Giacomo Sartori - I Am God

What I like best, when I have some time for myself (you know what I mean) is to dillydally (what a verb: I dillydally, you dillydally, they had a brief dillydalliance) around the galaxies and intergalactic spaces. I know of no spectacle more intense and thrilling than galaxies and clusters of galaxies. If I could, if I never had to toil, I would do nothing else. Keep in mind, however, that the distinction between labor and free time is meaningless for a god, because inevitably mine is not really labor, and even less so is my free time really free . Simplifying as much as possible, or we’ll never get to the bottom of this, let us say that whenever I can I like to putter around . [10] Perhaps I should say zoom around , given the velocities infinitely greater than the speed of light (never mind quantum physics). If I prefer putter , it’s precisely to emphasize the completely relaxed and soothing nature of my activity. As always, I must explain myself in broad approximations.

Let me be clear: when I move through the universe I do not strut about like the owner of a great corporation in the hallways of his headquarters, and even less like a scowling Tolstoyan latifundista on horseback. The term that comes closest, although it’s still profoundly inadequate, is tourist . Like a tourist, I have no precise objective, like a tourist my frame of mind is receptive and benevolent, I’m unstressed, I like to compare, digress. Of course I know that tourism is widely considered anything but a spiritual activity, but in my view, if all tourists acted like tourists in their everyday lives too, the so-called world would be a lot better off.

There are dozens of billions of galaxies, and even the paltriest of them has tens of millions of stars of all colors, stars with halos in various styles, pretentious plumes, nebulae in the most garish colors, even planets and satellites. Some stars are as quiet as little angels despite the deadly nuclear reactions inside them; most however seem to be possessed by the devil, hawking up foaming lava that swells into giant bubbles, or just the opposite, collapsing and shriveling until they nearly disappear, a billion times denser than lead. But the interstellar spaces, too, with their fresh and invigorating atmosphere measuring two hundred sixty degrees below zero (to use a scale everyone can understand) and their glimmers of all but impalpable dust, are by no means wastelands without any appeal, and they vary greatly. In short, it’s almost impossible to get bored.

There’s such a quantity of stars, each one putting on a fabulous show, that every galaxy is a sort of multiplex with millions or billions of screens. And so you could not altogether mistakenly characterize my existence as having season tickets to a billion multiplexes with millions of billions of screens. I watch all the films at once, however, and they are shown (as it were) 24/7. It’s not so different from the job of control-room supervisor of a megagalactic nuclear power plant; my locus, my workstation (shall I call it that?), is something like a cyclopean control room.

You might object that I’ve already seen what I’m about to see, and thus it’s not that much fun. But that would be quite misleading. As if a tram conductor who had worked in a particular city for millions of years could remember the faces of all his passengers, how they were dressed, what stop they got off, et cetera et cetera. With my limitless powers, I have no problem at all picturing each of the billions and billions of stars in detail, but when I find myself there looking I’m forever amazed by all the variety—I get caught up and, moral of the story if I may use a somewhat profane expression, I find I’m having a blast .

One big difference with the movies are the smells. That’s one of the greatest appeals. At times the scents are delicate, suggesting vanilla, or cinnamon, or there will be a faint smoky smell, like a cigarette perceived from afar, or better, a pipe. More often there are violent fumes of ether or acetone, or polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbon vapors or other deadly organic compounds that bring to mind the crater of an angry volcano or some industrial park full of chemical plants. Stinks and stenches don’t bother me at all (whatever those bigoted theologians may say), they make me think of the fierce violence of certain magnificent expressionist paintings. I’m certainly no fop who lives on rose water and the smell of soap; at times I greedily fill my lungs (so to speak) with acrid fumes, or even just nitrous oxide, which makes me laugh until the tears come. Just as the dung-scented aroma of Kolkata has nothing to do with Copenhagen’s coniferous tang, I can recognize many a galaxy by its smell alone.

When they finish the algae and capers with a dash of mountain larch lichen essence, the beanpole asks Don Giovanni what he does with himself. With a deep sigh of false modesty, Vittorio (no loser’s name for him) replies he is studying pointless stuff. For example? For example, moonmilk. In a somewhat breathy voice she says she didn’t know that moons produced milk, and he says not all do, but some, yes . And how do you milk them? she asks, her bird eyes widening like a child’s. Moonmilk, he tells her, is a limestone secretion found in caves, you just go there with a suitable container and collect the stuff. And then you drink it? It sounds as if she’s swallowing a big stone. Pushing back a wayward neoromantic lock, he replies that in fact moonmilk serves to quantify man-made environmental damage, in other words to certify our probable cause of death.

There in the former fishmongers’ shop, you see, an ancient ritual is being played out. Men talk, their words a screen to conceal their basest instincts. The fact is, the fetching young man has the hots for the bacteria manipulator and cow inseminatrix. You don’t have to be the supreme being to notice: his pupils are as big as marbles and every word that comes out of his throat sounds like a caress. His girlfriend can see it; she’s got her sights locked on the scoundrel, once again up to his tricks. The godless microbiologist, however, is playing dumb . She gets up to put another crucifix on the fire, which is now a bit sluggish, and with a long-handled fork pushes all the crossless redeemers to one side. Poor half-smoked devils, they make a noise like a rusty old chain. They might be soldiers with their arms flung out at the moment of death—or maybe they’re already deceased, thus the rigor mortis appearance.

The lanky unbeliever, whose upper half resembles a skinny, asymmetric El Greco figure, her lower half a plump young Titianesque matron (I’ve always been an art lover, ever since the first cave paintings) sits down again, this time with her chair facing the IT guerrilla workstation and her elbows resting on the chair back. In a dopey female voice, she says she’d love to taste moonmilk. Frailty, thy name is woman! The devious male, an amiable smile on his face, says that nothing could be simpler: if she likes he’ll take her to a cave that’s full of it. Rivers of lovely milk.

There are times when I think that it’s not all that wonderful to know in advance how everything will turn out. I wouldn’t mind watching my film from start to finish, noshing on popcorn in peace (I’ve always been drawn to that greasy, earthy smell). [11] Before I began to think , everything was okay with me. I would never have dreamed of finding even an infinitesimal reason to complain. But now, I see, my words reveal many dissatisfactions, many unattainable desires. As I was saying, the problem with being God is that you see what humans don’t. I’m no prophet, but I can see the future a million times better than any old soothsayer or fortune-teller. Not only that, I can see the past. For example, I’m aware that one evening the previous week, our dreamboat told his wee mate he was going to the gym and instead he went straight over to see her best friend. They fell into bed almost immediately, and he came twice and she once. Then late at night he returned to sleep at his mother’s house. Good Italian son that he is, he’s still tied to mamma’s apron strings.