X Interview with the Little Prince's Fox Who would have thought that while wandering through the Americas, I’d run into the fox from *The Little Prince*! It was at a charity restaurant—like some of the McDonald’s in New York—where I thought one of the employees looked just like my favorite character from my youth. “You mean she’s the fox from the story?” —I asked a Puerto Rican employee, who, in his eagerness to dance salsa, threw the remains of my hamburger onto my pants. “The very same! Since they’re short-staffed, they’ll hire anyone, because hardly anyone fills out job applications for these restaurants anymore.” “You mean she’s the same one—that she’s the fox from the story?” He nodded and threw the leftover mayonnaise at the part of my pants that was still clean. “Would you be so kind as to ask her if she’d mind if I interviewed her?” “It’ll cost you 100 bucks, and if you’re from *Le Figaro*, 150—she’s really pissed off at the French.” “Tell her I’m a Spanish writer, one of the ones who came after Franco—don’t let her think that I…! “Oh, well, you should’ve said so sooner! Aren’t you the one who wrote that novel about New York where she appears?” “Yes, yes; that’s me!” —Then you’ll do it for free. Listen, you made her look good; the poor thing is more than fed up with going through hardships while people say nothing but the usual things about her: that she’s been tamed, this, that, and the other! Yours was an original point of view! —So, will you ask her? —There she is, ask her yourself! I never would have imagined seeing one of my favorite characters from my youth in such a pitiful state. As they say, her mascara was smudged, her lipstick smeared far beyond her worn-out lips, her hair was dull, and she looked disheveled— and to top it all off, she was sucking on that typical cigarette butt you see in all the Rita Hayworth movies and the like. —Allow me to introduce myself; I’m Jaime Despree, the most talkative reporter.... —Ha, and I’m Greta Garbo! “Come on, sweetheart, don’t give me that—a girl doesn’t come to the United States for nothing!” “Well, maybe I’m not that chatty, but I’ve been told that you’re…” “Yes, I am—so what? Hey, now that you mention it, aren’t you that Despree from the novel?” “ The very one! —Look, I didn’t think much of you because of your last name, but when I read your novel, well, it brought back some good memories… And what do you want from me, if I may ask? —Everything! —Let’s take it one step at a time, sweetheart, and spit it out quickly—we don’t get paid to chat with customers here. Since I’m not exactly a brilliant reporter, the first, second, and even the twenty-fifth questions were the usual ones in these situations: —What’s a slut like you doing in a place like this? —Oh, honey, I can see you don’t know the first thing about it! Do you think you can live on past glory? They told me that with my fame, I’d land the lead role in some Spielberg movie, but, boy, it took me a few years to cross the pond, and when I got there, they didn’t even remember me. What a humiliation! They told me, “We can offer you a tiny supporting role so your trip won’t be for nothing, but ever since the Reagan era, sluts like you aren’t in style anymore.” So I ended up in a role where I didn’t even speak—I just rummaged through a trash can in a Disney movie, where the lead was the dumbest dog I’ve ever seen! —Wow, what a disaster…! Well, let’s talk about *The Little Prince*. Did you fall in love at first sight? —Man, what a question! Of course! How could you not feel the tenderness in that child’s gaze, the innocence of his world of hysterical roses and dangerous volcanoes? Could you really mistake him for a crude, insensitive hunter? —And sexually… ? —Listen, let’s set the record straight: don’t write a single word about my sexuality—for sluts, that’s a taboo subject! —I’m sorry, it won’t happen again! But you were being unrealistic. With all your life experience, you must have realized by now that it was an impossible love… —What do you know about such things! If you were a slut, always living from one shock to the next, looked down upon and held in even lower regard, and then a Little Prince came down from the sky and told you that you were beautiful and worthy of his trust… Listen, that really hits home! —So, that’s why you let yourself be tamed, and now… at a McDonald’s! She didn’t answer. At first I thought I saw a fleeting tear roll down her vixen’s cheek; then she wiped it away with the back of her threadbare sweater, and her mascara smeared all the way up to her ears. Then she looked at me with a certain tenderness, as if I’d touched the very depths of her tamed vixen’s heart; and then, fully recovered, impertinent and haughty once more, she stood up, spat out her cigarette butt, and said to me: “The interview’s over, sweetheart. A girl’s got to keep on living, and there’s no time for sentimentality. You’ve brought back some good memories for me, but I live in America, and here we don’t live on memories but on Who would’ve thought that in my journalistic wanderings through the Americas I’d run into the vixen from the story ‘The Little Prince’—but that’s exactly what happened! One of those days when I was searching for the Sunday supplement of the New York Times in the trash cans of lower Manhattan to write my “survival” article for that month, I found myself in the painful necessity of replenishing my depleted strength at one of those covert soup kitchens that are New York McDonald’s. There, among actual homeless people and obvious working-class folks, plus the occasional Spanish tourist—since McDonald’s in our country have an aristocratic air, unlike the ones here—I found it suspicious that one of the waitresses was using a “hiy ab” without being a member of the Islamic community. I did some digging and consulted a very sharp-tongued Puerto Rican who charged me in dollars. Be grateful that the interview was free and don’t take advantage of it. And if you happen to pass through France, tell them I’m deeply hurt, but partly grateful, because deep down I still feel very French. But the fact that they do so much business with me and don’t give me a single euro—I simply can’t forgive them for that! Au revoir, mon ami! X   Every cloud has a silver lining This is a true story, though somewhat hard to believe. I heard about it because it’s been the talk of my neighborhood. Perhaps the gossips are exaggerating a bit, so I take no responsibility for any harm this might cause to a young woman of marriageable age who isn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of her marriage . It is the story of Christine Schneider, a young sales clerk at a Schelecker franchise in the Alt Leitzow neighborhood—which was once a small, charming village and is now part of Willmersdorf. The young woman was short, friendly, and nearsighted, but with contact lenses, she was quite attractive. Unfortunately, her fisheye glasses slightly distorted her petite and gra face, and with this, an intelligent and imaginative reader should already have a rough idea of her appearance and character. Christine had a boyfriend who enjoyed an excellent job, as he was employed by the city as a sewer maintenance expert; but given his youth, for the time being he was responsible for what we might call “minor sewers,” but he had not yet earned the trust necessary to handle those running beneath the major avenues and other urban areas of special responsibility, such as the embassy district. Since a junior sewer worker’s salary wasn’t exactly enough to splurge on, and