Messi@

by Andrei Codrescu

  Joe did. He’d refused to be part of groups like that, though he’d been invited many times. Everyone from the KKK to the American Nazi Party to Amway had tried to recruit him. He’d turned them down, not necessarily because he disagreed with some of their points but because he was an old-fashioned Christian. His mother had taught him not to boast about his faith. Humility was a virtue. Joe was embarrassed by the shouters and the screamers. But how to explain this to Felicity?

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “More bubbles, please.” She couldn’t seem to get drunk.

  What the hell was wrong with her, anyway? She couldn’t even enjoy an uncomplicated date without being turned off by something that offended her sense of right and wrong. Joe was a good guy. She remembered something her friend Ben Redman had said years before when she said she believed that most people were good.

  “‘Brutus is an honorable man. So are they all, honorable men,’” Ben quoted Shakespeare in response. Ben was the only human being on the planet with whom she could discuss matters of principle. They had also discussed the minutiae of their psyches and the changes wrought on them by the drugs they were being prescribed; they cautioned and urged each other at the approach of delusions; they questioned reality, never leaving well enough alone.

  “Let’s talk about movies.” Joe had watched the darkening of her mood and was beginning to doubt the success of the evening.

  “Haven’t seen any lately. But the world’s pretty bad. Wonder who directed it,” said Felicity. Her own life seemed like a movie just then. She was watching, but not very well. There was something provisional about her life, as if she had borrowed it from someone else. It allowed her to do anything and everything, but from a distance, like a movie.

  Felicity asked him to take her home.

  Chapter Ten

  Wherein we hear stories told by the guest scholars at Saint Hildegard Hospice

  “Turtle needed a job,” said Lama Cohen. “He had been lying around hibernating all winter, then spring came and he was starving. He went up to an old hermit who had lived in a cave without any food or water for about sixty years, and asked him if he had a job for him.

  “‘Why,’ said the hermit, ‘I have a job sitting. I don’t eat or drink, and I never talk. Now you come up here, ask me for a job, and have me say all these words, which are going to exhaust me.’ And the hermit got so depleted from speaking that he died.

  “The turtle was astonished. I just killed a man, he thought; maybe I should be a soldier. So he went to a rich raja who had a palace with towers that reached the clouds.

  “‘I want to be a soldier,’ he said. ‘I have endurance, and my shell is very hard.’

  “The raja said, ‘These are peaceful times and I don’t need any soldiers, but I have another job for you. I heard that holy men all over the mountains have been dying in their caves. One after another, after not eating, drinking, or speaking for many years, they suddenly fall over and die. It is well known that these hermits have treasures hidden in their caves. Your job is to go to the caves of the dead hermits, find their treasures, and carry them back to me on your strong, hard back.’

  “So Turtle went to all the caves, and crawled over the dead hermits who turned to dust as soon as he touched them, and looked for treasure. He didn’t find any. But the spirits of the dead hermits, who had been watching him search, were laughing. So when Turtle went back, they jumped on his back and rode with him to the raja’s palace.

  “And so it came to pass that the raja’s palace became filled with the spirits of holy men. The raja himself died eventually, but because he was no holy man he became a servant spirit, who fetched food for the hermit spirits. Turtle remained alive because turtles live a long time, but also because the spirits needed him to carry them to a meeting of Great Minds. The word in the spirit world was that a Meeting of Minds that was going to decide the fate of the visible world was going to be held in New Orleans, Louisiana, in the United States of America. They all wanted to go there, mostly for the meeting, but also for the local music, of which the spirits had heard great things.”

  “A fox,” Professor Li began, “was caught in a trap by the great Confucius. She knew that Confucius would not kill her before they had a good philosophical discussion, so the fox stayed awake all night thinking of clever things to tell the great man. But in the morning Confucius didn’t feel very well, so he told the fox that she was free to go, provided that she returned the next day for a philosophical discussion.

  “The fox was very smart, and normally she would have taken off for the woods never to return, but the thought of a conversation with Confucius was just too irresistible.

