Messi@

by Andrei Codrescu

  “Did you enjoy my story, Ovid?”

  “Yes. I am a poet but I don’t make things up out of whole cloth, either.”

  Felicity wondered what Ovid would think of Amelia Earhart. She thought that the author of the Metamorphoses might appreciate the aviatrix—in his time, only the gods flew. But she decided to wait before introducing them. There was time. Ovid lived in eternity.

  Felicity liked herself much better as Scheherazade. She felt that she was an untapped fountain of stories and that her elusive pleasure would eventually be found at the junction of one story with another. In this respect, she was very much like all the other spirits in cyberspace.

  When Ovid fell asleep, she logged off.

  At dawn, a thick fog lay over the winding bayou outside, dissolving the Lord’s Plantation House in a milky substance.

  “Good God,” one of the girls said, “it looks like one billion sperms.”

  “Souls of the unborn,” said another.

  “Mixed in with fiendish souls,” added a third.

  “Superstitious bitches!” said another, bringing out a tray full of coffee mugs, each inscribed Spirit Industries.

  Upstairs, in a suite of rooms overlooking the cypresses by the bayou and the beginning of the Mississippi pine forest, Reverend Jeremy “Elvis” Mullin was staring blankly at a computer screen, waiting for Jesus to inspire him with a date. Several dates, actually. The time had come for him to put his money where his mouth was. Dear Lord, prayed Mullin, they are massing at the gates and calling for me to give them your deadlines.

  The schedule Mullin needed to clarify was complex. He needed dates for the coming of the Antichrist, for the Rapture, for the Tribulations, for Armageddon, and for the Second Coming of Christ. The first was the most important right now, because the believers awaiting the Rapture were getting restless. He could sense that the Antichrist, though he hadn’t revealed his identity, was nearby. The reverend’s senses were prickly like the spines on a frightened porcupine.

  Mullin reviewed several dates in the little time remaining before the end of the millennium, in 2000. July 4 might be excellent for the arrival of the Antichrist, who, it was known, had already taken over the U.S.A. through the bankers of the Tri-Lateral Commission. He was now only waiting for the signal to do his job. At last report, he had taken the form of an Italian banker named Ovid Publicus, who drove fast cars, owned a multinational telephone company, an on-line computer service, several television stations and newspapers around the world, and fancied himself a poet. He was handsome and persuasive, and, it was said, nobody could either resist or stop him.

  Well, that was one opinion, anyway. Another school of thought maintained that Ted and Jane Turner were together the entity called the Antichrist. Everyone from Madonna to Hector J. Crackheart, a recluse billionaire philosopher in Montana, had been nominated by one faction or another.

  So, if this Publicus, or whoever the AC was, were to declare himself on Independence Day, that would be perfect. “Independence” would then signify the opposite, which was slavery to the devil. It would behoove the Evil One to manifest amid the fireworks. Mullin was a patriot, but the United States, in his opinion, had long ago ceased to be worthy of the love of true patriots. A new United States would be born from the ordeals of the Tribulations. A cleansed, purified, white America.

  Mullin waited, but the Spirit gave him no sign. His mind and his computer screen were blank. The scent of gardenias floated in through the French doors, and from downstairs, the silvery notes of the girls’ laughter. This could be Paradise, thought Mullin, if only it weren’t hell. Only my heart knows the extent of the darkness. But let the story unfold as foretold and this will be Paradise.

  Sufficient time had to elapse, Mullin calculated, between the coming of the Antichrist and the Rapture so that people would believe that the millennium, the age of peace, had indeed arrived. In that time, the Antichrist had to inspire in humankind a feeling of well-being and accomplish the elimination of national currencies, replacing them with a world currency bearing the number 666. The Dow Jones Industrials would reach 66,666 at the beginning of this cycle. How much time was sufficient? The reverend thought that, at the accelerated rate of current events, two months might suffice. Which then could put the Rapture right around Mardi Gras 2000.

