Mr g (11 page)

So much was new. So much was joyous. And disturbing. I asked Belhor: “Tell me, what do you think is the meaning of these creatures? What would you say is the meaning of their lives?”

Belhor laughed. “What meaning could they have? They amuse me. That is their meaning. But whether they have meaning in and of themselves? That would be giving these little things far more credit than they deserve. How can their lives have any meaning when they are mortal and know nothing of infinity? Their lives have meaning only insofar as they amuse us in the Void, only insofar as they increase our knowledge of what is possible and what is not. But meaning beyond that? No. What other meaning could they have?”

“I am not speaking necessarily of a grand meaning,” I said, “but of individual meaning. Wouldn’t you agree that each individual life has its own meaning, or at least a meaning as understood by the individual creature? Cannot each individual creature find some meaning for its own life?”

“What difference does it make?” Belhor said, and he stared as if bored at the gyrating spheres flying through the Void. On occasion, he would reach out and grasp one, squeeze it hard, then let it go. “There are so many trillions of ‘individuals,’ as you call them. They come and go. How could an individual mortal life have any meaning? And even if the individual, the tiny ant,
thinks
its life has a meaning, it is only an illusion. It is only a sensation, an excess of electrical current in its tiny brain. What significance could that have for us?”

“But surely it has significance for
them
,” I said. “Each one of them tries so desperately to find meaning. In a way, it doesn’t matter what particular meaning each of them finds. As long as each of the creatures finds
something
to give a coherence and harmony to the jumble of existence. Perhaps it might be as simple as a discovery of their own capacities, and a thriving in that discovery. And even if they are mortal, they are part of things. They are part of things larger than their universe, whether they know it or not. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“With all due respect,” said Belhor, “sometimes I cannot follow you. Why would you occupy yourself with such thoughts? How could you possibly suggest that these tiny ants have any consequence? Let them have their meanings. Let them have hundreds of meanings. If they like, they can believe that the cosmos is a giant fish, swimming in the mouth of a bigger fish. What difference does it make?”

Time, always the magician. I now understand time to be my strangest invention. At moments slow, like the dripping of sap from a tree. At other moments quick, like the fluttering wings of a small bird. I go for brief expeditions in the Void, and when I have returned, eons have passed in the new universe. Civilizations flourish and fade during a single conversation with Uncle or Aunt. Or I can witness one event in the new universe, separate it into pieces of shorter and shorter duration, until shards of time are consumed with the wave of a hand, a breath, the first impulse of a nerve, the slight passage of one molecule. Eons to moments to eons.

Does time bring events into existence, or do events bring time into existence?

Not that time isn’t exact. You can map events precisely onto the ticks of the hydrogen clocks. Assign each event a number, a precise position in the long filament of time. And yet what do you know in the end? Uncle was right. You know little. You do not know the cause of events. You do not know how events interweave to produce new events. You do not know how lived lives lie down, one after another, to make a vertical pattern of action and change, or perhaps to form a lengthy epoch of inaction and emptiness. You do not know, from the temporal labels attached to a life, what events brought happiness, or sadness, or joy, or regret. Or simply boredom.

But the movements of electrons in hydrogen atoms, the emission of photons with lockstep vibrations also do not know these things. They mark out tick after tick after tick, in an unending stairway of time, yet they know nothing. Of movements of glaciers, of heartbeats, of gains and of losses, of individual thoughts they know nothing. Much less do they understand.

Even I, who have infinite power. The unending sequence of events, each meticulously labeled in time, does not inevitably explain. There are things that defy explanation: irrationalities, odd juxtapositions in time. For example: I do not yet understand the life of the young woman who stole food for her family. I have a complete record of every one of her actions and thoughts. But I do not yet understand the interplay of movements, the reasons for each event, those that were accidental and those that were not. I do not yet understand which of her possible decisions would have been the
best
decision. That requires the future, but the future does not exist. Should she have disobeyed her mother, taken a chance that her family would starve, in order to uphold a principle of
right
behavior? Or should she have done as she did, violated her principles and beliefs in order to follow another principle: loyalty to her mother? Either way, she will almost certainly be haunted. Not all is logical. Perhaps even not all is understandable. After all, what is it that constitutes understanding? One can say that such and such an event came before another event in time. One can say that a system had a particular arrangement, which was a necessary consequence of a prior arrangement. Does such knowledge confer understanding? If events could be reshuffled in time, if future and past could be exchanged with each other, so that we always knew the consequences of actions before they occurred, would we then understand? Events—and the time that creates them or is created by them—cannot be contained. Events spill out and slide and defeat attempts to explain. Even against infinite power and force. This I have learned from the new universe.

