Have you seen aliens? – asked our daughter. She is five and she read a book about aliens at school.
Your granddaddy saw aliens, said my wife. Which one? – asked our daughter. The one you don’t know, said my wife. The one who died long ago. My father. Oh, I said. What? – said my wife defensively. He did. At least, this is what he told me. I just didn’t know that, I said. What did he tell you? – asked our daughter. My wife gave me a look. He told me, she said cautiously, as if walking on a rope over Niagara Falls, that he went for a walk in the woods. And then, after a couple of hours he came to a clearing in the woods. And there he met an alien. The alien was very tall and he – or she, or it, I don’t know – was glowing from top to toe. And my father had a contact, he could communicate somehow … What? What are you laughing at? What? I’m not laughing, I said. Stop it! – said our daughter. Don’t laugh! Mummy doesn’t like it when you laugh at her! I don’t, I said. See? I don’t. You grin. No, I don’t. Stop it! And then, said my wife defiantly, my father just collapsed on the spot and when he came to there was no alien around and it was raining. All right, I said. You don’t believe it, do you? – asked my wife. I don’t know, I said. Why didn’t you tell me that before? I took mercy on your skeptical little mind, said my wife. Have you seen aliens, mummy? – asked our daughter. My wife looked at me. Yes, I did, she said bravely. What? – I said. What?! Yes, I did, she said with total abandon. I saw aliens. Why are you looking at me like that? I saw aliens. What can I do if I did? I saw them. All right, I said. All right. I saw them when I was fifteen, said my wife. It was on summer holidays. We went to a disco with my friends. And when we came back there was a huge UFO hanging above our summer cottage. At least twice as big as the house. Just the usual flying saucer, she said, you know, like those in Plan Nine or Mars Attacks. With tiny bright windows along the rim, all that. And we were all frightened to death. We thought they wanted to take my parents, to abduct them. Girls started screaming and we all ran away. And I came back home very late at night. I told my parents about the flying saucer but they were so mad at me, they didn’t listen to me at all. They were just absolutely mad. And I was grounded afterwards, like, for the rest of the holidays. Daddy, stop it! – said our daughter. Stop laughing! Mummy saw aliens! Why do you laugh? I laugh, I said, because I saw them too. What?! – said my wife. You saw aliens? Yes, I said. Yes, I did. Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t know, I said. It was long ago. I was visiting my friend in Rome. Which one? – asked my wife. You don’t know him, I said vaguely. Or, better to say, you do, but not personally. He’s a major pop star now. We don’t really see each other anymore. But back then he was just a friend. He lived there with his girlfriend. They had a tiny flat on the top floor, right in the middle of the city, not far from the Spanish Steps. They had a dormer window and you could climb out of this window onto the roof. There was a wooden deck on the roof and some flower boxes. They grew flowers and tomatoes. And there was the view. Unbelievable. Breathtaking. I brought some pastries and we had some tea out there on the roof. It was sunset, it was June, I think. We drank tea and listened to the last Brian Eno and we were discussing some Christian dogmatics because we were both very much into it at the time. Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, Gregory of Nazianzus, Maximus the Confessor, such things. We were talking about celestial hierarchy, about orders of angels, about, you, know, the Primary Force, free will, the clinamen … About what? My wife was looking at me as if I had just confessed to her that she lived all these years not with me but with my twin. The clinamen. And as we were talking I saw a bright light right above St Pete or, maybe, even closer to us. Bright, a bit pinkish and absolutely unmoving. There were stars already in the sky but they were far less bright and much smaller and there were planes flying here and there but they were also much smaller and they were moving. This light was just there and there was nothing about it, no wobble or vibration, or any mechanical parts visible … I mean, if it were a helicopter … It wasn’t that far away. About a mile, I guess, or even less, right across the river. Not very high up either, about a quarter of a mile, I’d say, maybe a bit more. What’s this? – I asked my friend. Aliens, he said very matter-of-factly, without any surprise, without even looking much at this light. He just glanced, I think, over his shoulder. Oh, I said. Oh, yes, said his girlfriend pouring us some tea, they come sometimes. Do they? – I said. How often? Have you seen them before? Many times, said the girl as if we were talking about some of her more gregarious relatives. They come, said my friend, to distract us from something important. You see, he said, we were talking about things divine and they appeared and distracted us and I, to tell you the truth, don’t even remember now what we were talking about, not really. Because, I said, they are … Right, he said, they are. Ungodly beasts. Presently the light turned bright red and it started blinking. I know what they want, said my friend. What? – I asked. They want Brian Eno, he said. At this moment I realised that the music had stopped about a minute ago. My friend climbed down and put the record on again and as he came back up to the roof the light disappeared. Just like that. Told you, he said. Did you talk about all those things afterwards? – asked my wife. About Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite? Close your mouth, she said to our daughter, and eat you porridge if you don’t want to be late to school and if you want Ms Stephanie to shake your hand. No, I don’t think so, I said. If memory serves … I think, I left soon. We just dropped the ... the topic, I guess, I said. No more things divine. And who precisely is that friend of yours? – asked my wife. ‘We don’t die. None of us. Ever. You know the phenomenon: when in danger, our perception sharpens and time slows. Meaning that at the moment of ultimate danger, which is death, time stops completely for each and every one of us. This is why people never die. Not a person has ever died in the world. I was a teacher. I know a thing or two about relativity. Outside, time flows as usual for all the people, but inside it just stops. And we enter paradise. Through this dazzling pinhole, we enter the particle of eternity. There we live forever, all of us separated from each other by this common bliss.’
