The Most Beautiful Gift (2 page)

“But a snowflake is beautiful even to the naked eye,” insisted the boy, disappointed for a second time.

“Science sees very badly with the naked eye,” responded the doctor, tapping his finger against his eyeglasses in order to
emphasize the truth of what he was saying.

Mark resisted the temptation to cover his ears with the palms of his hands. In the name of science, the doctor wanted to destroy
the most perfect creation he had ever seen.

“Nature,” suggested the little voice, “is something beautiful that we must do our best to protect, or else we will lose it
forever.”

“I would definitely use an electronic microscope,” continued Dr. Lands. The boy didn’t want to stay to hear any more. He didn’t
have the strength. He went away discouraged,
with his head lowered. From the wall, the skeleton seemed to be sneering maliciously at him, almost as if he were making
fun of Mark’s sadness.

L
ouis Lords lived in a small house not far from Spring Valley’s main street. For a couple of years, he had taught philosophy
in a college in a nearby city. He then got tired of it and retreated to a private life, together with his half a dozen cats.

When Mark knocked on the door of Mr. Lords’s house, he felt a shiver go up his spine. According to his mother, Mr. Lords was
a strange man and it was better to stay away from him. But maybe, precisely for this reason, he
would be the right person to receive the gift of the snowflake.

The door opened and on the threshold appeared a lanky, longhaired man with an earring and a checkered shirt covered with stains.
The boy was tempted to run away as fast as his feet would carry him. “Be brave. Have courage!” he told himself, then repeated
to Mr. Lords the same story about the school assignment. When he had finished his explanation, Mr. Lords indicated to the
boy with a slight nod of his head that he should come inside.

The house consisted of one enormous room, which functioned as living room, kitchen, and bedroom. Cats were everywhere: lying
on the sofa, on top of the refrigerator, even in the sink. Mr. Lords sat down on an old couch the color of green mold and
Mark did the same.

“A snowflake,” said the man with deliberate slowness. Behind him was a bookshelf overflowing with books. The titles were nearly
incomprehensible:
The Critique of Pure Reason, Either/Or, Anti Oedipus
. Only a philosopher
would have understood them. Perhaps Mark had really found the right guy.

“It’s a strange assignment,” Mr. Lords continued, lighting a cigarette with an odd aromatic and penetrating odor.

“It’s my teacher’s fault,” replied the child.

“Right.” Louis inhaled deeply a couple of times and caressed an ash-colored cat who had curled up in his lap. “Teachers have
no idea what to do anymore.” He let out a long sigh. “So, we were talking about a snowflake.”

“Exactly.” Mark pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The cat hair mixed with the smoke was making him want to
sneeze.

“Do you intend the snowflake to be the signifier or the signified?”

“I…” The boy didn’t know how to respond. Actually, to tell the truth, he didn’t understand a word of what Mr. Lords was saying.

“Essentially, it’s a hermeneutical problem,” continued the philosopher, unaware of his young guest’s state of confusion. “Perhaps
even eschatological: Where does snow originate and
where will it end?” With three long puffs, he finished the cigarette and tossed in onto the stone floor, stamping it out
with the heel of his shoe. The area around it was covered with butts.

“From the sky. It comes down from the sky and falls on the earth,” Mark answered. All those big words were bothering him.

Louis Lords shook his head. He closed his eyes halfway, as if he was meditating, and brought a finger to his lips. “This is
only how it appears. In reality, everything has a primal birth and an ultimate end. If we consider snow…”

Mark’s head was beginning to spin. It may also have been due to the cat hair and the smoke. In any case, he realized that
with Louis Lords, he was going nowhere fast. He got up from the couch and tiptoed toward the door while the man continued
his ravings. “If the Greek word
éscate
means the end—or rather, the fall—I wonder which principle, seeing as this also concerns a kind of fall, would be applied
to ice crystals. Now taking into careful consideration…”

Mark slipped away, closing the door behind
him. Outside, Mr. Lords’s words continued to echo. “Utter nonsense,” the little voice pointed out to Mark. “In the time it
would take this hack philosopher to make a decision, your snowflake would be good and melted.” Mark nodded and glanced at
his watch. Half past five. His parents would be home soon from the office. And he hadn’t solved a thing.

