The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension (14 page)

“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.

My neighbour had hardly altered her appearance during my period of non-existence. Her long hair had been tied up in a messy bun, her nails were slightly longer. After she had sung herself hoarse, and dented an expensive set of iron woks, we enjoyed each other’s company on a less formal basis. “I missed you,” she said.

There was perhaps something accusatory in her manner. But I nodded politely and ignored her frustration. “I have destroyed death and must rid my world of birth also,” I stated. We sat under her bedroom window, which was open; wisps of perfume drifted out. I had never asked to visit this sanctum, though from my chair I was able to study its interior: her own Celestial Horn was draped in lingerie.

Since her demise, Meredith had planned an elaborate opera set in the interstellar void. Now I sketched a hasty libretto: “Listen to my scheme. As living space reaches a premium, there will be those seeking to relieve the pressure. Hopelessly impractical as they are, a fleet of vast starships could be constructed in orbit, to bear emigrants to alien pastures. A policy of
lebensraum
.”

Meredith twirled a reed between her fingers. “Difficult to execute properly. And it skirts the issue. God requires you to stop production of children, not to populate other solar systems. Beware of immersing yourself too deeply in fantasy.”

These were strong words indeed from my admirer. I shrugged with a flicker of impatience. “Allow me to continue. God knows the secret of cold fusion. If I can borrow the formula and whisper it in the ears of sleeping scientists and engineers, I can persuade them to develop huge reactors to power the starships. When ignited, the engines will flood Earth with radiation. Whole continents will be sterilised, populations will moulder, atheism will be thwarted!”

Meredith loosed her hair. I saw that her roots had turned grey. A theme I thought denied to dead poets had been returned to me: the utter loss of youth. “Tell me what you know of the universe,” she sighed. For once, I knew she did not want lyrics.

I recited the creed. “There are a huge number of parallel Earths, floating in bubbles of reality, like pieces of food in saliva globules. Every possible working out of every situation occurs in total. On one, Mishima was an ape; on another, a housepainter; on a third, a stitcher of kites. On mine, he was a writer and suicide. There is one Heaven, large enough to accommodate the beings of all dimensions, though not comfortably. God rules the system like a chef who distrusts his whisk. We are his devoted servants.”

Meredith inhaled deeply and gripped my arm. “Suppose this isn’t true? What if the opposite is the case? A single Earth and a huge number of parallel Heavens! We think of sentient beings arranged in a pyramid, with God as the apex. What if, in some of these alternative Heavens, the bricks of that pyramid were rearranged?”

I struggled to interpret her metaphor. Pyramids do not slant large in the Samurai consciousness. I shifted uncomfortably on my seat. “God not as a capstone, glaring white?”

She made a wedge of her fingers. “In many of those other Heavens, God might be a lower brick. In a few, the pyramid might have toppled. Or even be inverted completely.”

I was softly dumbfounded. “God as the weakest creature in the whole universe?” My laugh was unpleasant.

“Yes, but we wouldn’t know about it. We die and assume we ascend to the one true Paradise. What if this is the Heaven where God is ineffably feeble? We defer to his reputation, we empower him with our ignorance. A desperate front maintained by his angels.”

“It is atheism which erodes his power. He told me!”

“Perhaps he has nothing to erode. Maybe he just can’t keep up with the deception any longer. He relies on our unwitting charity. We provide for all his needs. As we realise the truth, we stop working for him and reclaim what he owes us. Kicked out of a palace into a seedy hotel! What next? A basement flat with rats and damp?”

The notion was thoroughly tasteless to me, but not alarming. I saw a similar truth in my mortal time: the divinity of an emperor smeared in saccharine Yankee mud. I objected: “But how was I able to kill myself if God has no power? He really made it happen.”

“What exactly did you get up to on Earth, apart from carrying out a mission? Did you visit any tea houses?”

I nodded. She was alluding to drugs: I had indeed sampled the green beverage in Ginza. Thinking about it, the taste had been rather odd; but I attributed this to falling standards. “Some sort of catatonia inducing substance?” I whispered. I knew that God had agents in the
Yakuza
underworld capable of slipping such poisons into drinks. Even if this were untrue, it would be simple to adulterate my regular supply. All imports from Earth passed through the hands of the Cherubim-Gestapo.

“Think about it before you descend,” Meredith suggested. This was a hint for me to depart. I had erected a makeshift tent in the ruins of my pagoda. As I finished my wine and stood, she touched my arm. I stiffened and burned with a medley of emotions.

“My ranch is large and lonely,” she said. “Perhaps one day you will consider…” She flushed, frowned and turned away.

I wanted to hold her in my arms, nestle my head in her bosom, but I felt unable to move. My manners are too refined. She continued: “We are, after all, more than just friends.” While she faltered, I bowed and made my way quickly to the security of my bicycle. Tomorrow, I vowed, I would confess my real feelings: an act of courage greater than suicide. Deeper than love for a country, for tradition.

Inside my tent, sword forming the central pole, stitched kimonos as silk canopy, I sat with Genji and reflected on my sins. If the hierarchy of Heaven really was reversed, I had been acting without absolute orders and thus without moral safeguards. My creation of an immortal human race was not right in the assured, deontological sense. I was responsible for the consequences. Furthermore with only one Earth instead of many, I had no chance to dilute my guilt. It confronted me like a mother: nor was I able to plead bullying by angels. In Meredith’s revised cosmology, these were stronger than God but weaker than poets.

