Apollo’s knocking at the door of the old fishmonger’s as expected, and improvident Daphne is now about to open it. She’s wearing a tunic down to her feet that shows off her nipples through the fabric, the side seam split nearly to the hip. This intangible veil is meant to disappear from circulation quickly, but even if it doesn’t it won’t get in anyone’s way. Vittorio, drenched with sweat, had been a little bit low, but seeing how she’s got herself up, he now feels better immediately. He can surmise—and I know for certain—that the bushy mound of her pubis is right beneath the gown. He tells her he was in the neighborhood by chance (at that time of day?) and thought he’d drop by and say hello. He doesn’t mention that the afternoon began with a flat tire, and he then had to walk the bike all the way over in the muggy, burning afternoon heat while he ruminated on the various woes afflicting him lately. Those inexplicable stomachaches that he just can’t get rid of, and sometimes the pain darts up his back and all the way down to his heels. It’s still preferable to being mutilated by a tractor trailer, but he doesn’t know about that or even suspect it. Gathering his courage, he advances, in high feline pelvic slouch, toward the amorphous sack filled with polystyrene chips that Daphne calls her sofa.
The beanpole, planted on legs not very powerful yet plumpish, regards him the way you do a handsome actor, with a certain deference that would like to be chaste but is helpless to defend against his charms. He senses her admiring gaze on his high Risorgimental brow and, eyes trained on the floor, seems to want to apologize and tell her there’s nothing he can do about it, this is the lot he’s been assigned. His white shirt is now open to the sternum, framing his wide, flat chest like a stage curtain. On his feet, beach flip-flops point to the precariousness of the light clothing he’s wearing, insubstantial as leaves that might flutter away at the first hint of autumn breezes.
The lights are low in the former fishmonger’s, and a large, stubborn candle sends out sensuous smells and tremulous glimmers, never mind its ecclesiastical provenance. There’s a comfortable tatami mat on the floor that if need be will deftly support two twined bodies, and near it—by chance?—a packet of tissues. Every little detail has its place: the blind cat cuts across the room with the lightest of footsteps. When the gong sounds, she’ll disappear, she promises.
The shameless girl lights a stick of incense that smells of tawdry sandalwood and oriental spices. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s the fumes of burning Boswellia sacra resin. As she passes by, she taps the lamp clipped to the edge of the fish basin to dim the room’s lighting even further. Now, not letting herself be seen, she rolls her far-apart camel’s eyes about. In that neoclassical tunic she might be a high priestess checking that all is ready before she begins the ceremony. The victims chosen for the pyre are standing by the altar, the temple smells of balsam, spirals of smoke rise from the torches toward the sky, where the pagan gods are meant to reside.
The sly fox takes out the book he brought on the connections between climatic catastrophe and social revolution. (But didn’t he just stop in by chance?) He thinks he might grab her and pull her close with his good arm, seeing that she’s kneeling by his side, pleased that he’s brought her a present, blushing a little, pressing her long thigh against his knee. But her sparkling smile seems to say she’d prefer to follow the normal path prescribed in the amorous liturgy, no shortcuts, so he hands her his offering, an oblation to placate Aphrodite. She nods and presses the bible of revolutions sparked by climate change against her very small breasts, as if the book were a gift from the Magi. Thank you, she murmurs, her throat already swollen with desire. He narrows his eyes lazily, the way a cat does when scratched on the side of the neck.
At this point he’s just about to lay his unsplinted arm on her shoulder; a silent countdown is underway. Minus three, minus two, minus one—but then, one millionth of a second before zero, she leaps to her feet, arching forward as elegantly as a dolphin leaving the water. Would he like a glass of rum? Classic, I think: she’ll give him a strong drink—not strictly necessary—and that will be the dynamite to bring down the last bastion of a city that in fact has already surrendered. Apollo accepts gladly, and, fluffing up his Giuseppe-Verdian locks with his good hand, rattles the two ice cubes in his rum to make the glass ring solemnly.
His swollen lower lip brushing the edge of the glass, he asks casually if she has anything to do that evening. She’s wearing an equally neutral face, to suggest that the idea of spending the evening together (to employ that figure of speech) is something that just came to her. But now she clears her throat and says very firmly that she’s waiting for her aunt and they have to discuss something that’s a bit of a nuisance. And unfortunately she’ll be here any minute, she says, looking at the time on her phone. He’s stunned, and wonders if he heard her right. To tell the truth, I’m not sure I understood her either.
The purple-pigtailed priestess is now standing in silence, the way you do when you’re waiting for someone to make up his/her mind to leave. She compresses those wide horizontal lips of hers, and begins to paw the floor like a hungry mare. So he gulps his rum and starts for the door, head down, a boxer with an out-of-commission arm who has taken a hail of blows. That confident smile of his is now just a vague memory. He really can’t make out where he went wrong; everything was flowing as smooth as oil from a jug and then suddenly he’d been expelled from the game. She squeezes his good arm affably, the way you send off the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and shuts the door smartly behind him.
My legs seem about to buckle under me, although a god doesn’t have legs and if he did, they would be very sturdy. What’s happening to me? I don’t know, only that nothing like this has ever happened before, which is why I’m so confused. It’s as if I’ve had a brief spell, one in which you lose consciousness for a few seconds.
At the same time I’m relieved, and can once again breathe normally (figure of speech). So relieved I’m close to tears (same). Daphne had not been preparing some demonic orgy, as I’d feared; she hadn’t dressed to facilitate coitus, the mat on the floor meant nothing. Or maybe it did, but then she hesitated, and her best side came forward and she resisted (in extremis, it is true) the terrible temptation. Sure, she’s a bit of a libertine, even for these pornographic times, but apart from a few episodes of undeniable intemperance, she’s not a loose woman, she never has been. One day, maybe not too long from now, she’ll even rethink her views about Me.
I ask myself, how did I get the picture so ass-backwards (ridiculous expression); what prevented me from seeing how things were going to turn out? What’s become of my proverbial foresight? Of course, anything can happen, but a god cannot allow himself to be so badly led astray by appearances. For a god, present and future are one and the same, they’re just two pages in the book before him. With hindsight it’s obvious my mind was clouded; sometimes one has to be frank about these things. But hey, let’s not focus on the negative. What matters is that it all ended well.