  Mullin chuckled to himself. That would be perfect. The true believers would leave behind this world of wickedness on a pagan holiday, one that had already replaced Christmas in importance in Louisiana. It was very important that events fall on symbolic days. The success of Christianity had come about partly from the coincidence of holy days with older, pagan holidays. This had been no accident, and the End would not be accidental either.

  Still, Jesus gave no sign.

  Would everything be ready by Mardi Gras 2000? The reverend believed that the deadline could be met, if only Jesus would give the go-ahead. The domes were prepared. Everything was a couple of rehearsals away from completion.

  There was a knock at the door, despite Mullin’s order to leave him unbothered until twelve. His newest singer, the girl whom he’d baptized Pecan, stood at the door holding a silver tray with a message and a cup of coffee. The other girls, knowing his temper, had thought it prudent to send up the newcomer.

  Mullin read the message and frowned. Then he hit his chest with his open palm and smiled. He took the coffee from the girl and slapped her behind. Jesus had spoken.

  The message read:

  Your Satanic Majesty:

  I have taken the initiative of establishing our encounter inside Saint

  Louis Cathedral at 8 P.M. this evening.

  The Messiah

  God works in mysterious ways. He slapped his forehead. All the elements were here, though disguised in the parabolic way of the Lord: the cathedral (home of the Antichrist popes), the business he had to conduct (part and parcel of the Antichrist campaign against him), and the signature, “The Messiah” (which, though meant mockingly, was nonetheless one of Christ’s names). The note had come through Felicity’s hand, but it wasn’t hers. It had been dictated by Satan himself. And here was his sign. Sometimes Jesus spoke loudest through Satan.

  Pecan lingered, happy as a stray mutt who’d been given a pat on the head. The sting of the reverend’s palm on her behind reverberated pleasantly through her whole person. She hoped that he would notice her again, but the reverend had returned to his computer. After a while she just tiptoed out of the room. Every day she had up to seven hours of choir practice. The other girls were better singers, but none of them, as far as she knew, had received any further sexual advances from Mullin after the initial splat of obscenity. Pecan vowed to become a singer so great the reverend would embrace her nightly.

  Felicity sipped her midday double espresso with pleasure bordering on ecstasy. The Vietnamese personnel and the bohemian clientele of the Croissant d’Or coffeehouse looked exceedingly fresh, as if they’d been cleansed by a spring rain. She could feel their gentle vibrations making a cocoon of warmth against the foggy winter day outside.

  From her seat she could see the white wall of the Ursuline convent. Proud locals claimed that their ancestors, French “casket girls,” so-called because they arrived with all their possessions in one small trunk, or casket, had resided there upon arrival in Nouvelle Orléans in 1723. Felicity chuckled. There had been only a few casket girls. In truth, most of the early female colonists to New Orleans had been Paris whores. Each of the casket girls would have to have given birth ten thousand times over to account for the number of present-day New Orleanians claiming descent from these virtuous women. No one, it seems, descended from the many more numerous prostitutes. How like us, thought Felicity, to reinvent even our roots. Everything here steams up and becomes tabulation, smoke, jive.

  Felicity abandoned herself to worldly reveries about what she was going to do with the money. There was no question in her mind that Mullin would pay up. His televangelical empire pulled in over $300 million a year. He wouldn’t ris
k all that for a puny $2.1 million. But a puny two-point-one was enough to set Felicity’s dream choo-choo chugging.

  First of all, she would remedy the lamentable state of her psyche by purchasing a mansion with a grand ballroom, where her favorite New Orleans musicians would play. She could even schedule regular evenings of musical entertainment for the amusement of the poor. She would set aside the lower floors for Shades, who would shower and stroll naked there in their splendid tattoos, jingling their jewelry and chains.

  But then her responsible, social self woke up, and she was ashamed of her selfishness. She overheard a couple at another table.

  “You know,” the man told the woman, “they say that Napoleon did actually make it to Louisiana. He died en route, and he’s now buried right next to Jean Lafitte and John Paul Jones in the Berthoud Cemetery.”