hers wasn’t much better—after taxes and social security were deducted—the the days and years passed without the couple deciding to take the plunge into marriage. But on the very day that Hans (the sewer worker fiancé) turned 38, he received the happy news of his promotion, and from then on he would be responsible for certain sewers near the Reichstag and the federal government. In a few more years, and if he earned enough merit, he might see his dream of moving about with ease beneath the country’s highest seat of government come true. So the wedding was set. Christine’s mother, a sensible and thrifty woman—one of those who had lived through the postwar years of hardship—suggested to her daughter that, since the distance between their home and the magistrate’s court was barely 50 meters, it wasn’t worth renting a car, and they could easily make the trip on foot. With the money saved, the good woman calculated that it would be enough for the wedding cake and a case of medium-quality champagne—but French, of course. “If the weather’s nice, dear, it’ll even be pleasant to take this little stroll.” “But Mom, the train on my dress will get all ruined!” “We’ll figure it out, girl—you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. You’ve clearly never lived through a war! Everything was agreed upon and set for Friday of the first week of May, exactly three days before Hans was set to inaugurate his new, more prestigious sewer route. The appointed day arrived, but Mother Nature wasn’t cooperating, and dawn broke on a cold, damp day that threatened rain. To make matters worse, it had poured the day before, and the streets were still flooded. Poor Christine complained to her mother in vain, arguing that her wedding dress was more important than the cake or the cheap French champagne, but her mother insisted: “But it’s only fifty meters, woman! What are umbrellas for?” There was nothing to be done, and the thrifty mother got her way. They ran into their first difficulties as soon as they got into the elevator, but that was nothing compared to what awaited them. The first serious setback came as they passed under a leafy linden tree in the garden, which, due to an untimely gust of wind, dumped all the water accumulated on its leaves onto the unfortunate bride, —and she didn’t even have an umbrella! They cautiously stepped out onto the street, and wouldn’t you know it, the boy from the fourth-floor apartment just had to be playing ball at that very moment, and poor Christine took a solid hit from the ball right on her behind, leaving a perfectly round mud stain on that very part of her dress. The girl nearly had a heart attack, but her mother, determined to have her way, remarked: “If you tuck the hem over, you won’t even see it!”—and they continued on their way. They crossed the street just as a van belonging to a painter —a well-known wallpaperer in the neighborhood—loaded with his usual tools. To avoid hitting the poor girl, who, naturally, was walking somewhat clumsily, he swerved sharply, and one of the paint cans flew through the air and landed right at the unfortunate girl’s feet, which burst open, and some of the paint—red!—decorated her pretty bridal shoes, as well as slightly staining the hem of her dress, but her mother insisted: “It looks like it’s part of the dress’s design! Don’t worry, dear; in half an hour you’ll be married and it won’t matter anymore!”—and they continued on their arduous journey. They hadn’t walked even ten meters along the sidewalk when the typical hooligan drove by in his yellow BMW convertible at full speed, “splashing through puddles,” and one of them—probably the biggest one—was right in front of the pair of unfortunate women as the hooligan sped right over it. The mother, who wasn’t stupid and had anticipated such a possibility, didn’t even get wet, because she was walking right on the opposite side of the street, and her daughter was completely shielding her. But poor Christine was simply a total mess. “I’m not getting married, Mom; I’m soaked right up to my headband, my dress is a total mess, and my shoes are stuck to the ground because of the paint! I’m not getting married, and I’m going straight back home!” “Don’t be so irresponsible, daughter! What will your Hans think? Do you really think there’s no shortage of suitors for a short, nearsighted girl as insignificant as you? Come on, keep going—it’s only thirty meters more. You’ll marry the sewer worker and be done with it! Soaked, upset, half-limping, whimpering, but also letting loose, the two women continued their painful journey toward the courthouse. They could already make out the dozen guests in the courthouse’s small gardens, and the groom among them, when the inevitable happened: looking the way she did, the poor girl was having serious trouble staying on her feet, and as she tried to cross the street, just a few meters from her future husband’s arms, she took a fateful misstep stepping off the sidewalk and literally fell on her butt into a huge muddy puddle! It had been less than two minutes since the local street sweeper had left his little pile of trash right there, intending to pick it up later, but that was no longer necessary, as it soaked into her beautiful dress, which definitely ceased to be white, taking on a slimy, indescribable hue. Ridiculously sitting in the puddle, missing a contact lens and with one of her red shoes nowhere to be found, poor Christine broke down in hysterical tears, kicking her legs and waving her arms in a frenzy. “ “Mom, Mom! I’m not getting married like this, and that’s that!” the girl shouted. The groom, who heard the screams, ran to her aid. He rescued her from further misfortune and, shaking out her dress with some disgust at the ice cream wrappers and bits of salami stuck to it, could only reproach her: “Aren’t you ashamed to show up looking like this on your wedding day!” Christine mustered her courage, regained her composure, held onto a streetlamp with one hand to keep her balance, and with the other delivered a resounding slap to her thoughtless fiancé. Then, with a martial air and her head held high—as befits someone who is completely in the right and has just made a major decision—she turned on her heel, intending to head back home. But such haughtiness, combined with the fact that she was missing a shoe and a contact lens, prevented her from seeing the Mercedes convertible that was at that very moment driving down the same street toward the courthouse, and before she knew it, the inevitable collision occurred . The scene unfolded as follows: The Mercedes was traveling at a slow speed, so the driver was able to brake in time. Christine stumbled into one of the doors, did a somersault in the air, and literally landed in the driver’s arms without the slightest scratch or bruise. Instinctively, the girl threw her arms around him, and he found himself with a bride in his arms, completely unexpected and unanticipated. At first, there was some confusion, but then , little by little, the scene began to sink in, and before long, the onlookers were in stitches. Christine and her young, handsome, and wealthy future husband—who, it must be said, were laughing the hardest of all—and they continued to laugh throughout their long and happy life together! As for Hans, the thoughtless groom, given his good job, he soon found a girlfriend—who, by the way, is a sewer enthusiast—with whom he explores the city’s most important sewers every weekend, while he, enthralled, explains the highlights of each drain or manhole to