God in a Basement Flat
Meredith was sombre. “No longer able to die, the citizens of your Earth will bar themselves from Heaven.” I could not understand her lack of zeal. Or rather, I could understand it but refused acknowledgement. Success meant I would now be able to destroy myself. She would no longer enjoy my company. A rending weakness.
I said goodbye with informal swiftness, not even looking back as I led Genji over the causeway to a quiet marshy bank. My pagoda roof had drifted into the centre and started to sink. I watched it as I bared my chest, drew my sword and tasted its gleam. Genji shed a tear of oil. He wanted to follow my example. But who would be there to sever the spinal cord of his brake cable? Consciousness is suffering. I had earned the right to break free. He had not.
I was lying in the reeds, part of nothingness, when the Celestial Horn began to call. Splinters of the broken apparatus were being driven under my toenails. Somebody was kicking me, images of my childhood jumped into focus. “Hiraoka! Hiraoka Kimitake!” Who was using my real name? I could only open my eyes to see.
The Archangel Gabriel and a lackey, the same who had destroyed my pagoda, were crouching over me. It was raining. They were dressed in old suits and carried twisted umbrellas. A rough looking Gypsy tandem rested on the causeway. Removing his tophat, shiny with age, Gabriel dipped it into the fetid waters and emptied it over my face. A tadpole wriggled up my nostril. The lackey (who I finally recognised as Joan of Arc) thought this hilariously funny.
“Wake up! God wants to see you.” Gabriel had a coarse Irish accent. When he replaced his hat, his halo struggled inside, warping its shape. He wore fingerless gloves; rubbing palms together, he produced enough static electricity to curl the ends of his dirty moustaches. Again, Joan of Arc burst into laughter. She was a simple child, the slackness of her facial muscles betrayed a mental degeneracy. “You’re in trouble now, you rascal,” Gabriel added.
With their unhelpful assistance, I staggered to my feet. I felt the wound in my side. It had disappeared. Genji was peering from some reeds, shaking with terror but too loyal to flee. I beckoned and, reluctantly, he approached. As I squinted at my surroundings, I saw that little had changed. Yet the decades pressed on my shoulders; I felt their weight like snapping turtles. “How long?”
“Not quite a century.” Gabriel folded his umbrella and gestured at his tandem with the point. “I told God to leave you dead. But he said that’s what you wanted. Follow us. Make sure you keep up. Purgatory was designed for the likes of you.” He mounted his saddle, waited for Joan of Arc to follow his example and then pushed off. I watched them totter down the causeway, picking up speed and howling as the cold rain smashed their faces. There was no time to think.
I climbed onto Genji and pedalled after them, my little legs stiff from inactivity. They led me away from the marsh, onto the rutted road, past the funfairs, the sticky Guignol horrors. Unable to match the pace, I fell behind. A mist hung over the sea, broken boats flickered in and out of focus, drifting aimlessly. My jaw worked against the sight, teeth champing on the cold steam.
Truth is cooked by time
Seconds cast the world to pan
Paradise to pot.
I was losing my ability. It was a punishment for my failure. A form of sympathetic magic. An ironic situation. Failure required the instant sacrifice, ritual suicide, yet here I had been resurrected to confront my shame. My surroundings mirrored my humiliation. Even the calliopes were weary, indistinct. By now, I had lost sight of my escort. Towards the Hotel Descartes I continued, turning over Meredith’s words in my brain. In a curious way, I felt hungry for her scepticism. Am I doomed always to chose the role of victim?
The Hotel Descartes was in a dreadful state. Windows were boarded up and plaster was flaking off the outside walls. Gabriel and Joan were nowhere to be seen. The receptionist in the lobby glowered at me; one more century’s worth of shrivel. I began climbing the stairs on my own, up to number 49. But she called out; the sound of a rotten cork falling into a bottle of sour wine. God no longer had a double room. He lived in one of the cheaper singles round the back. We trudged gloomy corridors. The odour of damp cabbage greeted us like a friend who steals books. I grew faint, a flimsy echo of oblivion.
