really
God?
God Himself?â
âEver since I can remember.â
âThis is hard to take. You can understand that, right? Do You have any brandy, God, Sir?â
The Almighty strolled to His mahogany bookshelves and took down two sparkling cognac glasses and a crystalline decanter containing a honey-colored liquid. âI want you to come clean about something. A confession, if you will. Given that youâre a practicing Catholic, perhaps I should summon a priest . . .â
âDepends on the sin,â Michael mumbled, glumly pondering the possibility that he had lost his mind. âIf itâs venialââ
âYou hate Daniel Nimrod, donât you?â God asked abruptly as He filled both glasses with brandy.
Michael gasped so profoundly his clogged ears popped. âItâs not a bad situation, this life of mine. Really. Yes. Iâve got my own apartment on Lexington with a dishwasher and a rear-screen TV.â
âHe makes you call him âsir.ââ
âHe doesnât
make
me.â
âHe sounds pompous.â
Michael sipped cognac. âAnybody whoâs achieved as much as Mr. Nimrodâa person like that has a right to be keen on himself, donât You think?â
âYouâre envious. Your insides are bright green, I can see them. Heâs got his yacht and his concubines and his name in
Fortune
every month, and what have you got, Prete? You canât even get a
date.
Never mind. Weâll change the subject. What can you tell me about Nimrod Gorge?â
Michael knotted up; he sweated as if caught in the ersatz summer God had recently imposed on Manhattan. âIâm not free to discuss that particular project.â
âAnd Nimrod Mountainâanother secret? Your boss fancies seeing his name on things, doesnât he? Heâs a man who likes to leave his mark.â God sat down on His revolving piano stool and began pecking out âChopsticksâ with His index fingers. âI want to meet with him. Face to face. Here.â
âHeâll be back from Japan in two weeks.â Iâve gone insane, Michael decided, retrieving a cowhide-bound appointments book from his valise. Only certifiable schizophrenics showed meetings with God on their calendars. âHow does Saint Patrickâs Day sound?â he asked, scanning March. âWe can squeeze You in at ten.â
âFine.â
In the March 17 square Michael wrote,
10 A.M.
â
God.
âMay I inquire as to the topic?â
âLet me just say that if your boss doesnât learn a bit of humility, a major and unprecedented disaster will befall him.â
To Michael Prete, âChopsticksâ had never sounded so sinister.
Â
God knows why Michael experienced no trouble convincing his boss that he had an appointment with Me.
He experienced no trouble because being contacted by Yours Truly is a possibility that a man of Daniel Nimrodâs station never rules out entirely. Indeed, the first thing Michaelâs boss wanted to know was why
God
was calling the shotsâwhy couldnât they meet at Sardiâs instead? Whereupon Michael attempted to explain how the skyscraper was intrinsically suitable to such a rendezvous: God might own the earth, the firmament, and the immediate cosmos, but Nimrod and Nimrod alone owned the Tower.
Never underestimate the power of words. When I appointed Adam chief biologist in Edenâwhen I allowed him to call the tiger âtiger,â the cobra âcobra,â the scorpion âscorpionââI was giving him a kind of dominion over them. For the tiger, cobra, and scorpion, meanwhile, Adam and his kind remained utterly incomprehensible, that is to say, nameless.
Nimrod believed his secretaryâs words. The meeting would occur when and where I wished.
Â
Screw the Irish, thought Michael. Screw their crummy parade. Everywhere the chauffeur turned, a sawhorseshaped barrier
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