Giacomo Sartori - I Am God

Only a good sport like myself could have believed that the human race would improve with time. Truth is, it’s been a catastrophe from Day One, and will continue to be so until the end of the End Times. Man’s first thought was to steal an apple, his second to steal another by working as little as possible, his third to use the stolen apple to take sexual advantage of an innocent, and so on down to the present day. Matters that start out this badly can never be fixed; I should have guessed that back in the days of the McIntosh in the Garden. Instead I kept thinking that sooner or later they would wise up. I kept trusting in what seemed to be tiny steps forward. Progress my backside: by now pornography and homosexuality flourish unchallenged. Look what just happened before my very eyes!

Their problem is that they’re utterly immoral. Always pontificating about honesty and goodness—ever since the day they learned to emit sounds with their vocal chords—and always inventing the most repellent perversions. They blather on about their good intentions and nice theories, write mountains of edifying books—and then commit the most atrocious acts. They love evil, they’ve always loved it and they always will: it’s inscribed in their DNA. No ape has ever written a thousand-page tome on ethics, but neither has any slaughtered his companion and eaten her heart. No hippopotamus ever turned serial killer, no polar bear insisted his race was superior to that of the browns, no cow ever proposed to gas and burn all his colleagues with different noses. Men, however, yes. Just open a history book.

This is not pique, to be sure: I am and I remain imperturbable. Imagine, a god that has fits of rage or suffers, that’s all we need! I’m disappointed, very disappointed, but disappointment has nothing to do with being hurt. Humans have disappointed me, that’s all. Once, twice, ten billion billion times, and finally I’ve had it. Whatever some cretin might think, one of those halfwits who think human beings are essential to me, that I’d be nobody without them, the deplorable depravity of that girl was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back. Truth is, I had come to the conclusion that (wo)men were irredeemable long before her.

Of course they’re taking care of it all by themselves, but I can also give them a push. The way you drop a lit cigarette butt in a dry forest, or plant a kick on a door that’s already closing. I could provoke the ire of some dictator so he blasts off missiles left and right; I could simply blow up a couple of nuclear power stations, or design some deadly new epidemic disease. The dreadful wars and famines and disasters on disasters would arrive all on their own, no need to wear myself out. And of course I have great expectations of climate change, bête noire of Vittorio, down there in Australia. [44] However, reader, I don’t intend to bore you with his adventures among the marsupials and the descendants of British colonial thieves. When a character leaves the stage he’s gone and it would be crazy to put the klieg lights on him again. Is he still involved with the Tyrolean push-up girl from the plane? That’s his business! He can do as he likes in Australia, nobody cares anymore. And if I should get impatient because it’s all taking too long, there’s always the giant asteroid option. A beautiful big blossom, and that’s that. It might be the cleanest way out, esthetically the most modern.

Daphne climbs the stairs at police headquarters, the condemned on her way to the execution chamber. The last straw , she thinks. She sensed it from the moment her neighbor of the Indian prayer-hands gave her the convocation letter: they were going to put her on trial and send her to prison. The fat harpy behind the front desk not very cordially points to a couple of broken-down seats in a tiny, windowless waiting area. In her eyes Daphne’s a convicted criminal. The other cops passing by assess her in the same way; they all know who she is and what she’s done. They’re going to make her pay.

After a considerable wait, a fellow with a feathery halo of white hair tells her to come with him. She sits in front of his desk, her heart thumping wildly, while he seraphically flips through his files. We’ve located your missing property , he says, with a smile like a sad clown. She looks at the photo in his hand, hardly able to believe her eyes. It’s a motorcycle, her twin-cylinder, and it seems to be in fine shape. So it’s not about the files she hacked from the Vatican website? Something’s exploding inside her chest, and without intending to she lunges forward to embrace the little old cop who looks like a good angel. He dodges ably to one side, his reflexes those of an excellent goalie. You’re very lucky; we recover only about one in ten , he says, more uncle than cop. You can pick it up now down at the city car pound; oh, and my colleagues are on their way over there and they’ll give you a lift, he adds . I don’t have my helmet , she says, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Well then, we’ll drive you home to get it, he replies, a pale cherub’s finger pointing to her address on the file.

I am merciful. I did not vent my fury as an angry god would do; I didn’t have those two bad-girl sodomites run over by a drunk driver, or install a couple of those evil carcinomas that manifest themselves only when it’s far too late to operate. I even took care of the rental contract for the bucolic cottage; they’ve already signed it, happy as clams. They’ll live in depravity, wallowing in three–threes every night; it’s useless to try to stop them when things have already gone this far. Let them conjure up ten test-tube babies, or clone themselves, whatever they like, it’s neither hot nor cold to me. They’ll pay for it when the time comes, as they all must. [45] I might well opt for judgment by sin categories, like the plan outlined by Mr. Dante Alighieri, rather than take up an infinite number of individual cases one by one. I mean, who says I have to?

The lab director had called asking to see her, but Daphne had decided not to go. But now, as she recovers her bike and mounts it, she sees it’s just the time the appointment was scheduled, and thinks maybe she’ll show up after all. Now that she’s got her bike back she’d like to; in fact she feels she must. Who knows what bunkum the dapper dickhead will have to offer, what outrageous crap he’ll come up with to launder his Catholic conscience, but if he wants to see her, she’s not backing out. That way she can say goodbye with dignity to the place that meant so much to her for a large part of her life.

But when she arrives at the Institute she feels a great pincer grab her by the throat. Nostalgia for the test tubes, the smell of ammonia and sulfuric acid, the howl of the centrifuge and the burble of the coffee machine in the hallway. Even for that lamebrain with the purple acne. No need for regrets though, her future now promises pesticide-free carrots and beans—much healthier, she thinks. She turns around to go: no, she’s not strong enough to face this trial. Then she thinks (well, she hears a voice telling her) that she must be strong. She swings around again and begins to climb the stairs.

The director invites her to sit in his perfectly intact office, rubbing his hands together as if warm water were running over them. He’s like a man who’s just emerging from a long hot shower, even more pleased with himself than usual. Here comes a hurricane of total bullshit , she thinks: and yes, he immediately begins emitting the usual snippets of phrases that run together senselessly like a mad dictionary. In the end he manages to complete a few of his sentences, telling her that the regional government has come up with some unexpected funding, and that in an enormous stroke of good luck, their lab was chosen. And there’s nobody who could take charge of this project better than she. She looks at him, as always thinking she doesn’t get it. This time she does get it, though; she just can’t bring herself to believe it. Believe it , a sumptuous, deeply trustworthy baritone repeats in her ear. This is step one, quite soon they’ll give you a permanent contract . The lab director speaks up again. This a temporary solution, of course. Afterward we’ll hire you full-time with tenure, he says, waving his mole’s hand around by his ear . She hates to cry in front of the big dickhead, but she starts to cry. Now he too is moved, his eyes fill for an instant. He seems to have forgotten that he was the one who cheated her out of a job.