And so, for some indefinite period of time, I am finished with this thought about time. Whether before something else, or after something else, or perhaps both, I am temporarily finished. The Void and the new universe, once so clearly distinct, are now part of the same fabric of time. Eons and moments. Mortality and immortality. That which lives and passes away, and that which lives on forever. Is it all not connected now? Existence and nonexistence? It is all connected now. I am all that is, and all that is not.

It is fair to say that the sadness Uncle Deva, Aunt Penelope, and I felt from the suffering of life in the new universe was more than offset by the evident joy of the same creatures. During our many visits to Aalam-104729, we witnessed happy celebrations of births, of marriages and unions, of natural events such as eclipses and solstices and air glowings, of symbiotic transferences, celebrations even of deaths. The two passing strangers I saw in the arched city. Despite their brief life spans, many creatures seem happy to wake up each morning, happy simply to breathe and to speak.

Nowhere is the joy of existence so apparent as in music. From one star system to the next, intelligent life-forms have created a multitude of sounds that express their exhilaration at being alive. There are waltzes and scherzos, apalas and calgias, symphonies, madrigals, fanbeis, sonatas and fugues, bhajans and dhrupads, tnagrs and falladias. The music dances and glides and swoops. Not that all of it is melodic or soft. But even the dissonant and the jarring contain a rapture, an ecstasy, an embrace of existence.

For some time now, I have admired many of the melodies invented in Aalam-104729 and find myself singing them as I move about in the Void. As do Uncle Deva and Aunt Penelope. We continue to sing our favorite songs trillions of atomic ticks after the composer has died, after the composer’s civilization has vanished, sometimes even after the composer’s central star has burned up and faded to a dead ember floating through space.

Before this new musical development, each of us often wandered alone through the Void, following one empty path after another during our excursions or simply searching for a solitary place to ruminate, shielded from one another by vast quantities of nothingness like beings on separate islands at sea. Out of sight, out of hearing, out of mind. We needed our privacies. Now, however, I no sooner set out on such a contemplative journey, glad to be alone among my own thoughts, when I hear Uncle or Aunt at some other location, loudly humming a tune picked up in the new universe. Will you please keep your singing to yourself, Aunt P shouts in the direction of Uncle D. I was having a pleasant stroll through the Void until you started up. You are one to talk, Uncle hollers back from a great distance away. I’ve been listening to that disagreeable song of yours now for eons, and I cannot hear myself think. Oh really, shouts Aunt P. Are you thinking or singing? Which is it?

When Aunt and Uncle get sufficiently annoyed with each other, they begin humming at high volume the very worst tunes in the universe, carefully selected from galaxy to galaxy and epoch to epoch.

Your voice sounds like the scaly underbelly of a bottom-feeding fish, Uncle D screams to Aunt P.

And you sound like a rotting pile of animal dung, Aunt replies.

Ha, ha, ha, Uncle shouts in a fake laugh. You know the difference between sounds and smells about as well as a rock can climb up a tree.

Dumb, dumb, dumb, shouts Aunt Penelope. I’m married to someone with an amber sunset for a mind.

All of us have taken to using metaphors from the new universe. Before, we had only the Void. And there are just so many things that can be compared to nothingness.

There were other things we in the Void picked up from the new universe. Birthdays, for example. We thought birthdays were delightful. Aunt P and Uncle D began planning birthday parties for themselves, although choosing a date and an interval of time between birthdays was a bit problematic. Following one of our excursions into the new universe and back, Aunt P suddenly announced that she was having a birthday party after her next sleep, and she expected presents. And I don’t want any items from the Void, made out of nothingness, she quipped. I’ve already got plenty of nothing. I want something
material
. Do you understand what I’m saying?

