The Satanic Verses

by Salman Rushdie

  ‘But I turned out to be like her, after all.’ Mountains had begun to sing to her; whereupon she, too, had risked brain cells in search of exaltation. Eminent physicians expert in the problems facing mountaineers had frequently proved, beyond reasonable doubt, that human beings could not survive without breathing apparatus much above eight thousand metres. The eyes would haemorrhage beyond hope of repair, and the brain, too, would start to explode, losing cells by the billion, too many and too fast, resulting in the permanent damage known as High Altitude Deterioration, followed in quick time by death. Blind corpses would remain preserved in the permafrost of those highest slopes. But Allie and Sherpa Pemba went up and came down to tell the tale. Cells from the brain’s deposit boxes replaced the current-account casualties. Nor did her eyes blow out. Why had the scientists been wrong? ‘Prejudice, mostly,’ Allie said, lying curled around Gibreel beneath parachute silk. ‘They can’t quantify the will, so they leave it out of their calculations. But it’s will that gets you up Everest, will and anger, and it can bend any law of nature you care to mention, at least in the short term, gravity not excluded. If you don’t push your luck, anyway.’

  There had been some damage. She had been suffering unaccountable lapses of memory: small, unpredictable things. Once at the fishmonger’s she had forgotten the word fish. Another morning she found herself in her bathroom picking up a toothbrush blankly, quite unable to work out its purpose. And one morning, waking up beside the sleeping Gibreel, she had been on the verge of shaking him awake to demand, ‘Who the hell are you? How did you get in my bed?’ – when, just in time, the memory returned. ‘I’m hoping it’s temporary,’ she told him. But kept to herself, even now, the appearances of Maurice Wilson’s ghost on the rooftops surrounding the Fields, waving his inviting arm.

  She was a competent woman, formidable in many ways: very much the professional sportswoman of the 1980s, a client of the giant MacMurray public relations agency, sponsored to the gills. Nowadays she, too, appeared in advertisements, promoting her own range of outdoor products and leisurewear, aimed at holidaymakers and amateurs more than pro climbers, to maximize what Hal Valance would have called the universe. She was the golden girl from the roof of the world, the survivor of ‘my Teutonic twosome’, as Otto Cone had been fond of calling his daughters. Once again, Yel, I follow in your footsteps. To be an attractive woman in a sport dominated by, well, hairy men was to be saleable, and the ‘icequeen’ image didn’t hurt either. There was money in it, and now that she was old enough to compromise her old, fiery ideals with no more than a shrug and a laugh, she was ready to make it, ready, even, to appear on TV talk-shows to fend off, with risqué hints, the inevitable and unchanging questions about life with the boys at twenty-odd thousand feet. Such high-profile capers sat uneasily alongside the view of herself to which she still fiercely clung: the idea that she was a natural solitary, the most private of women, and that the demands of her business life were ripping her in half. She had her first fight with Gibreel over this, because he said, in his unvarnished way: ‘I guess it’s okay to run from the cameras as long as you know they’re chasing after you. But suppose they stop? My guess is you’d turn and run the other way.’ Later, when they’d made up, she teased him with her growing stardom (since she became the first sexually attractive blonde to conquer Everest, the noise had increased considerably, she received photographs of gorgeous hunks in the mail, also invitations to high life soirées and a quantity of insane abuse): ‘I could be in movies myself now that you’ve retired. Who knows? Maybe I will.’ To which he responded, shocking her by the force of his words, ‘Over my goddamn dead body.’