Michael looks around, surprised.
MICHAEL Is it a boxing club? CHRISTINE It sure is. MICHAEL I thought it was a gym. CHRISTINE It’s because there are no references to boxing in our environment because we consciously try to distance ourselves from our more traditional competitors. The point is, we are nonconflicting boxing club. That is, we cater to the people who want to take part in a one-on-one full contact competitive martial arts sport event, but don’t like to be hurt. Our boxing events are friendly, amicable, caring. Do you know Elysium? – asked Josh.
You mean the tantra massage parlour in Mayfair? – I asked. No, he said. The blog. Where all those famous philosophers from the past blog about current affairs. Aristotle, Nietzsche, Spinoza … Nietzsche blogs? – I said. Well, not in person, obviously, said Josh, but yes, he does, through the psychic. This is your blog, said Sebastian grimly. It’s not mine, said Josh. It’s yours, said Sebastian. Who’re you trying to fool? No, said Josh, it’s not. Do you seriously think you can fool me like that? – asked Sebastian. Look, he said, we’ve been together for how long now? Sixteen years? Every morning you bitch about politics. For hours. I don’t bitch, said Josh, I discuss. I try to discuss it with you. And if you don’t like it … I know all your opinions, said Sebastian, I know all your exact wording, all your specific turns of phrase. I know it well enough to spot it anywhere. I know it all by heart. And I bloody know that after you unload all those layers of political garbage on me you, in the afternoon, in your best spirits retire to your study and then, shortly after that, I can find all those very same words and phrases used on me in the morning – tried out on me in the morning, without any compunction – I can find them all posted to your blog as if spoken by some famous politician or philosopher, or writer, or whomever your mad fancy chooses to channel what you call your ‘ideas’. I know you well enough to recognise you, my dear, even if you think you’re talking like Leibniz. … If you don’t like it, said Josh, why don’t you tell me? You could have told me long ago and I’d have only been too happy to oblige you and to release you from this oppressive bond. Do you really think Nietzsche would support Ed Miliband? – said Sebastian. Seriously? I don’t know about Nietzsche, I said opening my laptop, but I think that Kierkegaard actually … If he were alive now he would do just that, said Josh. Do you think he would support your bloody toffs? No sane person would support your raving lunatics, said Sebastian. Aristotle would, said Josh. In your dreams, said Sebastian. Duns Scotus would, said Josh. In your dreams, said Sebastian. God, I said. What? – asked Sebastian. God would support anyone. No, I said. I pointed at the screen. Here, I said. Look. What? – asked Sebastian. This is the blog, I said. Here is this discussion about Nietzsche and Ed Miliband and who would support whom. It has almost a thousand comments. Oh, no, more than a thousand. Look. It has a thousand comments a day. Three thousand two hundred and sixty two in three days. Goodness gracious, said Sebastian. Oh, yes, said Josh. And a sidebar banner is now five hundred pounds a month. A man came to me on the street.
Troy S. Gamble? – he asked. The next instant I was amazed at my own abilities to thoroughly check my entire past for the traces of any crimes and misdemeanours which could have led to a court writ being served. Yes, I said after a slight pause. This is who I am. Pre-crime police, he said. According to our information you’re about to commit a crime. What crime? – I asked. He checked his papers. You’re about to steal a package of two halogen tubes in the nearest supermarket, he said. No, I am not, I said. Yes, you are, he said. Trust me. No, I am not, I said. Trust me. All right, he said. Here’s the deal. You sign this paper and you’re free to go and do whatever you want. I took the paper. It was titled PRE-CRIME WARNING in big red letters. But if you do steal those tubes after you sign this paper, continued the man, there will be no pardon for you. You will receive the most severe punishment, which is … He consulted his little gadget. Which is a fine of five hundred pounds and thirty days incarceration. How about that? Harsh, I said. And what if I don’t sign this paper at all? Why wouldn’t you? Why should I? Because it doesn’t change anything, he said. If you don’t, I just enter you in my report, that’s all. You’ll be marked as warned in our files. This paper is for you, mainly, for your own convenience. Lest you forget. All right, I said. I’ll sign it. Do you have a pen? Two copies, he said. One for me, one for you. All right, I said. Later in the supermarket I stopped in front of those tubes. Go on, you milksop, I said to myself, take those tubes. Five hundred quid and a month in prison. Now, this is the challenge to rise to. |