A birthday party is a splendid idea, said Uncle D. But about the presents, I don’t know if—

No buts, said Aunt P. I’m going for my beauty rest now. When I wake up, I want presents. Lots of them. You’ve got a whole universe full of
stuff
to choose from. And I want something pink. With that, Aunt P yawned and retired.

A difficult spouse, Uncle whispered to me in exasperation. But what can you do?

So Uncle and I went into the universe and found a newly forming galaxy, full of pink stars, and we carried it back to the Void. In the Void, the material was nearly weightless. It shimmered and glowed. You could almost see through it. With a few folds and tucks, we made a beautiful dress for Aunt Penelope, as she’d always wanted. Uncle named the dress Kalyana. He said nothing about the mismatch of essences, as he had in mind a few material things he wanted for
his
birthday. Which, he informed me, was coming up quite soon.

Oh my! Aunt P exclaimed when she woke up and saw the dress draped over an outcropping of the Void. It is lovely. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. Immediately, she put on the garment. Then she studied herself for a few moments. She turned this way and that, exclaimed again, and began dancing about and singing at the same time. Although there were many pink stars, there were also blue and yellow and green ones. It was a dress of many colors. Wearing it, Aunt Penelope was the most beautiful thing in the Void. Every time she twirled, a few stars came loose and began sailing off, and Uncle would shuffle over and scoop them up and stick them back on.

For eons, Aunt P never took that dress off, even for sleeping. It lasted for 10
³³
atomic ticks. After that, most of the stars had exploded or burned out, and the garment lost its color and shape.

Uncle Deva, Aunt Penelope, and I were not the only ones making expeditions into the new universe. For some time, Belhor and his two assistants had been doing so as well, without my authorization. And while Belhor had beseeched me not to intervene in the course of mortal events, he himself had meddled from time to time.

On his first visit to Aalam-104729, Belhor landed at an opera house, on a planet almost completely covered with water. The intelligent life had constructed vast floating cities, and the opera house was located in the largest of these. As it happened, Belhor and the two Baphomets materialized during the middle of a performance, in the dark, suddenly occupying three vacant seats in the center front row. So as to attract as little notice as possible, the three visitors had taken the form of the local inhabitants. Belhor, tall and elegant, wore a charcoal black dinner jacket with tails, a starched white shirt with platinum cufflinks, a black bow tie, and shiny black shoes. Baphomet the Larger was dressed in a tan sports jacket several sizes too small, which strained to pop its single button at the waist, a wrinkled green shirt, polka-dot tie, and sandals. Baphomet the Smaller wore pajamas and slippers but had taken the trouble to put on a necktie, lopsidedly slung around his thick neck.

“The mezzo-soprano is off-key,” said Baphomet L. after a few moments. “And I do not like her looks.” The beast loudly leafed through the program notes until he found the singer’s biography. “No, she will not do.”

“We do not like her looks at all,” said Baphomet S., who also riffled through the program.

“Quiet,” said the patron sitting directly behind them. It was a woman who had spoken. She wore a taffeta evening gown with jewels in her hair, and she reeked of an unnatural scent.

Baphomet L. turned around in his seat and grinned at the woman.

“Surely, madam, you were not speaking to me,” the beast said loudly, and rolled one of its two eyes clockwise and the other eye counterclockwise. At which point the woman gasped, leaped from her seat, and went hurrying up the aisle.

“Behave yourselves,” whispered Belhor. “We are in a public place. We are here to observe.”

“But the mezzo-soprano has an awful voice,” complained Baphomet L. “We should speak to the manager and get our money back.”

“We should demand a full refund,” said Baphomet S.

“Quiet,” said Baphomet L.

“Quiet both of you,” whispered Belhor.

Almost imperceptibly, the theater rose and fell, as did all of the buildings in the floating city, and the overhead chandeliers slightly swayed.

“I am annoyed with that mezzo-soprano up there,” said Baphomet the Larger. Suddenly, the mezzo-soprano, who was at that moment singing an impassioned aria with outstretched arms, discovered that the clasp holding her dress had come undone. The dress slithered down to her waist.

