Messi@ (14 page)

Mr. Rabindranath had paraded before his mind's eye a long and colorful procession of Hindu scholars, saints, and deities but realized, to his surprise, that he preferred a folk character called Salamander. This too had the advantage of protecting the gods, who, while not as surrounded by literalism as the Christian saints, were nonetheless fearsome if wronged.

Dr. Luna, using pretty much the same logic as Mr. Rabindranath, arrived at the figure of Crow, one of his favorite story heroes. He imagined Crow preening his feathers and reflecting on the nature of reality.

Professor Li chose Fox, a magical being capable of numerous transformations, whose deeds and power were little known in the West.

Pressed to participate, the sisters said that they could not possibly bring themselves to invent anything that would be offensive to Holy Scripture. Told that perhaps they didn't have to invent anything but that they could participate by just retelling sacred stories, Sister Rodica allowed that she might bring to the gathering stories of Saint Teresa de Avila, who had been a poet and storyteller herself. But then she changed her mind and said that she might use a Romanian folk character called Pacala-Tandala, who was so clever he sometimes lost his sense of good and evil. She then changed her mind again and said that in Romania it is impolite for a host to tell a story. Only guests had that privilege.

Sister Maria also held firm. She said that for her there was only the Holy Mother and that whatever mention she might make of the Mother of Christ would have to be received with utter respect by the company. One did not speak lightly of the Mother of God. The nun exuded such sincerity the wily scholars were momentarily abashed.

Andrea couldn't think of anyone, human or animal, whose figure she wanted to use. She said that she hated mythical creatures who could get themselves out of every difficulty, which was impossible for most people, and the only angels she had met were evil ones, camp guards who had power of life and death over people. She also insisted, with uncharacteristic eloquence, that all stories are sad because they end.

No one argued with her about that, but Dr. Luna suggested that the endings of stories were only an illusion, that stories went on long after both telling and teller were finished. “Otherwise,” he said, “how would the world go on?”

Dr. Li, an atheist, joked: “Perhaps Andrea is our subject. She doesn't need to employ a character to tell stories because she is the intended audience for all our stories.”

The remark struck those present deeply, though it was spoken in jest. They officially proclaimed Andrea chief listener. The chief listener, they said, listened to everything and was comforted in this way by a single unending story, because whenever a teller finished a story, another would begin, and so on.

There now remained only the question of where the story was going to unfold, so that the action would not spin out all over the place. There had to be someplace where the Meeting of Great Minds would be held, even if the journeys of their magical creatures traversed many regions and climates.

“Why, Jerusalem, of course,” said Mr. Rabindranath.

But the others objected. That was too easy. How about the holy sites of their own countries? Oraibi, on the Second Mesa? Or the Taj Mahal? Or the Palace of the Great People's Congress?

They couldn't reach an agreement, so Andrea suggested: “Let's spin the globe.”

There was a globe in the library, and so it was done. Andrea closed her eyes and spun the globe. When it came to rest, she put her finger on it, and the place it landed on was New Orleans, Louisiana, in North America, a place none of them knew anything about.

The story of the guide beings and of the Great Minds who would meet in New Orleans to decide the fate of the world began that very night at Saint Hildegard Hospice in Jerusalem.

Chapter Nine

Wherein Felicity meets Amelia Earhart, the famed aviatrix, in cyberspace and becomes friendly with Joe, the cop

Before her date with Joe that night, Felicity decided to make contact with Joan of Arc and ask her how to proceed in her righteous campaign against Mullin. She had always admired the warrior girl, who had never backed away from a fight. She had written a history term paper on the patron saint of New Orleans.

Felicity logged in to
Make Love to People from History
, identified herself,
Messiah
, and requested Joan.

“I'm sorry, Joan is not here,” said a figure in jodhpurs with aviator goggles, who opened the door of what looked like a motel room in Los Angeles. A dusty palm tree could be seen in the courtyard.

“Who is this, please?” Felicity asked politely.

“Her roommate, Amelia.”

“Amelia who?”

“Amelia Earhart.”