her, as well as other technical details of lesser importance. As I said, the story is hard to believe, but that’s how it was told to me! X   Hermann in Purgatory When I tell you where I am, you’ll surely think I’m crazy, or that I’ve smoked marijuana. Even worse, that I’ve taken some powerful hallucinogen, like LSD, or, perhaps, that I’ve accidentally eaten a poisonous mushroom that’s caused me to have strange visions. I haven’t done any of that, and it can’t even be said that I’m the type to hallucinate—quite the opposite, in fact: I’m realistic, level-headed, and rational. I consider myself practically an atheist and don’t let my emotions get the better of me. Nor can it be said that I have a vivid imagination, and I’m not at an age where my mind would play tricks on me like this. But, inexplicably, here I am, and I don’t even know how I managed to end up in this eerie place. I only remember that I was sitting comfortably in my armchair, reading a complicated book on metaphysics, since, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a rationalist and, therefore, fond of philosophy, savoring a steaming cup of coffee, when suddenly the lights in my apartment went out and I was left in complete darkness. I reacted with absolute calm. First, I waited a few moments, convinced it was just a temporary power outage. Then I put down the book, relaxed, and reflected on the complex arguments of what I’d just read. Since I couldn’t make much sense of it, I got up and, feeling my way, made my way to the kitchen, not without tripping over the coffee table in the living room. I knew I kept a small flashlight in a drawer, but I rummaged through the odds and ends inside without finding it. This frustrated me and even put me in a bad mood, which is unusual for me. I resigned myself to staying in the dark for the duration of the blackout, and—not without tripping over the coffee table again—I returned to my armchair. There I waited for the lights to come back on—but they didn’t! Barely a couple of minutes had passed when I had the alarming sensation that the armchair was fading away and I could no longer feel its surface. Moments later, millions of stars began to appear—at first faintly, but soon with extraordinary brilliance and intensity—forming galaxies and constellations. And there I was, floating in space, in the midst of pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of the stars, without the slightest idea of what had happened to me or why I found myself in that extraordinary place. I had the sensation of having lost my body, because I felt neither cold nor heat, only a strange sensation of neutrality and well-being. But, as I had begun to fear, it was evident that I hadn’t become a spirit, but that I remained apparently intact, just as I had been sitting in my armchair. I could walk as if I were walking on water, without feeling the ground beneath me; I could move, change positions, turn myself upside down or lie flat, because in reality I had no point of reference to determine my position. No matter where I looked, there was only an immense, dark expanse, filled with brilliant and spectacular galaxies, for from the strange place where I found myself, their masses and mists—in shades of blue, purple, and red, in spiral shapes and other more distorted and whimsical forms. If I had paid more attention in school when studying astronomy, I surely could have recognized some of these galaxies—especially the Milky Way—and might have been able to form at least a rough idea of where I was, but in my initial daze I failed to recognize any of them, so I was completely lost and disoriented. I didn’t feel dizzy, because I didn’t have the sensation that I might be plummeting toward any specific place. There was nothing solid around me—no planet, moon, or even meteorite onto which I might fall. It was like floating in water, but without feeling its wetness. I tried to draw some reasonable conclusion and immediately realized that I had simply fallen asleep and was in the middle of a nightmare. I reacted with some energy, trying to wake up, because the situation wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was all in vain. I figured I had fallen into a deep sleep from which I was having trouble waking up, and that it was just a matter of being patient, letting that bad dream run its course, and seeing where it would take me next. What might have been several hours passed—though I had no clear sense of time—and, strangely enough for a dream, as I floated in the midst of that nothingness, I finally fell asleep! 2. “Sir, sir; wake up, sir!” Someone, with a strange, high-pitched yet muffled voice, was shaking me. I woke up convinced that my nightmare was over, and that I would find myself back in my comfortable apartment in Berlin, and before I could take in the situation, I promised myself that I would never again read a book on metaphysics, which I blamed for that bad dream. But that wasn’t the case, and Berlin would have to wait. The nightmare continued, and I was still suspended in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the same dark, abysmal spectacle. Despite the darkness, I could make out the person who had woken me up, and, although I’ve always tolerated strange people, this individual provoked an instinctive aversion in me. He was a gaunt old man, hunched over and trembling, dressed in what looked like a doublet like the ones I’d seen in some 15th- or 16th-century engravings, an indescribable brown color, fastened with a thick cord tied at the waist. His breeches reached down to his knees, and he covered his skeletal calves with white stockings, though they were surely darkened by grime. He wore a small felt cap on his head—as faded as the rest of his garments—which covered a whitish skull, while his sparse hair blended into a long, matted, gray beard that reached down to his waist. But despite his eccentric appearance, his gaze was kind, and his movements were slow and shaky; thus, despite his hideous appearance, they suggested to me that he was possibly a good person. I haven’t mentioned that he was carrying a huge sack, in which he apparently kept something of great value, because he didn’t even bother to set it down—though, on the other hand, there was nowhere to put it anyway. “ “Do you have anything you don’t need that you can give me?” he asked me without waiting for us to introduce ourselves. But I didn’t want to waste the opportunity presented by this strange person’s unexpected appearance to find out where I was, and a torrent of hurried, disorganized questions poured out of me: “But where are we? Who are you? Why are we floating in space? Where on earth did you come from? This is just a nightmare, isn’t it? The old man didn’t seem fazed, and as if he hadn’t heard me, he pressed his request: “You can give me anything; I’ll figure out later what I can use it for.” But I insisted: “But at least tell me who you are and where you came from.” “Ah, you want to know that. But can’t you see? I’m just a poor old man who makes a living begging around here!” What else do you want to know? Oh, right—where we are, and who knows what else; ask someone more educated than me! But there must be something you don’t need. Why don’t you give me your shoes? Shoes aren’t necessary here. It was clear I wouldn’t get anywhere with this conversation, but I wasn’t willing to let this opportunity slip by to shed some light on my absurd situation. — All right, all right; I’ll give you my shoes if you answer one last question, after all, in nightmares you can give away your shoes and whatever else you want, because it’s nothing more than a bad dream, and that’s that. But at least tell me your name and where you’re from. