But it’s the cosmos that holds the most unforgettable beauties. Lysergic acid, perhaps, might give a human being a pale idea of the glorious sparklings and phosphorescences, the shimmering, kaleidoscopic, ephemeral geometric patterns; the savage smells, some far too strong, others tenuous and vaguely mineral, just slightly more lingering than the faint memories to which they’re attached. Who could deny my grandeur before such pageantry? Certainly not the astrophysicists, who insist on peering at the universe from their ridiculous observatories and those spyglasses they think are enormous, who try to get the picture with radar and other feeble instruments.[21] At times I think I should take them for a spin around the terrifying, fascinating mouth of Sagittarius A*, no need to go much further. They would understand that their sterile sums and calculations are no more illuminating than knowing the number of atoms in a rosebud, they would surrender to beauty, which always comes with its ballast of mystery.
Recently, though, I find myself wrestling with strange questions. What is beauty? I ask, for example. From my point of view, is a beautiful girl (what men think of as a beautiful girl) really beautiful? Obviously not, I tell myself, because when the concept bella is applied to a girl, there’s a component of trivial carnal desire that offers insight, for anyone who needs it, into the instinctual slums of the human psyche. And I’m not referring to politically incorrect, though frequently employed, expressions like bella gnocca, “a nice piece” you might say, to avoid saying something more vulgar. Now if I were to say to someone (although it’s absurd to think I might say anything to anyone) that I’d seen a beautiful girl, it would represent an absolute guarantee of integrity; my pretty one wouldn’t be just pretty, she’d be morally certified. A virgin, a saint. However, a nice body remains a nice body. How to be sure every element gets its proper weight? How to pay tribute to the moral gifts without denigrating the physical side? How to avoid being poisoned by the moral side, which in the blink of an eye turns to moralism, bigotry?
Ms. Einstein, for example, is she beautiful? According to human criteria her hands and feet are too big, her shoulders too broad, face too long, eyes too far apart, mouth too wide, and above all her rear end and thighs are too ample for her to qualify as a nice piece. The heavy egghead glasses and the punk Lolita pigtails don’t do much for her either. But in my view she has magnificent eyes, splendid hair, great ankles. For me she’s infinitely more beautiful than most actresses and models considered super.
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.
THE IGUANA’S PREHISTORIC EYES
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.
21
They’re like those who think you can appreciate a beautiful woman from a series of X-rays and sonograms, never sampling the warm fine-grained, elastic skin, the sweet harmony of her curves, the minute but heartrending crevassing of her lips, and so on, all of it made more lovely by her delightful clothes and pleasing trinkets.