  In spite of her pragmatic willingness to enter the polluted waters of the real and swim in the general direction of the current, she never lost the sense that some awful disaster was lurking just around the corner – a legacy, this, of her father’s and sister’s sudden deaths. This hairs-on-neck prickliness had made her a cautious climber, a ‘real percentage man’, as the lads would have it, and as admired friends died on various mountains her caution increased. Away from mountaineering, it gave her, at times, an unrelaxed look, a jumpiness; she acquired the heavily defended air of a fortress preparing for an inevitable assault. This added to her reputation as a frosty berg of a woman; people kept their distance, and, to hear her tell it, she accepted loneliness as the price of solitude. – But there were more contradictions here, for she had, after all, only recently thrown caution overboard when she chose to make the final assault on Everest without oxygen. ‘Aside from all the other implications,’ the agency assured her in its formal letter of congratulations, ‘this humanizes you, it shows you’ve got that what-the-hell streak, and that’s a positive new dimension.’ They were working on it. In the meantime, Allie thought, smiling at Gibreel in tired encouragement as he slipped down towards her lower depths, There’s now you. Almost a total stranger and here you’ve gone and moved right in. God, I even carried you across the threshold, near as makes no difference. Can’t blame you for accepting the lift.

  He wasn’t housetrained. Used to servants, he left clothes, crumbs, used tea-bags where they fell. Worse: he dropped them, actually let them fall where they would need picking up; perfectly, richly unconscious of what he was doing, he went on proving to himself that he, the poor boy from the streets, no longer needed to tidy up after himself. It wasn’t the only thing about him that drove her crazy. She’d pour glasses of wine; he’d drink his fast and then, when she wasn’t looking, grab hers, placating her with an angelic-faced, ultra-innocent ‘Plenty more, isn’t it?’ His bad behaviour around the house. He liked to fart. He complained – actually complained, after she’d literally scooped him out of the snow! – about the smallness of the accommodations. ‘Every time I take two steps my face hits a wall.’ He was rude to telephone callers, really rude, without bothering to find out who they were: automatically, the way film stars were in Bombay when, by some chance, there wasn’t a flunkey available to protect them from such intrusions. After Alicja had weathered one such volley of obscene abuse, she said (when her daughter finally got on the end of the phone): ‘Excuse me for mentioning, darling, but your boyfriend is in my opinion a case.’

  ‘A case, mother?’ This drew out Alicja’s grandest voice. She was still capable of grandeur, had a gift for it, in spite of her post-Otto decision to disguise herself as a bag-lady. ‘A case,’ she announced, taking into consideration the fact that Gibreel was an Indian import, ‘of cashew and monkey nuts.’

  Allie didn’t argue with her mother, being by no means certain that she could continue to live with Gibreel, even if he had crossed the earth, even if he had fallen from the sky. The long term was hard to predict; even the medium term looked cloudy. For the moment, she concentrated on trying to get to know this man who had just assumed, right off, that he was the great love of her life, with a lack of doubt that meant he was either right or off his head. There were plenty of difficult moments. She didn’t know what he knew, what she could take for granted: she tried, once, referring to Nabokov’s doomed chess-player Luzhin, who came to feel that in life as in chess there were certain combinations that would inevitably arise to defeat him, as a way of explaining by analogy her own (in fact somewhat different) sense of impending catastrophe (which had to do not with recurring patterns but with the inescapability of the unforeseeable), but he fixed her with a hurt stare that told her he’d never heard of the writer, let alone The Defence. Conversely, he surprised her by asking, out of the blue, ‘Why Picabia?’ Adding that it was peculiar, was it not, for Otto Cohen, a veteran of the terror camps, to go in for all that neo-Fascistic love of machinery, brute power, dehumanization glorified. ‘Anybody who’s spent any time with machines at all,’ he added, ‘and baby, that’s us all, knows first and foremost there’s only one thing certain about them, computer or bicycle. They go wrong.’ Where did you find out about, she began, and faltered because she didn’t like the patronizing note she was striking, but he answered without vanity. The
first time he’d heard about Marinetti, he said, he’d got the wrong end of the stick and thought Futurism was something to do with puppets. ‘Marionettes, kathputli, at that time I was keen to use advanced puppetry techniques in a picture, maybe to depict demons or other supernormal beings. So I got a book.’ I got a book: Gibreel the autodidact made it sound like an injection. To a girl from a house that revered books – her father had made them all kiss any volume that fell by chance to the floor – and who had reacted by treating them badly, ripping out pages she wanted or didn’t like, scribbling and scratching at them to show them who was boss, Gibreel’s form of irreverence, non-abusive, taking books for what they offered without feeling the need to genuflect or destroy, was something new; and, she accepted, pleasing. She learned from him. He, however, seemed impervious to any wisdom she might wish to impart, about, for example, the correct place in which to dispose of dirty socks. When she attempted to suggest he ‘did his share’, he went into a profound, injured sulk, expecting to be cajoled back into a good humour. Which, to her disgust, she found herself willing, for the moment at any rate, to do.

