Aphra’s eyes caress her, bright with yearning. You’re so intelligent, she tells Daphne, it’s obvious you’ll invent a ton of new ways to irrigate the crops and to preserve them. When are you going to take me to meet your stepfather? she continues without waiting for any comment from the other. I really want to see that place of his and talk to him, she says, pressing her palms together. At this point her eyes are open wide, transfixed. Daphne promises to take her there, but she thinks privately that she never will; her friend would be terribly disappointed by that loser ex-friend of her mother and the pigsty he lives in, that junkyard. Anyway, he’d be struck dumb as he always is; it would just be embarrassing. She can’t figure out where the little one got that bee in her bonnet.
Nor does the prospect of hoeing fields of carrots seem that appealing, she thinks as she heads toward the subway stop in the freezing rain. She and her friend are just hardwired to be incompatible, it seems: that little bombshell of energy and good humor has her own battles to fight, her vegan friends, her neo-rustic dreams. She’s into animism, and the animals she looks after and their souls—to her mind they have souls, something like powerful computers. She dreams of a world where everyone grows carrots and they hold public meetings to decide everything. Daphne, instead, beyond her blind, nymphomaniac cat, has nothing. No family, no orgasms, not even, ultimately, any principles to defend. She’s not even sure whether she’s for or against genetically modified organisms, she’s not sure of anything. She just knows she’s unhappy, and that the only thing she’s really good at is being unhappy.
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.
THE ANGELIC INDIAN FROM PARADISE
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.