  That bit of trivia set her thinking that in the city of grand plots and conspiracies, she ought to do no less. Her uncle’s plan to convert consumers into saints was unsettling because if the conversion was unsuccessful, the alternative was the murder of several millions of people. And why? Simply because they craved Big Macs and Whoppers! Such greed would surely destroy the earth, but how could one ask people to give up beefburgers and pork sausages and become ascetic nonconsumers? Physician, heal thyself, Felicity thought indignantly. Stop eating beer-fed beef and Armagnac-dazed shrimp, and then maybe you can expect the masses to give up their burgers and fries. But if they don’t—as surely they won’t—you can’t just kill them.

  Perhaps her mission was to present her uncle with an alternative plan. Her uncle, with his encyclopedic knowledge of revolution, would guide her to success. She could organize a campaign to sabotage the chemical plants that poisoned the Mississippi River from Baton Rouge to the Gulf of Mexico. The factories would fail and move away, if not proclaim outright their shame and self-dissolve. New Orleans could secede from the Union and proclaim itself an independent Republic of Pleasure and Music and Poverty. The alternative to consuming the world would be musical poverty. In a state of dancing ecstasy, people didn’t eat much. Thus, dancing led to sainthood.

  But just as swiftly as she was overcome by this happy vision, a black cloud of anxiety appeared. The cloud was composed of the word DUTY. Felicity remembered that she had a job. She had been charged by the major to find the Indian girl. Felicity remembered that she was very likely the target of two very angry naked goons, and she suddenly thought it entirely possible that the scaly reverend might not hand over the cash without a fight.

  “Felix!”

  Very few people called her Felix. Martin Dedette was one of them. When she and Miles were a couple, the dapper fashion editor of the Times-Picayune had been one of their best friends. They had clubbed and hung together for years. Felicity had actually slept with Martin once. Miles had really pissed her off one night when he’d gone to a party after his gig without her. Martin had driven her home and she’d asked him in. It had been awkward, but she remembered Martin’s vigor with some satisfaction.

  Martin must have remembered something similar, because he grinned suddenly. “Felix, you gone missing. I’ve called your old number one hundred times.”

  “That would be twice,” smiled Felicity. She was glad to see him. She’d given him up along with everyone else, perhaps with even more eagerness than the rest. Their intimacy still embarrassed her.

  “Who you been hangin’ with?” Martin kissed her on both cheeks and sat down at the little table.

  “Amelia Earhart, Ovid, Saint Teresa … you know.”

  “Always the bookworm.”

  Dedette caught her up on his life, which was exactly the same as always. He went to parties and fashion shows, wrote for the paper, changed clothes, and went dancing every night. Had nine girlfriends but couldn’t remember all their names.

  It was almost lunchtime. Dedette said, “What do you say we grab a bite and a drink down Decatur way?”

  “We could, Dedette, but I warn you. I don’t do flesh anymore. I neither eat nor touch it.”

  “What, you give it to the angels now, cher?”

  “You might say that, sir.”

  It seemed to Felicity that Martin Dedette had been sent to her by providence. In her briefcase was a manila envelope containing a complete set of Mullin prints. She had addressed the envelope to Our Mirror, the sleaziest of the tabloids. Our Mirror was a fearless and filthy weekly that had been sued countless times. Everyone read it. Felicity had weighed the envelope and put stamps on it. She had thought long and hard about whom she could entrust with the package, but no one had seemed quite right. And now here was Dedette. Gullible, charming, obedient Dedette.

  On their way to lunch, Felicity explained to Martin that Miles had taken the keys to her body with him to the other world. While this wasn’t entirely accurate, she did feel that way most of the time. The few occasions on which she had allowed penetration she had thought of herself as a witness rather than as a participant. Her spirit was infinitely more promiscuous than her flesh.