For the next few moments, the audience became very quiet. Then someone in the second balcony shouted an off-color remark, someone else began applauding, and the singer ran off the stage.

“Baphomet!” Belhor said sternly. “You disappoint me.”

“But she had such an insufferable voice,” said Baphomet L.

A young woman appeared on the stage and announced with apologies that there would be a brief intermission. The lights went on. “I hope that they have got something good to eat,” said Baphomet L.

“I’m famished,” said Baphomet S.

A gentleman in a grey suit walked up to Belhor and tapped him on the shoulder. “The manager would like to see you, sir,” said the gentleman. “Would you please follow me to the manager’s office.”

“And I would like to see the manager,” said Baphomet L. “We want a refund. That mezzo-soprano was atrocious.”

“What is the issue?” Belhor quietly asked the gentleman.

“Please come with me,” said the man. He stared at Baphomet S., now standing in full view wearing his striped pajamas. “And bring your friends with you.”

The three visitors followed the gentleman in the grey suit up the aisle through crowds of opera patrons, to a door at the far end of the lobby, up a stairway, and into the manager’s office at the back of the mezzanine. The room was richly appointed with platinum fixtures, woven rugs, and furniture made out of crystal and glass. Photographs of the manager posing with various dignitaries covered the walls.

The manager was a middle-aged man with a soft and mushy face, like a piece of fruit past its prime, a limp moustache, and luminous green jewels on both hands. For a moment, his gaze fell on the two Baphomets, one after the other. Then he addressed Belhor. “May I see your ticket stubs?” Belhor produced three ticket stubs. The manager examined them, then examined them again, as if something were not quite right. “I am going to have to ask you not to speak during the performance,” said the manager. “You have been disturbing other patrons.”

“Certainly,” said Belhor. “With all apologies. We were … stimulated by the performance.”

“I have not seen you here before,” said the manager. “Is this your first time?”

“I have not seen
you
before either,” said Belhor. “How long have you been the manager of this theater?”

“If you were regular patrons,” said the manager with a slight smirk on his face, “you would know the answer to that question.” The manager looked again at Baphomet S. and could not hide his disdain. “May I ask your name?” he said to the beast.

“May I ask
your
name, my dear fellow?” said Baphomet L. “You seem to be doing very well for yourself.”

“Very well indeed,” said Baphomet S., gawking at the glass furniture.

“You do not have appropriate dress,” the manager said. “Our ushers should not have let you into the theater.” The smaller Baphomet began crying fake tears. “This is one of the most prestigious venues in the city,” continued the manager. “Our patrons expect
refinement
. They deserve refinement. Royalty comes to our theater. Important guests come to our theater. Are you having fun with us?” At this point, Baphomet L. began hugging Baphomet S., pretending to comfort the beast. “Your friends should have more respect,” the manager said to Belhor.

“You are insulting us,” said Baphomet the Larger. “I do not like to be insulted.”

“No, we do not like that one bit,” sniffled Baphomet S.

The manager smiled. “You pretend to be something you are not,” he said. “And then you mock what you cannot have.”

“My gosh, you are right,” Baphomet L. said, grinning, and he did a magnificent backflip. “You have found us out.”

“I want all three of you out of my theater,” said the manager. “Now. And don’t leave through the main door. Mr. Thadr will show you out a back way.”

“You have treated my friends discourteously,” said Belhor. “I am not pleased with how you have treated them.”

The manager laughed. “Take them out to the street,” he said to Mr. Thadr. “And bring back an air freshener.”

Suddenly, a woman flew into the manager’s office, breathing heavily and appearing frightened. “I am … so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Lzehr. I don’t know … I don’t know what happened. I had the money in the cash box, and it just … disappeared. It was there, and then it wasn’t there. All the money from the night’s ticket sales. It was there … and then it … was gone. I … don’t know what happened.”

“What a shame,” said Baphomet L. “You have our sincere condolences.”

“Our very most sincere condolences,” said Baphomet S.

“We will take our leave now,” said Belhor. “Please, Mr. Thadr.”

In the confusion that followed, with ushers and cashiers rushing about, the manager barely heard the frantic message that a water pipe had just burst and the lobby was flooded.