The Adventures of God in His Search for the Black Girl (27 page)

‘I wonder if the crossword puzzle has claims to be included,’ the psychoanalyst offered.

‘Gentlemen!’ Voltaire protested. ‘We must not be drawn aside into this enticing discussion (to which my own
contribution
would be to suggest oriental carpets). What we are looking for is an arresting opening or headline for God’s manifesto.’

‘I suppose’, Gibbon said regretfully, ‘that to begin “
Conscript
Fathers!” scarcely allows of an application to the modern world. I therefore suggest “Lectori Benevolo”.’

‘Not to be outdone in Latin’, the psychoanalyst said, ‘which is after all the language of Linnaeus as well as of litterae
humaniores
, and of the epigraph to Freud’s
Interpretation
of
Dreams
as well as of papal encyclicals, I suggest “Hominibus
Sapientibus
”.’

‘“Citizens!”’ suggested Voltaire.

‘“Electors of St Pancras’”, suggested Shaw ‘—with, of course, whatever is appropriate substituted for “St Pancras”.’

‘I wish it’, God said quietly, ‘to begin “To Whom It May
Concern”.’

‘Well, if you wish it, so it must be,’ Shaw said, as he slowly inscribed
…. ‘But to my ear it sounds as though you were writing a reference.’

‘I
am
writing a reference’, God replied: ‘for myself. You may be certain, by the way, that I shan’t speak of it by the
old-fashioned
name for a reference, a character.’

‘Very well,’ Shaw said. ‘I have the heading. The next
problem
we must discuss is the text.’

‘The text’, God said, ‘is to read: “I do not exist. Signed, with divine authority, God.”’

‘Capital,’ said Voltaire.

‘Foolproof,’ said Gibbon. ‘Those who disbelieve already will ignore it, as they do not believe in the authority on which it is stated. Those who believe will find themselves obliged to stop doing so.’

‘I confess’, Shaw said as he wrote it down in simple Pitman outlines, ‘I couldn’t better it.’

‘Aah,’ said God with a great gratified exhalation. ‘It’s done at last. If you will remember for how many thousands of years I have been, in one nasty form or another, believed in, you will have some idea of my sense of achievement – and of my
gratitude
to you all for your encouragement and help.’

God was just leaning back in his chair with a gesture of satisfaction and fatigue when a soft contralto call, resembling in timbre a french horn or the sound a child makes by blowing through a dandelion stalk, caused him to turn round.

Standing behind his chair like footmen, but chewing, were the three cows.

‘It reminds me’, God said, ‘of my supposed nativity. And as a matter of fact, I really do feel reborn.’

With a rustle of quills, the hens and other birds arrived at the table and began clucking and pecking around it – all except a goose, who pecked instead, though quite amicably, at Gibbon’s knee.

‘No doubt’, Gibbon said, ‘it is the ghost of one of the
Capitoline
geese and recognises the historian of Rome.’

Shaw took up his pencil again.

‘All that it remains to decide’, he said, ‘is where the
manifesto
is to be dropped.’

‘Dropped?’ queried God.

‘Well I assume’, Shaw replied, ‘that you will have copies printed and that you will distribute them from the sky in
deference
to the old and rather pretty belief that that is where you live. Since, incidentally, that belief is entertained as firmly in Canberra as in the Home Counties, and people in each place know that people in the other believe the same, it is evident that a great many people believe heaven to be circular. About the printing itself, I must forewarn you of a matter that often
distresses
authors when they first turn professional. It is inevitable that there will be printers’ errors; and a certain number of copies will surely be defective. There is nothing whatever that you can do to remedy this, and it is a waste of time and energy to let yourself lie awake at night regretting it. As for the location you should choose for your celestial leaflet raid, you will no doubt want to follow the sound economic principle of maximum results for minimum expenditure and will therefore select one of the world’s major centres of population, such as London or New York.’

‘I think Tokyo may have a claim,’ Voltaire said.

‘It depends’, the psychoanalyst said, ‘whether you go on absolute population or on density of population. For density, Calcutta is worth considering.’

‘We should also consider’, Voltaire said, ‘the likelihood or unlikelihood that the content of the manifesto will be further
disseminated
by word of mouth. Obviously, a copy that falls into the hands of an illiterate is wasted, since he will not even be able to read it himself. But we must also bear in mind that, should the manifesto be dropped on one of the more tight-lipped cultures, such as those of northern Europe, the reader might read it and keep the information to himself. If, however, it were dropped on some nation of chatterboxes who set great store by intellectual chic (it may be apparent that I am thinking of my countrymen), then we could count on each reader to
communicate
the information to several other people.’

‘That is a good point’, God said, ‘but I do not know quite how to set it against the fact that Paris has a smaller population than several other cities, whose inhabitants may, however, be less talkative. This part of the plan is proving surprisingly
difficult
.’

Round the table there was a silence as everyone sat and thought, while there emerged from the oleanders a continuous noise of grunts and crashes. The pink sow had arrived at the place of the meeting and was turning up the earth round the plants, using her nose almost as effectively as, and considerably faster than, an agricultural machine. The oleander stems were shaken and a number of petals trembled to the ground.

At length Gibbon, in a gesture of discovery, slapped the palm of his hand down on the agate table.

‘Meh!’ complained the startled sheep beneath, while Gibbon declared definitively:

‘Rome!’

‘Of
course
!’ Voltaire cried in instant welcome of the idea. ‘Where else should God renounce eternity but in the eternal city?’

‘Is that agreed then?’ asked Shaw, pencil pointed above the lined page.

‘Agreed,’ everyone said.

, Shaw carefully wrote. Then he closed his
notebook
and said:

‘The logic of logistics must always yield to the finer logic of dramatic irony and poetic justice.’