  The park across Decatur was a Shade shantytown of cardboard shacks. A group of Shades lay on the sidewalk directly in their path. Martin and Felicity stepped gingerly around them so as not to upset an odd-looking altar composed of dog food cans, driftwood, petrified half-eaten beignets, and a cross glued together from mirror shards.

  “Hey, wanna see us spell ‘Fuck’?” called one of them.

  Martin quickened his step but Felicity slowed down. “Yeah,” she said. She felt clean and powerful. Queen of the underworld.

  There was a howl of approving laughter from the Shades. The one who had spoken leapt to his feet and offered them a spot in the circle on top of some old cardboard.

  “You can’t be serious.” Martin was distressed.

  But Felicity had already sat down and crossed her legs. “I never heard them talk. I thought they had a vow of silence or something. Sit, Dedette.”

  Reluctantly, Martin Dedette, fashion editor, crouched down next to her. He pulled up his pants so as not to upset the perfect crease.

  The Shades began to leap about like movie Indians, shedding their rags. Four of them, two boys and two girls, arranged themselves naked around Felicity and Martin. Their tattoos became oddly congruent. The faceless bodies tattood on their skin leaned sadly on one another like a fresco of the damned. The Shade who had first spoken took Felicity’s hand and guided it over the surface of the four bellies, just below the navels. Her fingers deciphered the short text before she had actually seen it: F-U-C-K. Each of them had a letter incised there.

  “What else does it say?” asked Felicity, enjoying the lightly scarred surfaces at her fingertips. “I like brailling,” she said, making up a verb.

  More Shades came over and arranged themselves in a pattern that Felicity touch-read as: F-U-C-K T-H-I-S W-O-R-L-D T-H-E T-R-U-E O-N-E C-O-M-E-S.

  “Who’s the True One?” Felicity whispered, overcome by the earnest warmth of all the young bodies stilled there in such ritual yearning.

  “You are! You are!” The Shades broke off and started dancing around them.

  “For chrissakes, Felicity!” said Martin, getting up.

  “Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! Don’t you believe that I’m the One? Dance, Dedette, dance!” She rose, taking off her jacket, and joined the circle, twirling around and around until she collapsed on the ground laughing. And she still wasn’t done.

  “Let me teach you something, Martin Dedette …”

  “Listen,” she said to the Shade who had first spoken to her. “You’ve done everything, right?”

  “Everything,” he said sadly.

  “Drugs, right? Sex, right?”

  To each question the boy nodded yes and got sadder.

  “Burnt,” he said. “Totally burnt, man. Done it all. Where is the One?”

  “Okay, you’ve done it all, but have you ever seen a sheep?”

  “A sheep?”

  “Yeah, a sheep.”

  The boy thought about th
is and then looked around. Several of them shrugged.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “How many of you never saw a sheep?”

  Nearly all raised their hands.

  “How many of you never ate a mango?”

  Nearly all the shadow children raised their hands.

  “You ain’t done shit,” said Felicity. “When you’ve seen a sheep and eaten a mango, preferably at the same time, you come tell me you done everything!”

  Felicity rose and brushed the dirt off her butt. It was only with great reluctance and after receiving a hug from each Shade that Felicity finally parted. She thought she felt their fleas jumping on her. Bourgeois bitch, she admonished herself. Jesus hugged the lepers.

  To his credit, Martin was still waiting when she got up to go.

  “Doesn’t this beat lunch?” Felicity was glowing.

  She walked buoyantly alongside the inexplicably morose M. Dedette. When they had safely crossed the street, he led her to the bar at Sbisa. After a double shot of Drambuie, his natural elegance and worldly ease reasserted themselves.

  “God, Felicity, you’d do anything.”

  “You should know, Martin. I did it with you.”

  Felicity laughed and leaned back in her seat.

  “Martin, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Teach you how to swim? Reverse revirgination? Anything.”

  “It’s serious.” Felicity took the manila envelope out of her briefcase. “I’m involved in a tricky case. Would you mail this envelope if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon?”