WHEN GIOVANNI AND I met, I knew at once I would never belong to anyone else. It was as though he had put out the fire burning inside me all those years, and had given a final answer to all my questions about love, sex, fidelity, and one-night stands.
In my descent into hell, I had discovered a small corner of paradise. My very own God was a tall, mature man with dark hair going grey at the sides, a face the shape of a ripe pear, piercing green eyes, and strong hands with uneven fingernails. It wasn’t that he bit them, but he chewed the cuticles around them. He had a couple of hairs protruding from his prominent nose. God even had a slight paunch, which delighted me. It gave him a vulnerable look, especially when I laid my head on it and started gently stroking him. I loved to poke my finger into his navel, even though he hated it. In the morning, God smelled of the breeze and of sliced almonds, of dew on roses, freshly chopped wood, of straw in a barn, of green grass after a storm. In the afternoon, his smell was of a newly published book, and wholemilk yoghurt, of a lion roaring at dusk. And of a soft, juicy peach without that dry taste on your teeth when you bite into one. God had a rebellious hair above his right eyebrow, which I always said hello to. Then one day it disappeared, and we both searched desperately for it in among the sheets. But the rebel hair had gone for ever. A month later, another one appeared. That was when I became convinced of immortality. God was constantly surprising me!
God had strange teeth. They were dazzlingly white, but crossed over each other. Whenever he laughed he looked like a little boy, still with his milk teeth. God never fought with me. When I got angry, he would stare at me with his huge, intense eyes, and give me little kisses on my forehead to help calm me down. God had the instinct mothers have when a baby cries. If I was frightened, he would take me in his arms and rock me in my invisible cradle.
God’s mouth was thin, and a pastel-pink colour. It drove me wild when it said that he thought of me every split second of the day. God taught me to give the most beautiful present: kisses. He devoured my mouth. I was not so good at it, but he only rarely told me so.
God also spent whole nights crying, his head under the pillow and with Dvořák’s New World Symphony playing on his stereo, when he knew I was with someone else. That was when I discovered for the first time that a man’s tears are the very best gift a woman in love can receive.
God had one small defect: he could not pronounce the letter ‘c’. I tried to teach him, but we could spend night after night spitting without getting it right. God was really funny! But what I most loved about him was when he gave me his blessing. God was generous, and blessed me whenever I begged him to.