O
n his way home, Mark met up with other people. He asked all of them the same question, with the same result: zilch. According
to Jenny, a classmate of his who was always impeccably dressed, “The snowflake would be very happy in my dollhouse.” Harry,
a playmate who adored the Power Rangers cartoon characters, told him that he would transform the snowflake into a mutant robot.
How exactly, he didn’t know, but he would find a way. The owner of Spring Valley’s newsstand, Mr. Peabody, even suggested
selling the snowflake as part of the Sunday paper supplement.

When he opened the door to his house, Mark wasn’t able to hide his bad mood. He kicked the doormat while impatiently unbuttoning
his coat: “Is it possible that no one can give me the right answer? Everyone only thinks about selling the snowflake, or studying
it, as if it were a circus animal. How disgusting!” He shuffled to the kitchen, where Grampa Gus was having his usual snack.
It was kind of fascinating to watch the old man dunk his cookie into his glass of milk, pull it out, and then cram it in his
mouth. For some reason, that series of gestures soothed Mark, lightening his very black mood—at least somewhat.

“Grandson, you went out without telling me. You know very well that your parents would not be at all happy about that.” Grampa
Gus had a large wave of white hair that fell over his forehead and resembled sea foam on a stormy day. His eyes were sky blue
and the wrinkles around them only accentuated their brightness. His mouth was always relaxed in a calm and reassuring
smile. It was impossible not to love him. He was the sweetest person on earth. He had come to live with them after his wife
died, several years ago. He didn’t seem to suffer from her death anymore. “After all, life is also made up of departures,”
he loved to repeat.

“Sorry, Grampa. I went out for a walk,” Mark replied. “I was hoping it would snow. The day after tomorrow is Christmas, and
a Christmas with snow is much more beautiful.”

“Well,” responded Grampa, nibbling contentedly on a cookie, “at least there was a flurry.” He pointed to the street in front
of the house; it was just barely dusted white. “You do know, of course, who makes the snow fall?”

Mark took a minute to answer. He was afraid of having to listen again to Louis Lords’s weird theories. But this was his grandfather,
not some fly-by-night philosopher. So he gathered his courage, stared at the old man, and said in a thin voice, “No, I don’t
know.”

“It’s a long story,” said Grampa Gus. “Do you have the time and the desire to hear it?”

The boy shot a glance at the refrigerator. The
snowflake would have to stay in there until the next day, or at least until he had found someone to give it to. By now, it
was too late to continue his search. He nodded and Grampa smiled.

W
ell, once upon a time… a long, long time ago,” Grampa Gus began, “the good Lord decided to organize a competition in paradise.
By now, He had already created almost everything: the mountains and the valleys, the oceans and the seas, daytime and nighttime,
the moon and the stars, the four seasons, animals in the most bizarre shapes, and even humankind. He was, however, convinced
that something was missing. So, one beautiful day he gathered the angels around Him and said, ‘Each one of you is
to think of an idea. A stupendous idea, mind you. The most competent inventor will be awarded with a halo brighter than everyone
else’s. You have two earth days’ time.’

“Now, it’s not that angels are particularly vain, but you must know that they are very attached to their halos: They polish
them every day with cloud puffs so that they will shine as brightly as the midday sun. God’s challenge was accepted with extreme
enthusiasm and the celestial beings went straight to work. For two days, paradise echoed with their loud exclamations, their
shouts of joy, and their expressions of defeat.

“When the two earth days had passed, the entire array of angels came before God. They were all in a line, one behind the other,
with their wings beating nervously and their halos whirling continuously around their heads, like records on turntables.

“‘The first may come forward,’ said God, with His powerful voice.

“‘Here I am, Lord,’ replied the angel, bowing. ‘I thought of this: Why don’t we have many little
flames rain down from the sky regularly so that humankind can keep warm or cook food?’