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me your shoes, but I can’t answer your question. I forgot that a long time ago. I only remember the soldier who thrust his spear into my chest—do do you want to see the wound? He was a damned Catholic mercenary of the Antichrist, born at the wrong time, serving Emperor Charles—but please ask me no more. Will you give me your shoes now? — Emperor Charles? Do you mean Charles V? The old man made a gesture of disgust and tried to spit, but no saliva came out. — That very bastard! So that ragged old man must have been nearly five hundred years old—and he was dead! And wasn’t I dead, too? Like a nightmare, I’d gone very far. Normally, in previous bad dreams, I used to wake up when my life was in danger—whether because I was about to be run over, fall off a cliff, or be violently attacked by someone. But now I’d experienced the same startle and emotional turmoil, yet I hadn’t woken up! “So… you’re dead, and I must be dead too.” The old man didn’t clear up my doubts or even seem to have heard me, and he insisted once more on his pleas: “I’ve already told you everything I know, and you promised me that…” “All right, I’ll give you my shoes—I certainly don’t need them anymore if I’m dead!” The old man seemed pleased and, with great difficulty, set down the enormous sack so he could put my shoes inside it. Although I knew it would be pointless, I dared to ask him one last question. “But, for God’s sake, what do you have in that sack?” “I’ve already told you—things with which I earn an honest living.” “In a place like this?” “You have to make a living somewhere.” “But you’re dead!” “Me, dead? How absurd! It would take a hundred pikes like the one that pierced my chest to finish me off.” “Then I…” “If you’ve promised to give me your shoes, don’t waste any more of my time.” The old man was clearly distraught and unaware of his condition. The worst part was that I, too, was on the verge of losing my mind. I had to try to calm down, give him my damn shoes, and get him to leave me alone so I could try to make sense of that strange situation—if that was even possible. — Thank you, and may God reward you. No sooner had he thanked me than he stuffed my shoes into his sack, hoisted it back onto his hunched shoulders, and, with an unsteady but determined stride, I watched him walk away until he disappeared into the darkness. 3. That mysterious old man left me plunged into agonizing mental confusion. Something truly serious had happened to me, but what? I couldn’t possibly be dead, because there was no reason to justify it. My health is reasonably good. Perhaps I suffer from a stomach ulcer due to my frequent heartburn—I really should have gone to the doctor to put my mind at ease once and for all. But that’s no cause of death. It’s true that I overdo it with mustard on my sausages, but I simply can’t help myself. I may also drink too much coffee and smoke more than I’d like to, but I lack the willpower to quit. Maybe, without my knowing it, my heart was weakened. Or perhaps my blood pressure was very high and I’d had a heart attack, but the last time it was checked, it seemed normal. Besides, these things don’t happen just like that out of the blue; I would have had to have had some prior symptoms—palpitations, chest pain, something, I say! But last night I felt perfectly fine; it was just that unexpected blackout, and if I hadn’t tripped over the table, I might have thought that whoever got up to look for the flashlight was already a spirit. But I tripped twice, so I was still alive. And after that, everything happened quickly. Did Was that when death came upon me suddenly and without warning? It’s not possible; no, that couldn’t have happened to me! — Unfortunately, it did happen to you. You did, in fact, suffer sudden cardiac death. — Who…? — Don’t ask who’s speaking to you, because I can’t answer you. I’m speaking to you through your consciousness. Start to get the idea, because you’re dead and you’re nothing more than an antibody—the specter of what you were physically at the moment of your death. Perhaps you’ll understand it better if I tell you that you’re composed of anti- -matter. A subtle form of matter that precedes energy. You are in every way similar to what you were at the moment of your death, except that you now lack physical sensations, because you are all spirit and mind; that is to say, you are fully aware of good and evil, but you lack physical sensation. Since you wish to know where you are, do not be surprised if I tell you that you are in purgatory, an intermediate space between heaven and earth. Something—not serious enough to warrant hell—must weigh on your conscience, since you have not gone directly to heaven. Do not be alarmed; it is possible to leave this place, but someone has to help you so that you can free yourself from the guilt weighing on your conscience. However, I warn you that this may take years or perhaps centuries. Here, time is cosmic, and a thousand years is a relatively brief period. — So I’m dead! — Unfortunately, that’s right. — And you are the voice of my conscience. — That’s right. — And I’m in Purgatory. — At least for the moment, that’s where you are. — Because of some transgression I committed that still weighs on my conscience. — That’s the reason. — But what is that transgression, if I may ask? — That’s for you to figure out; that’s what your conscience is for. — But I must have committed thousands of transgressions over the course of my life— how can I know which one is the reason I’m in Purgatory? — Only you have the answer. Now you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out. Heaven can wait. — Heaven? But what is heaven? — You’ll find out as soon as you’re free of your guilt. — For the voice of my conscience, you aren’t very talkative. — Goodbye, Hermann. — How do you know my name? — Remember, I’m your conscience. I’ve known it since the very day you did. Good luck on your long journey, Hermann. Remember: only someone who helps you can get you out of this place. The voice of my conscience said nothing more, leaving me plunged into agonizing bewilderment. Then I was assailed by hundreds of images and thoughts that depressed me even further. If I really was dead, who would discover my body? Would my colleagues at the library get worried and come to my apartment to check on me? Luckily, I left a spare key with the building manager, so they won’t have to break down the door. Well, at least my poor, deceased parents will be spared this distress. And where will they bury me? They’ll probably cremate me and toss my ashes into the crematorium’s trash bin. But what about my bank account? Who’ll get my savings? And what will happen to my email account? No one but me knows the password. I should have written it down somewhere easy to find. Will my more than 150 Facebook friends be surprised that I’m not posting anymore? Which of them will break the news of my death, and what will they say in their comments? Thank goodness, at least, I don’t have a Twitter account! But what am I thinking? I just died, and I’m worrying about those stupid trifles! I must calm down, face the facts, stop worrying about what I’ve left behind, and focus on my salvation. This darkness is unbearable! How am I supposed to wander through this pitch-black darkness for a thousand or two thousand years? I won’t even have any sense of time! That crazy old man has been here for almost five hundred years now, and he’s still just like he was on the day he died, convinced that he’s still alive. There are no days or nights here; there’s no time for waking and no time for sleeping. So how am I supposed to get any sense of the passage of time? But who can help me get out of here, and what do they have to do for me? My mind is clouded, and I can’t think clearly ; it’s better to let my mind rest and think of nothing—absolutely nothing. Isn’t it absurd to be dead and still thinking? 