  “The next day she returned, and Confucius told her: ‘I am going to die in three days. One thousand years from now my spirit will be summoned to a great meeting. Please tell your children to tell their children to tell their children about this. After a thousand years have passed, one of your heirs will ferry my soul to the meeting. Until then, I have a piece of advice for you. Don’t wait around for philosophical discussions. Choose freedom every time. Otherwise, as you can see, all you’ll get is a job.’”

  “I can see how this is going,” said Earl Smith. “Every clever animal on earth is going to make arrangements with the most clever Minds to go to New Orleans. But it’s a small city, so there is no way that all these Minds will fit, particularly if they come tended by thousands of spirits, not to speak of wildlife. Unfortunately, it may become necessary for some of the Minds to miss the meeting. Some of these animals and their precious cargo of souls will have to be diverted. We would not want the great meeting to become the great cacophony. “To this quandary, Coyote has the solution. He is not only clever; he has absolutely no qualms about doing terrible things, if they are necessary and amusing,” Mr. Smith concluded with a grin.

  “I can live with that,” said Andrea.

  “In other words,” declared Father Hernio, “Coyote is declaring a war of wits on everyone else.”

  “For the sake of narrative interest,” said Mr. Smith humbly. “It appears that Coyote was very bored one day. He was tired of all the physical gags that had so amused him in the age of silent films. He wanted to improve his mind. He presented himself to the film department at UCLA and demanded to be instructed. He found the instruction pretty dull, so to amuse himself he sometimes caused the spirits of his favorite filmmakers or actors to take over the bodies of his professors. The stodgy academic lecturing would find himself all of a sudden possessed by Orson Welles, or John Ford, or Cary Grant, and begin an extraordinary display that thrilled the students. The spirits of Welles, Ford, Max von Sydow, Marlene Dietrich, Cary Grant, and others were terribly annoyed by Coyote’s antics. They pledged to revenge themselves at the earliest opportunity. When the decision to convene a Meeting of Minds in New Orleans was taken, the great film artists decided that Coyote would ferry them to New Orleans and perform the functions of guide, butler, cook, chauffeur, and maid. Coyote hated this assignment, but he pretended to go along. He put on a chauffeur’s uniform and opened the door of the spirit car for the filmmakers and actors. He drove and drove for what seemed like a very long time, and then he stopped.

  “‘New Orleans!’ he called out.

  “The spirits got out and looked around; they were inside a cave covered with movie screens on which all their movies played at once.

  “‘What is this place?’ cried the annoyed cineasts.

  “‘Plato’s cave!’ replied Coyote, and vanished into thin air, leaving the greats of the film industry to find their own way out of Plato’s cave. Unfortunately, this is nearly impossible, which is why film people will be under-represented at the meeting.”

  “That’s not good.” Andrea shook her head disapprovingly. “I’m afraid this big meeting is going to be all serious people, men with beards. I like movies.”

  “Well,” Earl Smith said, “based on my experience with the film industry, I have to admire Coyote.”

  There
was a brief intermission while Sister Rodica went to the kitchen to fetch lemonade. After everyone had filled their glass, Father Tuiredh reassured Andrea: “I am going to tell a story about young people without any beards, who will also be present at the time of this meeting.” He then launched into his tale:

  “Magdbeh the Butterfly had once been a boy, during the reign of King Albdhir the Magician. Ireland was experiencing unprecedented prosperity because of his magic, and there was no lack of fried mutton leg, mead, and entertainments. As it often happens during good times, the boys and girls were very bored, mad at their parents, and always causing mischief. One day, Magdbeh was loitering about the marketplace, making rude comments to his friends about the well-fed people buying meats and fruits, when a messenger arrived from the king.”

