I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve come to a decision. This has to stop. Without of course all the drama and tear-jerking that a human being would indulge in if (s)he were in my place. This is a titanic struggle; in some ways I’m like a volcano ready to erupt—but there must be no thunder and lightning, no earthquakes and whirlwinds to blow off steam, no massacres of innocents. A god shows his mettle even in the most difficult circumstances, indeed above all in the most difficult circumstances. I am God, as I say.
To cancel the lanky one from my thoughts and be just God, period, seems to me the most merciless sentence imaginable, the cruelest. A fate worse than that recent asteroid in free fall, worse than a helpless guppy about to be devoured by a bigger fish, gobbled up in turn by a bigger. But I have a plan. I’m smitten, I couldn’t be more smitten, but I’ve decided, and when a god decides, we’re done.
I’ve decided I’ll help her, then return to being Me. It’s not my place to play the algorithm for an online dating site, but I’m going to find her a boyfriend. Indeed, I’ll show my divine magnanimity by finding her a guy who’s close to perfect: attentive, accommodating, easygoing, simpatico. A guy who’s not obsessed with sex, who doesn’t think of that and only that, unlike the climatologist. A lad who feels the desire to couple from time to time, like a normal human being, and is even capable of respecting that commandment about thy neighbor’s wife.
They’ll meet by chance and discover they’re made for each other. Ka-pow! Love at first sight. It will be the just conclusion of this business, the only outcome that’s suited to my status. But first I have to take care of all the side issues. One thing at a time. There’s no big hurry for this boyfriend, right?
The hunky Vittorio has already been dispatched to the land of kangaroos and descendants of British pickpockets. I arranged for his eye to fall on an ad for a job at an Australian university; they were looking for a research professor with just his profile. On a lark—the salary was unbelievable—he sent off an application, never dropping his usual ironic nonchalance. The reply came right back: he was just the person they were looking for. Due to unforeseen circumstances a certain project had been seriously delayed and so they were in a hurry.
After he’d read over the compensation clause of the contract five or six times, not a whiff of his dopaminic ardor for Daphne persisted. The fickleness of men never fails to amaze me. He didn’t even go over to wish her farewell in person, the miserable cad; he just sent a shower of faux-comical text messages. I was tempted to mete out some small, suitable punishment, but instead I helped him with his preparations, and I even put his elbow right—in two days it was working like new—to facilitate his departure. And thus he and his irresistible smile did really take off, and on the airplane he made friends with a Tyrolean damsel wearing a push-up bra and a Pentecost-purple headset. Sorry, but from now on, this diary will feature one character less, and you’ll have to make do with the ones who are left.