known cases like this and they usually resolve themselves in no time at all. She kisses him all over, and touches his private parts very expertly. But he’s terribly awkward. He’s as gorgeous as the sun itself, and his head with its glints of petroleum seems to glow with a halo of purest light. But his body is as tense as a steel cable holding up a suspension bridge. And he’s not smiling anymore. He doesn’t want to look like a fool, but his member is just not getting hard. And he doesn’t think it will get hard later, and the more he thinks about it, the more unlikely it seems it ever will. This is why he feels bad. He’d like to be able to say Stand to attention right now , as a god could. But he is merely a normal human being.