  Father Tuiredh brought his hands to his mouth and spoke through his fingers like a megaphone: “‘Hear ye all, hear ye! King Albdhir is bored!’ Magdbeh and his friends applauded. That’s how they felt, too. ‘King Albdhir has decreed a Metamorphic Lottery!’ When they heard this, the young people applauded even harder, but the older folk were worried. Nobody had any idea what a Metamorphic Lottery was, and the messenger did not explain.

  “A big wheel was erected at the center of the city, and every citizen of the kingdom was given a turn at spinning it. Whatever number the wheel stopped on became that person’s number. The king’s scribes wrote down everyone’s number next to their name. Magdbeh drew the number 999, a number considered very propitious by the king’s astrologers. And so it was. Magdbeh won first prize in the Metamorphic Lottery. Everyone else won, too, but theirs were smaller prizes. The whole kingdom rejoiced at such luck, and few people slept that night, waiting for dawn, when the actual prizes were going to be revealed.

  “The king appeared on his balcony before all the citizens of his kingdom, who bowed their heads in silence, waiting for him to speak.”

  Father Tuiredh paused and looked at the rapt faces before him. He gazed longest at Andrea. He didn’t speak again for a long time. His audience was growing impatient, fearing that the father had brought them along this far in the story only to leave them in suspense. But Father Tuiredh continued:

  “The king announced that Magdbeh, the first-prize winner, had the choice to be transformed into any creature he wished, for that was the meaning of the word ‘metamorphic.’ Magdbeh was speechless with wonder. While everyone, including the king, looked at him, he thought about all the creatures that he could become. He liked wolves and bears and birds, but he liked butterflies best.

  “‘A butterfly!’”

  “No sooner said than done. He became a butterfly with gold spots on his black wings, and he lifted up into the air and landed on the king’s crown. Magdbeh was a butterfly in all respects but for his eyes, which remained human.

  “The king then distributed the rest of the prizes, which consisted of transforming every man, woman, and child in his kingdom into another creature. Only the first-prize winner had had a choice, so the rest of them became whatever the king wished. Some he made into wolves, others into fish, others into birds, and yet others into worms, roaches, and horseflies. When the king was finished, there were no more people in Ireland, but there were so many wild creatures that there was no room on the island for all of them. The king filled the sea with round drums and he set the creatures in them, launching them on the currents. This is why most of the creatures in the world now stand still when they hear Irish music. They used to be people in Eire once.

  “Magdbeh traveled farther than all the rest of them, floating from place to place. Whenever he settled briefly on anyone’s hand or shoulder, he left his image there. In the long centuries that followed, many great people sported the image of a butterfly on their skin. If Magdbeh rested more than a minute on someone, that person would feel light, happy, and refuse to participate any longer in the dense and weighty problems of the world. Thus were born tribes of wanderers known by various names, but having in common an airy disposition, a love of floating, and an aptitude for music, dance, and joy. Today, the tribes of Magdbeh the Butterfly are known as Shades. Magdbeh himself is in the city of New Orleans, settling randomly on whoever tastes sweet to him.”

  The company sat in charmed silence for a time, and then Andrea asked, “Where do the people who live in Ireland now come from?”

  “A lovely question, child,” Father Tuiredh replied. “I am not rightly sure, but some say that they came from the east, following the apostle Luke. King Albdhir converted and gave up magic.”

  “Well, I am quite certain,” said Father Hernio in a tone of feigned annoyance, “that Monkey did not come from Ireland. He came from the Philippines, and his story is quite native.”

  Father Tuiredh conceded graciously that there might be an animal or two that did not come from Ireland.

  “Monkey was always Monkey,” stressed Father Hernio, “but one day he had the opportunity to put his monkeyness to good use. He was eating a banana, when he saw a girl sleeping under his rubber tree. It was a vision of ugliness, this hairless creature stretched in the moonlight, still as a bumpy carpet. He came down to investigate. He flicked his tail over her nose, but she didn’t wake up. She’s probably sleeping because she is too ashamed of being hairless, thought Monkey; I will help her. Monkey plucked a branch from the top of the monkey tree, which was the tree the first monkey came from. The leaves of the monkey tree, when properly applied, had the effect of making a monkey out of anything, even a stone. He wrapped the sleeping girl in the leaves of the monkey tree branch and then waited the required three days, singing the first-monkey song.”

