Daphne climbs the stairs at police headquarters, the condemned on her way to the execution chamber. The last straw, she thinks. She sensed it from the moment her neighbor of the Indian prayer-hands gave her the convocation letter: they were going to put her on trial and send her to prison. The fat harpy behind the front desk not very cordially points to a couple of broken-down seats in a tiny, windowless waiting area. In her eyes Daphne’s a convicted criminal. The other cops passing by assess her in the same way; they all know who she is and what she’s done. They’re going to make her pay.
After a considerable wait, a fellow with a feathery halo of white hair tells her to come with him. She sits in front of his desk, her heart thumping wildly, while he seraphically flips through his files. We’ve located your missing property, he says, with a smile like a sad clown. She looks at the photo in his hand, hardly able to believe her eyes. It’s a motorcycle, her twin-cylinder, and it seems to be in fine shape. So it’s not about the files she hacked from the Vatican website? Something’s exploding inside her chest, and without intending to she lunges forward to embrace the little old cop who looks like a good angel. He dodges ably to one side, his reflexes those of an excellent goalie. You’re very lucky; we recover only about one in ten, he says, more uncle than cop. You can pick it up now down at the city car pound; oh, and my colleagues are on their way over there and they’ll give you a lift, he adds. I don’t have my helmet, she says, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Well then, we’ll drive you home to get it, he replies, a pale cherub’s finger pointing to her address on the file.
I am merciful. I did not vent my fury as an angry god would do; I didn’t have those two bad-girl sodomites run over by a drunk driver, or install a couple of those evil carcinomas that manifest themselves only when it’s far too late to operate. I even took care of the rental contract for the bucolic cottage; they’ve already signed it, happy as clams. They’ll live in depravity, wallowing in three–threes every night; it’s useless to try to stop them when things have already gone this far. Let them conjure up ten test-tube babies, or clone themselves, whatever they like, it’s neither hot nor cold to me. They’ll pay for it when the time comes, as they all must.*
* I might well opt for judgment by sin categories, like the plan outlined by Mr. Dante Alighieri, rather than take up an infinite number of individual cases one by one. I mean, who says I have to?
The lab director had called asking to see her, but Daphne had decided not to go. But now, as she recovers her bike and mounts it, she sees it’s just the time the appointment was scheduled, and thinks maybe she’ll show up after all. Now that she’s got her bike back she’d like to; in fact she feels she must. Who knows what bunkum the dapper dickhead will have to offer, what outrageous crap he’ll come up with to launder his Catholic conscience, but if he wants to see her, she’s not backing out. That way she can say goodbye with dignity to the place that meant so much to her for a large part of her life.
But when she arrives at the Institute she feels a great pincer grab her by the throat. Nostalgia for the test tubes, the smell of ammonia and sulfuric acid, the howl of the centrifuge and the burble of the coffee machine in the hallway. Even for that lamebrain with the purple acne. No need for regrets though, her future now promises pesticide-free carrots and beans—much healthier, she thinks. She turns around to go: no, she’s not strong enough to face this trial. Then she thinks (well, she hears a voice telling her) that she must be strong. She swings around again and begins to climb the stairs.
The director invites her to sit in his perfectly intact office, rubbing his hands together as if warm water were running over them. He’s like a man who’s just emerging from a long hot shower, even more pleased with himself than usual. Here comes a hurricane of total bullshit, she thinks: and yes, he immediately begins emitting the usual snippets of phrases that run together senselessly like a mad dictionary. In the end he manages to complete a few of his sentences, telling her that the regional government has come up with some unexpected funding, and that in an enormous stroke of good luck, their lab was chosen. And there’s nobody who could take charge of this project better than she. She looks at him, as always thinking she doesn’t get it. This time she does get it, though; she just can’t bring herself to believe it. Believe it, a sumptuous, deeply trustworthy baritone repeats in her ear. This is step one, quite soon they’ll give you a permanent contract. The lab director speaks up again. This a temporary solution, of course. Afterward we’ll hire you full-time with tenure, he says, waving his mole’s hand around by his ear. She hates to cry in front of the big dickhead, but she starts to cry. Now he too is moved, his eyes fill for an instant. He seems to have forgotten that he was the one who cheated her out of a job.
Now you might think it was I who took care of this matter, too, but no, I didn’t lift a finger. The dying bishop did it. Somehow he figured out why she was there, and summoning his strength for the last time, he put through a call to a certain senator, who then called the director of the Institute (a man appointed by the senator’s own political party), and by 9 p.m. that evening, all was settled. The powerful senator and fierce opponent of gay marriage sent word to the pedophile bishop that the beanpole would be given a permanent job in a few months, because one had opened up. The bishop could no longer speak, he already had more than a foot in the tomb, but he shook his head ever so slightly. Then he shook it again to request extreme unction.
Unfortunately something very sad has happened, the director tells her as he walks her to the stairs, beating both arms in the air as if chasing away Mendelian fruit flies. The candidate to whom we offered the job was knocked down by a truck at a zebra crossing, he goes on, marshaling the usual stumps of phrases, limbs lopped off by an overzealous gardener. The doctors couldn’t say whether she would come out of the coma (yes, she will) and whether, if she did, there would be any brain injury (impossible to rule out some aftereffects), in any case she wouldn’t be returning to the job. Dreadful bad luck, the truck was actually going extremely slowly, he says, getting slightly teary again thinking how easily it could have happened to him, who’s always so distracted. God disposes, in his infinite wisdom, he sighs. I can only confirm that.
Ms. Einstein is sorry that the stupid showgirl’s in a coma, but she’s practically flying as she leaves the Institute. The force of gravity has diminished and her lungs seem full of nitrous oxide, that funny gas that pulls her lips to the sides of her mouth, making her smile. The threadbare estate which houses the institute looks beautiful today, and the blackbirds are winking at her. She’ll return to work tomorrow, she thinks. Then she reconsiders. Next Monday morning will do fine. Now that she knows she’ll have some kind of salary, even if modest, she can look for a studio apartment (she’ll find one, trust me). She certainly means to live with Aphra (man of my life, she thinks), but right now she’d prefer to have a base in the city so that she doesn’t have to commute to and from work every day, among other things. She mounts her bike and as she rides home she’s floating on air, an archangel on the ceiling of some damn church.