4 For a few moments, I managed to free myself from my distressing thoughts by focusing my attention on contemplating one of the most spectacular galaxies within my view. It was spiral-shaped, though with irregularities. The center was an intense, brilliant white, and as it expanded, the hues shifted from pinkish to violet, and the wisps of dense nebulae at the edges were pale blue. The faint light illuminating me probably came mainly from that fantastic galaxy. I would have liked to know its name; surely it was well-known among Earth’s astronomers. Just as I had managed to calm my agitated spirits with that extraordinary sight, I was startled again because I thought I saw, silhouetted against the galaxy’s glow, a human figure, and moments later I could not shake my astonishment to find myself face to face with a young woman dressed in the style of the old German peasant women, wearing a white camisole and a red bodice with exquisite embroidery; long skirts reaching to her ankles, covered by an apron. Her small feet were bare. She was perhaps no more than twenty years old, with long, waist-length blond hair, which she gathered into two long braids, and covered with a white bonnet, fastened with a brooch—probably silver—shaped like a rose with open petals. Her features were pleasant but sad. But the most astonishing thing was that she was holding one of my shoes in each hand, the ones I’d given to that crazy old man just a few moments ago. She approached me with a certain shyness and awkwardness, and as she held out the shoes to me, she said: “Here you are, sir, your shoes. My grandfather probably shouldn’t have asked you for them, and you were very kind to give them to him.” “Your grandfather? That crazy old man is your grandfather?” “That’s right, sir. But he isn’t crazy—just a little confused. That’s all. Well… goodbye, sir, and please forgive us, but now I have to go back to my grandfather. With a certain hesitation, as if she were expecting me to stop her, she turned around, and I could see a horrible wound on her back, which had torn part of her dress. Then I realized that perhaps the old man and she had died from the same cause—pierced by the pikes of Charles V’s Catholic mercenaries. “Wait, wait! Don’t leave without telling me who you are and how you got here.” “What do you want me to say? I can’t linger long. My grandfather must be missing me by now.” “I just wish I knew how… how… I mean, how you died!” — Ah, that. My grandfather and I were killed by the Catholics on the same day. I was trying to flee; I ran as fast as I could, but they thrust a spear into my back. I didn’t die on the spot, and I managed to crawl over to where my grandfather was, who tried to help me. Then the same soldier mercilessly killed him too, driving the spear into his chest as he held me in his arms… — How evil! — Yes, those Catholic mercenaries were very cruel. — So, are you Protestants? — Yes, sir; Lutherans, and they killed us just for that. — And where did it happen? — We lived in the beautiful city of Magdeburg. — Ah, it was during the siege of Magdeburg. — Yes, sir; they were razing everything to the ground. They killed children, women, and the elderly, without any mercy. And they called themselves Christians! We both remained silent for a few moments, shaken by the image of those horrific massacres. — It was certainly a terrible thing… — “Was it?” Do Catholics no longer kill Protestants? — “Of course not! They’ve been living in peace with one another for centuries.” — “Is that true? My grandfather should know that! That’s great news, and it might bring him back to his senses.” — “Apparently, he still isn’t aware that he’s dead.” — That’s the problem. He thinks he’s alive and goes about his daily routine, as if he were in Magdeburg. You see, he used to collect things people gave him because they were useless and sell them at the market. That’s how he made a few coins to help out at home. I was employed as a maid in the Burgomaster’s house—a good man, whom the Catholics must have killed too! — And your parents? — They died during the last plague epidemic. Now they must surely be in heaven. If you could convince my grandfather, he might leave this horrible place and go up to heaven too. Deep down, he’s a good person, but he’s full of hatred for the emperor. — If that’s what you think, I can try. — Will you do that for me? Will you really try? — Of course; absolutely. It costs me nothing. The poor child rubbed her hands together with joy, and, for the first time since I’d met her, I saw a smile on her lips, and her expression became more charming and youthful. — Wait here; we won’t be a minute! “Tell me your name first.” “Eloísa; I think so, because that’s what my grandfather calls me.” And she vanished into the darkness from which she had appeared. For a moment I thought that sweet creature had never been there and that she had been an apparition caused by my troubled mind, which, ever since her voice had alerted me, had been desperately searching for someone to help me escape that purgatory. But when I saw that she was holding my shoes, I was relieved, because it was proof that the young woman had been there, and she would surely return with her grandfather, just as she had promised me. The paradox is that I was going to be the one to help someone escape from that gloomy place. 5. A terrifying silence fell once more, though for a few moments I thought I heard a strange sound, as if the high notes of an organ, with a certain harmony, but without forming a specific musical phrase. It was a monotonous tone, sometimes lower and sometimes higher. The sound was pleasant and solemn, yet at the same time terrifying, because it seemed to come from the galaxies. Sometimes it faded away completely, and absolute silence reigned. Would I have to listen to that spectral music for the thousand or two thousand years I remained in that purgatory? Fortunately, the arrival of the old man and the young Eloísa pulled me out of that agonizing speculation. “Sir, tell my grandfather what you told me. He must believe you.” The old man looked at me incredulously, but he seemed restless and expectant. I tried to speak with confidence and be as convincing as possible. The young woman gently nudged the old man to come closer to me and relieved him of his bulky sack. “It’s true, sir, and you must believe me. For years now, Catholics and Protestants have been living together in peace and harmony.” “I can’t believe it; you must be a Catholic trying to deceive me, but I won’t renounce my faith—I’d rather die a thousand times over!” “Grandfather, don’t be so stubborn!” the young woman reproached him. “There are no more religious wars in Germany. Charles V is dead, and so are his successors!” “The emperor is dead?” — Completely! It’s been almost five centuries! — But who are you, and how do you know all that? Are you an emissary from the Protestant League? — No, no; that was many years ago. But I, too, am dead. You’ve been in this purgatory for