The famous aviatrix had disappeared in 1937 over the Pacific Ocean on the last leg of her around-the-world flight, the first for a woman. All sorts of theories surrounded her disappearance, and some said that she'd been captured by the Japanese and executed before the end of the war. Others claimed to have seen her alive in China. One report had Earhart living in the United States under an assumed name. It was generally believed that she had been a spy. Amelia Earhart had been another one of Felicity's adolescent obsessions, and the subject of another term paper. She'd read a book written by two flight engineers who had analyzed in detail the condition of the plane and had concluded that mechanical errors and fatigue had most certainly caused an accident. According to them, the plane and its two passengers were at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. But Felicity never believed it. The mystery of the vanished Electra twin-engine had preoccupied her for a whole year.

“Great,” typed Felicity. “You're one of my old crushes.”

“Thrilled,” Amelia responded. “Interested in flying?”

“Not really. I've lived in New Orleans all my life. Never had the urge to get in a flying box. No control.”

“Would you like to come in?”

Felicity scratched her crooked nimbus, then walked through the door into a room strewn with the aftermath of a serious drinking party. Empty bottles of scotch lay all over the floor. Women's lingerie was strewn over the furniture. Amelia made no apology. She sat down on the couch and bade Messiah sit next to her. Felicity remained standing.

“What attracted you to me?” Amelia lit a cigarette.

Felicity thought for a moment before answering. “Your drag. You know, your goggles, your scarf, your leather jacket. The look. Aviatrix. Cool. And your disappearance. The mystery. You pushed the envelope. That's a phrase they coined after your time. Your courage. I would like to push the envelope, too.”

She'd said too much. The trouble with having taken typing. There was a prolonged silence in the world of the aviatrix. Then the reply: “You hit on it with the scarf and the leather. We are basically a leather-and-silk-restraints club.”

“We?”

“Charles Lindbergh, the Germans, the Red Baron, the explorers. Our taskmaster is Fred Nietzsche. It's 1937 around here all the time. The music is Wagner. We are naturists. I flew naked once or twice.”

“Is dying young part of the deal?”

“Definitely! That's what explorers are: scouts into humanity's future feelings. Humanity's future feeling in 1937 was for death. There was a thirst for death, a passion for it. We were drunk with water from the fountain of death.”

“It wasn't so pretty by 1945.”

“Well, no, that's the trouble with the masses. They vulgarize the work of elites. Death was an art for us. The fucking peasants and bureaucrats turned it into a production quota.”

“The world seems to be on the verge of something like that now, Aviatrix,” typed Felicity. Messiah sat cautiously down on the far end of the couch.

“Big time. Disgusting. Death without heroism. Piles of bodies. But let's get back to you. Why do you call yourself Messiah, anyway? You want to save the shithouse?”

Felicity blushed. She typed: “Blushing. I have no idea. There are a lot of phonies running around claiming to be the Messiah, so I thought I'd subvert them. I
could
be the Messiah. You do believe in God, don't you?”

“Guess what?” replied Amelia Earhart. “I don't. I'm dead, but I haven't seen hide nor hair of God. Besides, the Messiah is a Semitic notion.”

“Are you an anti-Semite?” Felicity challenged.

“Definitely! Can't be
Übermensch
without a worthy adversary. Jews are the
worthiest
.”

“Okay. You're a racist. Get ready to pop your goggles. I'm black.” Messiah gave Amelia the finger.

“Sigh. I must treat you like a slave, then. Take off whatever rags you are wearing and prepare for a whipping.” Amelia stood up, reached behind the couch, and picked up a horse whip.

The game had gone too far. Felicity wondered whether the flush of excitement that hardened her nipples was worth losing her on-line dignity. Why had she told her the truth? She could have been anything. After all, who knew that this cyber-Amelia wasn't black? Or Jewish? Self-loathing, Felicity knew, was the muddy source of a lot of sexuality.

“I'm not into subjugation. Why don't we try it the other way? I could beat your little blond ass instead.”

Amelia took a long time to answer. “I am only a locus. I am only an occasion. I have no body. I can provide you with a fantasy, but it has to be consistent. I cannot be both superwoman aviatrix and masochist. It's not in my logic.” She put away the whip.