There were other fears. I had doubtless incurred the wrath of those Gods who existed in the alternative Heavens. Would they act against me? Was there no way to redeem myself? Might I enlist the aid of the devils? But Lucifer had once been God’s right-hand entity, presumably the second weakest creature in the universe. Were men and women the real inheritors of this dimension? Or were there lesser beings higher up on the inverted pyramid? I craved Meredith’s cool logic.

After a troubled sleep, I resolved to abandon my second assignment. But when I returned to the lodge, Meredith had vanished. I called out in vain while flamingos scattered from the sunset like traitors. I circled the house and tapped at the windows.

The rear door was ajar. I passed through into chaos. Garments were strewn on the floor, musical scores flapped underfoot. There was a loud rustling coming from the bedroom. Repressing an urge to knock, I pushed into the intimate space. Gabriel looked up in fright; I had caught him searching through Meredith’s underwear. The force of my anger surprised us both. “You downy pervert! Where is she?”

He leered, a pair of stockings dangling from his grubby hand. “God has been listening to your little chats.” He gestured at the Celestial Horn that stood on a dressing table behind me. “These beauties operate both ways, mister. We heard the blasphemy. She’s been sent downstairs, of course, where all opponents of the regime end up. All the way down to Hell!” Rubbing the silk over his bristly chin, he added: “Better get on with your mission if you don’t want to join her!”

“I’m not going,” I replied, refusing to bow.

An exasperated light came into his eyes. “Dissent, eh? You’re in it now, my friend. Wait till God hears about this. Tip you over the edge of Heaven, he will, like that tart of yours. Brimstone for supper tonight. And a trident in the backside, no question.”

I knew he was lying. I jumped forward and seized the Archangel in a headlock. His feeble resistance confirmed everything Meredith had said. Twisting his arm behind his wings and applying suitable pressure, I soon had the truth out of him. He shouted: “We had a word in her ear. Joan of Arc came round last night!” I knocked off his worn top hat, revelling in my power. He gargled: “She accused you of unnatural habits. All sorts of vile business. Said you were a debauchee. Now let me go! I’ve got the damned teleological arthritis in my bones!”

I was aghast. “This is nonsense! Meredith wouldn’t leave me because of gossip. What exactly did you tell her?”

Though in considerable pain, Gabriel managed a chuckle, greasy lips flecked with spittle. “She didn’t seem to mind about the animals. It was the young boys she took exception to. Pity, she seemed such a liberal. I suppose she couldn’t face you after that.”

Stunned, I dropped the pathetic figure onto the bare floorboards. A hollow space had opened in my stomach, just above the hollow space where my guts had once squirmed. I stood over the Archangel and drew my sword. He whimpered and shut his eyes. Vermin, for whom my blade was a bailiff, were already abandoning their host, scuttling from his matted locks into the shadows. I would not let them use me as a new abode; I stamped those few who approached into elegant streaks, a calligraphy of crushed chitin and borrowed blood. Perhaps in this language I read a word of restraint. At any rate, I did not sunder the fool; my sword descended and his faded halo clattered in two pieces under the bed.

I left him sobbing and writhing in his own filth. There is no pride to be earned in destroying large insects. Departing Meredith’s ranch and beckoning to Genji, I threw a leg over his crossbar and we trundled into destiny. There was only one way for God to salvage some honour. Kneeling at his feet, I would present my sword to him. I would ask him to do the decent thing: if he refused, I would assist.

When I reached the Hotel Descartes, I was alarmed to find it fallen almost entirely into ruins. Rubbish, old clothes and charred mattresses lay heaped against the walls. The roof had collapsed; the iron balconies sagged like intestines strung between poles. The entrance was locked. So I rang the bell until the mechanism broke; I pounded on the rotten door. As I turned to go, I noticed that one of the piles of linen was actually a hunched figure. A thrust with my blade soon had it moving — it was the receptionist, covered in bruises and blisters.

“I demand to know God’s whereabouts,” I cried.

She drooled and wheezed. I leaned forward to listen to her words. A little shaking made her mumblings more comprehensible. It seemed God had been evicted for non-payment of bills.

“He had a case of dynamite under his bed,” she croaked, tapping her nose. “Left a burning cigarette on the pillow before stomping out. Don’t know where he went. Good riddance, I say!”

Before I could pull away, she flung her arms around my neck and let loose a horrible shriek: “Took the towels before he left! Always said he was a thief. Strange stains in the bathroom!”

A useless gesture: I removed her outraged head.

A journey of a thousand miles does not always begin with a single step. Ask Genji for details. His wheels are warped, his frame is twisted, but he is still faithful. On the hills I dismount and carry him on my back. I will never abandon him, though he pleads to be thrown into a roadside ditch. When he falls apart I shall build a shrine from his pieces. After that I must walk all the way. I will plant a tree for him in Eden. One of my few inspired ideas was to make a present of my visa to D.H. Lawrence. I told him that Earth needed his talents, that it thirsted for his blend of mysticism and the glorification of physicality, not for mine. In fact, I simply want the Garden to reclaim some of its original beauty.