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.
MOONMILK
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] 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.
So maybe we could all go on an outing to the cave together? The fierce atheist is in an ecumenical mood. The tiny one, shoulders quivering like a tender fawn, says that caves give her claustrophobia. She’d gone in one once but felt like she was back in prison, and nearly suffocated. Thinking that she’d been rude to their host, she is now trying to compensate. (A reader may wonder how the writer knows what a character’s thinking, but in my case the point’s moot.) Don G., in a typical petty male reaction, takes his girlfriend literally, and remarks that she much prefers an iguana to a cave, that’s the problem. We’re all free to find iguanas more interesting than holes in a mountainside, she replies, revealing her gum-colored gums. At least my caves don’t bite, he shoots back, showing off a scar on the side of his hand.[12]
After she pours them coffee with cardamom pods, the lanky microbiologist throws two hefty blocks of wood on the fire. The spelunker, testosterone thrumming, wonders if the logs came from a crucifix, and she says they were beams swiped from a nearby building site, next to the Indian who sells cell phones supplied by the Camorra. She answers as though she regrets no crucifix was involved.
Now the iguana-lover speaks up, her voice as pure as a jet of water, languidly caressing the words. Has she always burned crucifixes? Oh boy, I knew the reptile-hugger would soon come to hate her tall rival—hate her with every neuron of her brain, every cell of her myocardium—but right now you might almost think she likes her. Rosa Luxemburg of the purple locks replies that she’s been burning them for years, only when it’s cold, of course. If everyone did, it would solve the problem of the Catholic Church’s overweening power, says the seducer, currying favor. His wee friend asks where she found all those crucifixes and the other looks blank as though she doesn’t understand the question. Nailed to the wall, she says finally, seeing no polemical intent, just plain curiosity.
11
Before I began to
12
If there is one sphere in which humans reveal their lack of perfection, it’s