Felicity wrote: “I'm sorry. Would you recommend someone more poetic, gentler, sadder? I don't think I can deal with Nietzschean will freaks right now. I'll call you sometime, okay?”

“Roger that. Try Ovid. Roman poet. Exiled. Very sad. Over and out.” The motel room dimmed, and Messiah found herself alone in the desert with the blue sky.

Felicity took a very long shower and mourned her blasted integrity. Her distress was compounded by a new awareness of her unconscious megalomania. Messiah, my ass. As the water pummeled her dark little Creole ass, she considered what opportunities she was missing by remaining so stubbornly honest and provincial. She could pass for white and fuck cyber-John Wayne. She could pretend to be a man and Amelia Earhart would be hers. She could be anything she wanted to be in the brave new world of cyberidentity. New Orleans had taught her that much; life was a masquerade, and disguise was essential to the enjoyment of the flesh. Carnival—
carne vale
, the farewell to the flesh—was the essence of her city.

The phone must have rung while she was showering. The message on her machine was delivered by a flat female voice. “The party you met this afternoon would like to complete the transaction by the end of the day tomorrow. Another call will follow this one, to set the time and place.” Mullin was biting.

Felicity primped slowly. She had no appetite. If Joe intended to take her out to dinner before they went dancing, she wouldn't even be able to look at the food. In Miles's days of drugs and roses, everything she looked at made her hungry. The world was a luscious menu. Aland of acid had been slowly eating away at her since Miles's death. It was making the colors fade and turning her appetite into rage. Felicity removed some of her rings and rummaged through her closet for something more conventional than her usual punk uniform. She settled on her only dress, a sleeveless black linen number. The mirror returned to her the image of a little girl playing dress-up.

When Joe Di Friggio appeared at her door, he looked like a special delivery package from Chippendale's. His Italian suit was too perfect, he reeked of cologne, and a thick gold chain was visible beneath his open-collar silk shirt. She almost asked him if he'd ever danced for money.

Joe gave her a tightly furled red rose and a computer disk.

“The Kashmir Birani file. I downloaded what we have.”

Felicity was touched. She locked the door behind her and surveyed the magnolias and withered azaleas on both sides of the street. Two Shades stood smoking on the sidewalk, looking glassy eyed on the world. She was fond of the Shades, who had appeared out of nowhere one day and now occupied public space all over New Orleans. They were tattooed all over, except for the face, with body parts that coincided in all respects with their own. They had feet tattooed on feet, hands on hands, and so forth, but since the drawings were of necessity smaller, the shades looked as if they were cradling a body that had somehow adhered to their own. It reminded Felicity of a Robert Johnson lyric: “I'm closer to you, baby, than Jesus to the cross.”

They were very much like herself. The only difference was that they were poor runaways who'd escaped diagnosis and were self-medicating instead. The first time she had pierced her nipple, it had been an alternative to suicide. She'd been taking Zoloft, an antidepressant that had made her serene enough to consider the ultimate antidepressant, death. A tattoo artist, a friend of Miles's, had dropped by and, after hearing her rambling defense of suicide, had offered to pierce her nipple. “A foretaste,” he said, “of invasive self-assault.” It had worked. From that time, she'd pierced herself every time she'd wanted to die. Every ring in her body was a memento of the urge to end it all.

“Bums,” Joe commented tersely.

“They're okay. Benign vegetarians. They've committed themselves to this earth.” Felicity threw a kiss in their direction.

Joe put a police light on top of his Camaro and parked right in front of Café Sbisa on busy Decatur Street.

“You eat like a bird,” said Joe, watching her push a shrimp around with her fork. Café Sbisa was dark, mirrored, discreet, old-fashioned, steeped in bay leaves and sea salt. Waiters slick as Dracula, their manner at once familiar and haughty, bent close to whisper the specials, and perhaps to smell her hair and check out her tits. There was a crooner at the piano upstairs, not exactly Harry Connick Jr. but definitely smoky and Italian and a little edgy, slightly chipped like her fluted champagne glass.