a long time, and I’ve just arrived from the world of the living. Things have changed a great deal in the world since you died. “You must believe him, Grandfather; he’s saying this with good intentions. This gentleman doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s a good person—he even gave you his shoes!” the young woman interceded again. The old man seemed moved, as if he were waging a deep inner struggle. He exchanged a questioning glance with his granddaughter, and she gave a vigorous nod of affirmation. “So, I’m dead, and there’s no point in me collecting useless things lying around… “No, Grandpa, it’s no use to you anymore; you’ll never be able to sell them at the market again. It’s all over for us. Now all that’s left for us is to earn our way into heaven, and this kind man can help us. The old man remained confused. His calves were trembling, and he kept exchanging anguished glances with his granddaughter. Finally, it seemed to me that he had accepted the facts, because he approached his granddaughter, squeezed her hand, and exclaimed in despair: “So, that soldier killed both of us on the same day…” “Yes, Grandpa . “And you’ve known all along!” “I’ve tried many times to convince you, but you were so stubborn.” The old man seemed calm and resigned. He turned to me and asked if I knew how the emperor had died. “Sick and tired of fighting against all the princes of Europe, he retired to a monastery in Spain…” — Did that Antichrist become a monk? — Oh, no; not at all. He remained the same arrogant and fanatical character as always, like all the Habsburgs of that era. But in his final years, people lost respect for him. Even the monks and locals at the monastery made his life miserable. Not even his son had much respect for him. — Young Philip? — Yes, the very same. He finally passed away after a painful agony, a victim of malaria, although from a very young age he had already suffered from the painful disease of gout, so common among princes of that era. — God punished him! — In his final days, he must have suffered great remorse, because he practically lost his mind. He made the monks at the monastery hold his funeral while he was still alive and lying inside his own coffin. — He must have gone straight to hell,” the young woman interrupted me. “Without a doubt!” “And what happened next?” “Unfortunately, his son Philip didn’t behave any better than he did, and he sparked a long war between Catholics and Protestants. But eventually a peace agreement was signed, under which it was decided that northern Germany would be predominantly Protestant and the south predominantly Catholic, though with religious freedom in both regions. Today, Catholic and Protestant churches stand side by side, and the two denominations coexist peacefully. — Praise be to God! — exclaimed the old man, and then he seemed to sink into deep thought. — I forgive him! If God has already punished him, I must forgive him, for the Lord told us that we should forgive our enemies, and I have no greater enemy than the emperor. What happened immediately afterward was astonishing. The old man seemed to fall into a blissful trance. His faint figure began to fade while taking on a faint glow, which grew until it became a small white light of dazzling intensity, illuminating us as if it were a tiny star. A moment after this extraordinary metamorphosis, the light was swiftly absorbed toward the great white galaxy shining above our heads, and I suppose it went on to merge with it. Was that the heaven my conscience had spoken of? 6. After that extraordinary event, the young Eloísa seemed deeply shaken. It was as if her grandfather’s strange vanishing had brought her joy, yet at the same time, saddened. It seemed as if she were unable to bring order to her conscience. She exchanged an expressive glance with me, hoping I would offer her a reasonable explanation. But I found myself in the same situation, and I didn’t know how to react either. I wondered what the point of life was if, after striving to keep our conscience free of remorse and enduring the bitter ordeal of death, we would end up as a tiny speck of energy, drawn toward a star—provided, of course, that we didn’t first have to go through the painful ordeal of purgatory. It didn’t make much spiritual sense, but if that’s how it happened, then so be it. On the other hand, the old man’s final expression seemed serene and happy, as if he were experiencing a blissful spiritual peace—undoubtedly a logical feeling for someone preparing to ascend to heaven. So, is energy itself heaven and the source of happiness? What a disappointment for theologians! “I think your grandfather has ascended to heaven,” — I dared to suggest, though not without serious doubts about the meaning of that phenomenon. — Do you think so? — Without a doubt; when he faded away, he looked very happy. — And will he be reunited with my parents? — That must be the case. — It’s strange; I expected going to heaven to be something different. — How did you expect it to be? — I’m not quite sure, but an angel should have appeared and taken him away, because angels must know the way to heaven… — Yes, it would have been more poetic and spiritual, but we humans have too much imagination. Things must be simpler in reality. — So my poor grandfather is resting in peace now. — I think so. — You know, I believe that’s the case too, and I thank you most sincerely for your help. If it hadn’t been for you, God only knows how long we would have remained in this darkness. Now I, too, will be able to go and rest in peace, alongside my family; yes, at last we’ll all be reunited again… Hearing her wishes, I felt an indescribable bitterness, because, despite having known her for only a short time, I already felt a fatherly affection for that sweet creature. Moreover, I was terrified by the idea of being alone again in that dreadful abyss. Perhaps unconsciously, I had believed that she was the one who would help me escape from purgatory, as the voice of my conscience had warned me. And if that were the case, what would become of me if she, too, were to vanish? I think I behaved like a true egoist who didn’t deserve to leave that place, and I shared my fears with her without thinking about her own salvation. — Please, Eloísa, don’t go! Now I’m the one who needs your help. — My help? But, what can I do for you? — I don’t know; I’m not sure. — If I can help you, I will, but I… — You miss your family! — Yes, sir, but I also care about you. Tell me what I must do, and I’ll be happy to do it. I’ve spent so much time in this place that a little more doesn’t matter. I felt my conscience twisting inside my spirit, and for that blackmail, I deserved to go straight to hell. It wasn’t fair to hold her back if it wasn’t her wish; I should let her go. It was the fairest and most honorable thing to do. On the other hand, what I did for her grandfather wasn’t a great sacrifice. But before I had time to show my remorse, I noticed her figure glowing faintly. Yes, she was transforming into energy and would soon vanish like her grandfather into that majestic white galaxy. I didn’t want her to leave with regrets, so I hurried to be honest. — Actually, Eloísa, you’ve already helped me enough by allowing me to do a good deed for your grandfather. Now you, too, can go without any regrets. Reunite with your family—that’s what you want most. “You make me very happy, but I won’t forget you. I’ll pray for you when I’m in heaven.” Her beloved figure grew brighter and brighter, and, before disappearing completely, she