  The worst thing about him, she tentatively concluded, was his genius for thinking himself slighted, belittled, under attack. It became almost impossible to mention anything to him, no matter how reasonable, no matter how gently put. ‘Go, go eat air,’ he’d shout, and retire into the tent of his wounded pride. – And the most seductive thing about him was the way he knew instinctively what she wanted, how when he chose he could become the agent of her secret heart. As a result, their sex was literally electric. That first tiny spark, on the occasion of their inaugural kiss, wasn’t any one-off. It went on happening, and sometimes while they made love she was convinced she could hear the crackle of electricity all around them; she felt, at times, her hair standing on end. ‘It reminds me of the electric dildo in my father’s study,’ she told Gibreel, and they laughed. ‘Am I the love of your life?’ she asked quickly, and he answered, just as quickly: ‘Of course.’

  She admitted to him early on that the rumours about her unattainability, even frigidity, had some basis in fact. ‘After Yel died, I took on that side of her as well.’ She hadn’t needed, any more, to hurl lovers into her sister’s face. ‘Plus I really wasn’t enjoying it any more. It was mostly revolutionary socialists at the time, making do with me while they dreamed about the heroic women they’d seen on their three-week trips to Cuba. Never touched them, of course; the combat fatigues and ideological purity scared them silly. They came home humming “Guantanamera” and rang me up.’ She opted out. ‘I thought, let the best minds of my generation soliloquize about power over some other poor woman’s body, I’m off.’ She began climbing mountains, she used to say when she began, ‘because I knew they’d never follow me up there. But then I thought, bullshit. I didn’t do it for them; I did it for me.’

  For an hour every evening she would run barefoot up and down the stairs to the street, on her toes, for the sake of her fallen arches. Then she’d collapse into a heap of cushions, looking enraged, and he’d flap helplessly around, usually ending up pouring her a stiff drink: Irish whiskey, mostly. She had begun drinking a fair bit as the reality of her foot problem sank in. (‘For Christ’s sake keep the feet quiet,’ a voice from the PR agency told her surreally on the phone. ‘If they get out it’s finito, curtains, sayonara, go home, goodnight.’) On their twenty-first night together, when she had worked her way through five doubles of Jameson’s, she said: ‘Why I really went up there. Don’t laugh: to escape from good and evil.’ He didn’t laugh. ‘Are mountains above morality, in your estimation?’ he asked seriously. ‘This’s what I learned in the revolution,’ she went on. ‘This thing: information got abolished sometime in the twentieth century, can’t say just when; stands to reason, that’s part of the information that got abolsh, abolished. Since then we’ve been living in a fairy-story. Got me? Everything happens by magic. Us fairies haven’t a fucking notion what’s going on. So how do we know if it’s right or wrong? We don’t even know what it is. So what I thought was, you can either break your heart trying to work it all out, or you can go sit on a mountain, because that’s where all the truth went, believe it or not, it just upped and ran away from these cities where even the stuff under our feet is all made up, a lie, and it hid up there in the thin thin air where the liars don’t dare come after it in case their brains explode. It’s up there all right. I’ve been there. Ask me.’ She fell asleep; he carried her to the bed.

  After the news of his death in the plane crash reached her, she had tormented herself by inventing him: by speculating, that is to say, about her lost lover. He had been the first man she’d slept with in more than five years: no small figure in her life. She had turned away from her sexuality, her instincts having warned her that to do otherwise might be to be absorbed by it; that it was for her, would always be, a big subject, a whole dark continent to map, and she wasn’t prepared to go that way, be that explorer, chart those shores: not any more, or, maybe, not yet. But she’d never shaken off the feeling of being damaged by her ignorance of Love, of what it might be like to be wholly possessed by that archetypal, capitalized djinn, the yearning towards, the blurring of the boundaries of the self, the unbuttoning, until you were open from your adam’s-apple to your crotch: just words, because she didn’t know the thing. Suppose he had come to me, she dreamed. I could have learned him, step by step, climbed him to the very summit. Denied mountains by my weak-boned feet, I’d have looked for the mountain in him: establishing base camp, sussing out routes, negotiating ice-falls, crevasses, overhangs. I’d have assaulted the peak and seen the angels dance. O, but he’s dead, and at the bottom of the sea.

