God in a Basement Flat
The receptionist left me in front of a door stained with graffiti, much of it carved into the wood in unholy hierograms. I had to use my own fist to knock. A hacking cough came in reply; I turned the handle and pushed into dimly lit squalor. There was no en-suite bathroom in this residence. A cracked sink, bloated with string vests and socks, stood next to a derisory washstand. God was concealed behind the grimy curtains, exposed feet in threadbare slippers.
“Ah, Yukio,” he rasped. “My disappointment exceeds all limits. You promised you would do something, we made a deal. I kept my side of the bargain. Why did you let me down?” He cleared his throat with a horrible gurgling and proceeded to mumble some incomprehensible litany. Had I not known better, I would have deemed him drunk.
I bowed my head. “I did my best. I know not what else I could have done. The plan was a neat one.” As God shuffled impatiently behind his curtain, I added: “I do not understand what went wrong. Did Miyoshi not play his part? Did the inhabitants of Earth reject immortality for other tricks? My dream has flaked all away.”
God whined. It seemed he was racked by sobs, an impossible notion. “It didn’t fail,” he replied. “On the contrary, it worked all too well. On your planet, within a single generation, death was unknown. So the spiritual gate to Heaven was welded shut. The elderly no longer swarm; in this respect, I am pleased. But men and women who cannot die have no use for God. I have been forsaken.”
“With all respect,” I answered carefully. “That was not part of my mission. I was employed to tighten up border controls. If your support is dwindling on Earth, increase it with a miracle or two. Demonstrate the divine wrath. It should be easy for you to fill the churches again. Forget the precept of faith for a time.”
The Holy slippers shifted, toes flexing in an untidy rhythm. Was God actually considering my advice, or were these the wriggles of some pantocratic anxiety? A sudden glare behind the faded fabric made me draw back; but this was no blinding halo. The flame snapped out and a curl of heavy tobacco smoke drifted towards the yellow ceiling. Coughing mucus, God grumbled and muttered to himself.
“My power is sustained by faith,” he said. “As people fall behind with their worship, my living standards drop. Why do you think I’ve had to take this blasted room?”
My mind raced. “On one Earth, humans have achieved immortality and taken to atheism. Surely this is a drop in the cosmological ocean? What about the loyal trillions?”
God snorted. “Immortal yes, but not infertile. They keep producing children, doubters like themselves. That Earth grows ever more crowded with unbelievers. When it reaches saturation point, I’ll be out on the streets. Homeless, I’ll be, hungry.”
“So you want me to do something about this as well? Return and find a way of sterilising the population?”
The curtain rippled. A burning cigarette fell onto one of the worn slippers, scorching a hole in the tartan. God shook it off with a spasm. “Forget about parallel dimensions and alternative Earths. I want you to concentrate on yours. The level of atheism has sapped my miracle-forming powers.” He started coughing again.
“I’ll try. I’ve got an idea already.”
And the voice that punctuated the coughing was desperate: “I hope so, Yukio. For Heaven’s sake!”
I used to believe that immortality was a reflection in a prism of dew, suspended from a sword. I used to reason it as the pivot between pain and beauty. The act, the gesture, is ephemeral; but it folds down upon itself. The final poems before the blade penetrates the flesh, the useless charges across some Okinawa of the mind; these are wrapped in the present like parcels. I saw eternity as nothing other than a petal of transience, folded the correct way.
Meredith premiered her latest piece on her veranda, with myself as the total audience. Even Genji was excluded, his aesthetic sense deemed inadequate. An elaborate set-up of reeds and cooking utensils chilled me with its exotic homeliness. It was a celebratory work, to mark my second visit to Earth. Very few return visas had ever been granted; not even Spinoza managed to obtain one.