removed the small brooch that held her bonnet and offered it to me. “Here, so that you won’t forget me either! In heaven, I no longer need it.” As soon as I took the brooch, she vanished completely, and her little light rose rapidly toward the great white galaxy, just as her grandfather had done moments before, leaving a faint luminous trail in that pitch-black darkness. Then silence fell once more, and I found myself alone once more, floating in that unknown space, my soul shattered, but my conscience at peace, for I had done what I had to do and not what I wanted to do. 7. A few agonizing moments passed during which I could not take my eyes off the great white galaxy where, somehow, Eloísa must have already been reunited with her loved ones. I wondered what I should do to be reunited with them as well, but I was unable to find within my conscience the fault that was holding me back in that purgatory. — Hermann, you’ve already earned enough merit to deserve ascending to heaven as well, but your time hasn’t come yet. As I told you before, heaven can wait. “Are you the voice of my conscience again?” “Your own inner voice.” “What do you mean, my time hasn’t come yet?” “You’ll be spared this time, but you were dead for a few moments. Your heart will start beating again.” — And everything I’ve seen and done happened in just a few moments? — That’s right; time here is relative. — You know, now I’m not sure if I want to return to life. Down there, there are too many contradictions and temptations to act unjustly, and now I know how important it is to live with a clear conscience. — Hermann, you’ve learned a lot in a very short time. — It’s been a great experience, one I would never have had if I hadn’t gone through this ordeal. Theologians have written so much nonsense… Besides, wherever I am, I’ve missed young Eloísa. — Your young friend Eloísa is in heaven. — So heaven… — Is energy. — And hell… — Simply matter. — And purgatory must be an intermediate state. — That’s right. Those who die with a guilty conscience—their spirit cannot rise and remains attached to their corpse, even if it’s cremated . — As if it were a zombie—the living dead! — A soul in torment, clinging to the very matter they so desired in life. And so they will remain for centuries until the universe itself collapses, for they have no chance of being transformed into energy. But those who die with a clear conscience are immediately transformed into pure energy, which gives them a glorious sense of happiness and joy. — And those of us who have unresolved issues with our conscience remain trapped in this dark void. — Indeed, but you can escape from here; you can’t escape from hell. — And that’s it? Is that the meaning of our existence? — It’s that simple and natural. It’s the interaction between the body, the soul, and their consciousness, but it only occurs among sentient beings; those who are unconscious and lack understanding go straight to heaven. Only humans face the moral dilemma of judging our actions and acting justly and morally. — Then the world must be teeming with zombies! — It is, unfortunately for them. Especially in and around cemeteries. — Clarify a few more things for me. Do angels exist? — Of course! They’re tiny entities of energy that wander through space and eventually reach inhabited worlds. — Inhabited worlds? Are there other inhabited planets? — Millions! Almost as many as there are stars. It’s rare to find a star that doesn’t have one. — Go on about the angels. — They have the ability to transform themselves into whatever image appeals to whoever approaches them. They’re usually biblical figures, especially in the form of a virgin or Jesus Christ himself, but they typically appear as winged beings—they have to stay in the air somehow! — And God? Who is God? Is He also some form of energy? — I can answer anything about natural phenomena, but don’t ask me about the supernatural. Only God knows who God is; the rest is pure fantasy! God is inconceivable. The mind cannot arrive at an answer. It’s a matter of faith. You either believe in Him or you don’t, but don’t try to prove His existence. . — Not even in purgatory is there an answer! Anyway, I resign myself to returning to life and its temptations, but now I will no longer fear death! 8. Suddenly, the lights came back on in my apartment, and I was startled by the shrill beep of the radio-alarm clock, which had been set back. The printer, too—which had been left on—went haywire, trying to get back online. It was as if those devices, too, sensed that the energy flowing through their circuits was bringing them to life. I woke up without the slightest sensation of pain or discomfort, and my heart, once the initial startle had passed, seemed to return to beating normally. I didn’t want the vivid memories of my experience in purgatory to fade, but slowly I began to grasp the situation and started to doubt whether it had actually happened. The most reasonable explanation was that it had been a dream, but at least I shouldn’t consider it a nightmare. It had its moral lesson and some interesting explanations. In times of great spirituality, I would have considered it a vision, and it might even have served to help me found a new religion, but fortunately those times had passed, and this kind of experience always had a reasonable explanation. The image of the young Eloísa also began to fade, and it even struck me as sheer nonsense that a specter from nearly five hundred years ago could wander through space, vanish, turn into a tiny ball of luminous energy, be absorbed by a galaxy, and, on top of that, claim that this was heaven. I must have read about it somewhere, and it had been stored in my subconscious . “But why would an atheist like me dream of creatures going to heaven and voices explaining the nature of angels to me?” I thought aloud. “What could be in my subconscious that causes me to have these kinds of dreams? From now on, I have to pay closer attention to what I read. No metaphysical or incorporeal beings, and certainly no theological readings, no matter how absurd they may seem to me.” Finally, I convinced myself that it had simply been a dream and that I’d been influenced by the sudden darkness that had engulfed the apartment. But as I recalled—already vaguely and hazily—the young Eloísa, deep down I wished it had been real. — “Well, whatever the case, it was a good dream,” I told myself comfortingly. “Now I’ll have to reset this darn clock radio and search again for all the stations I’d already saved.” But as I reached for the clock, a small silver brooch in the shape of a rose with open petals slipped from my hand. Every hair on my body stood on end, and my heart pounded so intensely and rapidly that for a moment I thought I would truly die this time. — “So, it wasn’t a dream after all—it really happened?” I asked myself in anguish. — Indeed , Hermann, it was real, and now you know why you were cast into purgatory. — You again! — Because of your unbelief! X  Marcus's last dream Marcus sensed that his end was approaching, because every night he had the same dream, though with some slight variations. He dreamed that for years unrest had been spreading among the peoples of the world. Two major ideological blocs had formed that were irreconcilable: on one side was the party of the Good, and on the other, the party of the Bad; but the paradox was that the party of the Bad considered itself the party of the Good, and vice versa, so any attempt at dialogue was completely futile, and everything was confusing; in