  Father Hernio paused and puckered his lips.

  “Yes, yes,” Lama Cohen said. “Sing the song, Father.”

  “I have a terrible voice,” Father Hernio confessed.

  Everyone hastened to assure him that he was forgiven, so in a terrible voice, Father Hernio sang the first-monkey song:

  Father Sun, Mother Earth,

  thank you for my fur,

  thank you for my eyes,

  thank you for my tail.

  How can I thank you for my fur?

  All creatures love Monkey.

  Everyone applauded, and Father Hernio said: “The song was very old and it didn’t work as well as it used to in the old days, when in combination with the leaves, it could make a monkey out of anything. The saddest part of its not working was that the sleeping girl didn’t get any fur. But it worked well enough to wake her up infused with monkey spirit. She didn’t just wake up, she leapt up. She snatched a banana from Monkey’s stash, ran around the tree, climbed it, and threw bird eggs at Monkey’s head.

  “The hairless monkey girl lived in the forest, watched over by Monkey, who saw to her education. But one day she strayed onto the beach and was captured by American pirates, who thought she was human. She was taken across the ocean and then to New Orleans, where her odd behavior was attributed to her life with the pirates. She was forcibly socialized and taught Victorian manners, especially the right way to hold a knife and fork.

  “She was very unhappy. Every day she thought about her friend Monkey and had long telepathic conversations with him. During one of these, he told her that her salvation would come from Salamander.

  “It hasn’t happened yet. Somewhere in New Orleans lives a girl with agile thoughts and restless limbs who can never sit still either in her mind or in her body. She is Monkey. She will not find peace until she kisses the salamander.”

  “I think that this is my cue!” exclaimed Mr. Rabindranath, who had become so excited during Father Hernio’s story it was all he could do to keep himself from levitating. “But I must ask, Father, why no Great Minds were involved in this story.”

  “It’s my little tribute to Charles Darwin, in acknowledgment of the pope’s latest position on evolution. If man did indeed evolve from monkeys, with God’s help, then all great minds were monkey first. The girl in New Orleans, by being monkey, is the ancestress of all the Minds.”
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br />   “Very well. I beg your forgiveness, Sisters, for parts of Salamander’s story. He is Hindu, and as you know, our religion is most physical.”

  Sister Rodica blushed, and Sister Maria said: “My ears will be tremendously selective, Mr. Rabindranath.”

  “Salamander was the daughter of Princess Rani and Arjuna the Warrior. She grew up learning music, dance, and horticulture. Her garden in Kashmir sat between two peaks of the Himalayas and contained all the flowers and fruits of India. The river watering the garden was the river Birani, and rare fish lived in it, and also a guardian monster named Chakkar, who was rumored to look like a handsome man, only he had fish scales instead of skin, and eight—forgive me, Sisters—phalluses instead of one.

  “Salamander had never seen Chakkar, but her imagination was stimulated. She found most of the princes who had been courting her lacking. One evening, as she sat sighing and watching her silk sari billow in the gentle breeze on the riverbank, she heard a man’s voice behind her.

  “‘Do not turn around, resplendent Salamander! I have loved you since you were a little girl and first came to rest here by my river. I am Chakkar.’

  “Salamander wanted nothing more than to turn around, but Chakkar warned her again. ‘Anyone who sees me will become a lizard.’

  “Salamander and Chakkar met every night after that, but she never looked at him. At first he stood a short distance behind her, but their desire for one another was great. One night, just before dawn, Chakkar embraced her from behind, and Salamander let her body fall into his arms. The fish scales did not discomfort her, because they were warm and felt just like skin, but Salamander found it difficult to adjust her slender body between Chakkar’s eight erect phalluses. It was hard to know where to put her arms. At last they found a comfortable position and settled like this into one another’s arms for many nights.