“The Lord thought about the idea for a moment before a vexed expression shrouded His face. ‘Yes, it would be a way for the
creatures to warm themselves, but entire forests and buildings would be given over to flames. It doesn’t strike me as a great
idea, Lucifer. The next may came forward.’ And with a wave of His hand, He dismissed him. He did not like Lucifer very much;
sometimes he got the strangest ideas in his head. He would have to check up on him more often, before he got into trouble.

“‘My Lord,’ began the second angel, ‘I thought that trees could be created, providing humankind with all their daily needs—from
bread, to meat, to clothes with which to cover themselves.’

“God shook His head. ‘Such a thing would mean that human beings would no longer have to work in order to obtain what they
desired, and they would dedicate themselves to a life of idleness. No, this lovely thought is also a reject.’

“The third angel approached, frightened and
trembling. ‘Lord of creation, my idea is to light up the night sky with Your resplendent image so that everyone will acknowledge
Your presence in the heavens.’

“God thought a few seconds, then lowered His head in disappointment. ‘No, we’ll do nothing of the kind. If daytime is fit
for work and the thousands of human activities, nighttime is made for sleeping. Furthermore, if I revealed myself so plainly,
mankind would be sure of my presence and the concept of faith would no longer exist.’

“Gabriel, the fourth angel, came forward boldly. ‘I would create a gigantic typhoon, an enormous blast of air that would clear
off the earth every thousand years. By the end of this time period, a civilization has already given all that it has to give,
and risks deterioration.’

“God had to shake His head for the umpteenth time. ‘In this way, we would take from human beings their power of choice. And
furthermore, Gabriel, why do you want to destroy my most successful creation every thousand years? For humans, I know that
is a long
period of time, but for us it hardly constitutes a bat of the eye. No, this solution doesn’t convince me, either.’

“Raphael slowly came forward. ‘I was thinking of a new animal….’

“God stared at him. ‘Of which one? It seems to me I have already created far too many. Yours would have to be a truly great
invention.’

“‘My animal would be called a “bumasaur.”‘

“‘Already I don’t like the name,’ the Lord declared. ‘But let’s continue. What would he do, your buma—’

“‘Bumasaur.’

“‘Yes, in brief, this animal you’re talking about.’

“‘Ah, he would do absolutely nothing. And he wouldn’t be useful for anything.’

“‘What?’ cried God, His patience visibly tried.

“Raphael took a step backward, frightened by God’s anger. ‘All the animals You have created have some use—for example, the
sheep is useful for its wool, the ox for its quality meats, the cow for its milk, the chicken for its eggs,
and so on. The bumasaur, on the other hand, wouldn’t be useful for absolutely anything: His fleece would be too bristly to
be made into cloth, his meat would be inedible, and his character contrary and disobedient. He would do nothing other than
take naps and complain the whole day long.’

“‘And of what possible use would such an animal be?’ the Lord inquired.

“‘Absolutely none, as I have said. Humankind would be shown that not everything—or all animals, in this case—has to have a
precise purpose.’

“God banged His hands hard against His knees and thunder echoed throughout the heavens. ‘Enough! I have listened long enough
to your great discoveries!’ He snorted derisively. ‘If the rest of you have come up with similar ideas, you would be better
off keeping them from me.’

“In a split second, almost all the angels moved away, declaring a thousand excuses: Clouds had to be fluffed; halos had to
be shined; manna had to be collected…. After a few minutes, only one very tiny angel remained. He was
wearing a slightly crooked halo, a patched tunic, and a shy expression. His name was Camolino. He was one of the younger
angels, and his wings were still short and he had a child’s spirit. Often, God had surprised him while he was chasing clouds,
or riding piggyback on lightning bolts, or wandering aimlessly about down on earth, his big eyes widened by the marvels of
creation.

“‘So, Camolino,’ said the Lord. ‘I am ready to hear your idea.’

“The angel looked around him. Blushing deeply, he began to stutter: ‘W-w-w-well, I—I—I—’

“‘Come on, have a little courage,’ God prodded him. ‘Today I heard so much poppycock, a little more won’t make any difference.’

“Camolino filled his lungs with air, sniffed, and, all in one breath, began to speak. ‘Well, I was thinking about rain….’