  Then she found him. – And maybe he’d invented her, too, a little bit, invented someone worth rushing out of one’s old life to love. – Nothing so remarkable in that. Happens often enough; and the two inventors go on, rubbing the rough edges off one another, adjusting their inventions, moulding imagination to actuality, learning how to be together: or not. It works out or it doesn’t. But to suppose that Gibreel Farishta and Alleluia Cone could have gone along so familiar a path is to make the mistake of thinking their relationship ordinary. It wasn’t; didn’t have so much as a shot at ordinariness.

  It was a relationship with serious flaws.

  (‘The modern city,’ Otto Cone on his hobbyhorse had lectured his bored family at table, ‘is the locus classicus of incompatible realities. Lives that have no business mingling with one another sit side by side upon the omnibus. One universe, on a zebra crossing, is caught for an instant, blinking like a rabbit, in the headlamps of a motor-vehicle in which an entirely alien and contradictory continuum is to be found. And as long as that’s all, they pass in the night, jostling on Tube stations, raising their hats in some hotel corridor, it’s not so bad. But if they meet! It’s uranium and plutonium, each makes the other decompose, boom.’ – ‘As a matter of fact, dearest,’ Alicja said dryly, ‘I often feel a little incompatible myself.’)

  The flaws in the grand passion of Alleluia Cone and Gibreel Farishta were as follows: her secret fear of her secret desire, that is, love; – owing to which she was wont to retreat from, even hit violently out at, the very person whose devotion she sought most; – and the deeper the intimacy, the harder she kicked; – so that the other, having been brought to a place of absolute trust, and having lowered all his defences, received the full force of the blow, and was devastated; – which, indeed, is what befell Gibreel Farishta, when after three weeks of the most ecstatic lovemaking either of them had ever known he was told without ceremony that he had better find himself somewhere to live, pretty sharpish, because she, Allie, required more elbow-room than was presently available; –

  – and his overweening possessiveness and jealousy, of which he himself had been wholly unaware, owing to his never previously having thought of a woman as a treasure that had to be guarded at all costs against the piratical hordes who would naturally be trying to purloin her; – and of w
hich more will be said almost instantly; –

  – and the fatal flaw, namely, Gibreel Farishta’s imminent realization – or, if you will, insane idea, – that he truly was nothing less than an archangel in human form, and not just any archangel, but the Angel of the Recitation, the most exalted (now that Shaitan had fallen) of them all.

  They had spent their days in such isolation, wrapped up in the sheets of their desires, that his wild, uncontrollable jealousy, which, as Iago warned, ‘doth mock the meat it feeds on,’ did not instantly come to light. It first manifested itself in the absurd matter of the trio of cartoons which Allie had hung in a group by her front door, mounted in cream and framed in old gold, all bearing the same message, scrawled across the lower right-hand corner of the cream mounts: To A., in hopes, from Brunel. When Gibreel noticed these inscriptions he demanded an explanation, pointing furiously at the cartoons with fully extended arm, while with his free hand he clutched a bedsheet around him (he was attired in this informal manner because he’d decided the time was ripe for him to make a full inspection of the premises, can’t spend one’s whole life on one’s back, or even yours, he’d said); Allie, forgivably, laughed. ‘You look like Brutus, all murder and dignity,’ she teased him. ‘The picture of an honourable man.’ He shocked her by shouting violently: ‘Tell me at once who the bastard is.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said. Jack Brunel worked as an animator, was in his late fifties and had known her father. She had never had the faintest interest in him, but he had taken to courting her by the strangulated, wordless method of sending her, from time to time, these graphic gifts.