reality, no one knew who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. On one side, the “Good Guys” were distinguished by a flag featuring a loaf of bread on a red background, while the “Good Guys” on the other side were distinguished by a flag bearing the image of one of the most valuable coins of the time, on a sky-blue background. But the unrest continued to grow until it became unsustainable. The “Good Guys” on both sides were already on the brink of war against the “Bad Guys” on both sides. And street protests began to break out, demanding that war be declared and that this tense situation be brought to an end. The “Good Guys” on the red-flag side elected a leader to lead them to victory over the “Bad Guys,” and the “Good Guys” on the blue-flag side, did the same, driven by the same ambitions of domination and extermination of those they considered the “Bad Guys”—their historical enemies—with whom no understanding was possible. Finally, the leader of the Reds decided that the time had come to take action and declare war on the “Bad Guys.” He called a massive rally and rallied them to the final battle in a passionate and fiery speech, justifying the need to declare war on the “Bad Guys” of the Blue Party: “Comrades, workers of the world; good and just men and women; children and grandchildren of these good men and women; intellectuals who are also on the side of the ‘Good Guys’; artists and professionals who are part of this party of the ‘Good Guys’—are we going to allow the ‘Bad Guys’ and their wicked followers in the Blue Party to dominate the world and pervert it with their evil laws, their evil customs, and their evil ideas? The crowd responded as one: —“No, never! Death to the Bad Guys of the Blue Party!” Death, death! “Yes, that’s what I hoped to hear from you! Death also to their wives, their children and grandchildren, and all their descendants, so that the Bad Ones cannot reproduce! Let’s eradicate evil at its root!” “Let’s exterminate them, let’s exterminate them!” shouted the crowd. “When the world is rid of the Evil Ones of the Blue Party, peace will flourish throughout the world, and prosperity will reach everyone without exception. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs. That is why we must declare war on the Evil Ones!” “War, war, war!” shouted the frenzied crowd. The next day, the message had reached every corner of the planet, and all those who sympathized with the Good Party of the red flag enlisted as volunteers, forming the largest army ever known in history. Millions of men and women of all ages, nationalities, and social classes volunteered for this party and swore to fight to the death to exterminate the Bad Guys. Since there weren’t enough weapons for everyone, many would go into the great battle armed with sabers taken from war museums; butchers with their sharp knives; tailors and dressmakers armed with their scissors; farmers with their pitchforks; bureaucrats with their letter openers; construction workers with pickaxes; children with slingshots; and the madmen, who also enlisted, came with pins and needles, which they believed to be deadly weapons. The generals arrived riding deadly missiles with nuclear warheads. Those of lower rank arrived armed with sophisticated tanks, cannons, machine guns, and millions of pistols of all calibers and models. The rank-and-file troops were given a rifle with this inscription on the butt: “I bring peace to the Good men of good will, and chaos and death to the Evil men of ill will.” A phrase they were to repeat every five minutes, when they were in the thick of the final battle. But once the Good men of the Blue Party were alerted to the aggressive intentions of the Evil men, they also mobilized their supporters with a message broadcast on television and radio by all stations aligned with their party. The message was delivered by their leader, a shrewd elderly man and skilled communicator: —“Dear men and women of the Good Party! Citizens of the free world! The Bad Guys have mobilized and armed themselves with the intention of destroying our values and imposing a radically evil system. Our party is, without a shadow of a doubt, the party of the Good, because we represent the free world, where every individual is free to express their opinion about what they believe is not good—and therefore must agree with us that they are the bad guys. We also defend private property, so that everyone can freely enjoy what they have acquired with their own money, and respect for the law, so that we all have the opportunity to defend our honestly earned privileges. Today is a historic day, because we, the Good in the Blue Party, must also mobilize and fight against the party of the Bad, until we shed the last drop of blood on the battlefield. The leader of the Blue Flag Party believed himself to be God’s messenger—the God of the Good in his party—from whom he claimed to have received the mandate to declare war on the Bad Guys, and he made this known to the crowd. “I have seen it in a revelation: God is on our side; on the side of the Good of the Blue Party, and He has ordered me to exterminate the Bad. Praise be to the Lord who protects our people and will lead us to victory! “May He be praised forever and lead us to victory!” shouted the people, thrilled by the divine support. “Free citizens of the world, the Good Party needs you! All against the Bad Ones until they are exterminated from the Earth and we can live in a new world where there are only Good Ones! Long live the war! That brief but impassioned speech by the leader of the blue-flag party managed to mobilize millions of supporters. Weapons were plentiful on this side, and no one had to show up with ridiculous, ineffective weapons, so they were fully convinced of their overwhelming superiority. The next day, everyone was mentally prepared to face the army of the “Bad Guys,” and they knew they were the winners. Within a few hours, an impressive army had been assembled, superior in numbers and weaponry to that of the “Bad Guys” with the red flag. Nevertheless, the latter decided to give battle, because they had the advantage of being more motivated—they were convinced that they were the “Good Guys.” In the early morning of the following day, as dawn was just breaking, both armies were in position to begin the battle that would decide the fate of the world. At the command “ To the attack!”, both armies charged toward each other amid deafening shouts. When they clashed, the initial shouts turned into howls of pain, wails, cries, and shouts of “Death to the Bad Guys! Long live the Good Guys!”, which were repeated on both sides until not a single combatant remained alive. Only the leaders remained, mounted on their respective horses, each bearing their respective flags, as they approached one another and glared at each other like two rabid dogs. “Now there are only the two of us left to decide who will rule the world...” “Only the Good will rule the world! Death to the Bad!” And they stabbed each other with their sharp sabers, for both were convinced they had killed one of the Bad. After that bloody battle, a terrifying silence fell. Not even the birds dared to sing their cheerful songs. Not even the rustling of the wind through the leaves of the trees could be heard. Nothing—not a sound! It was as if the world had stopped moving. Night fell, and that deathly silence persisted, while millions of bloodied bodies lay on a field of daisies, bluebells, hyacinths, hydrangeas, gardenias, anemones, and other wildflowers that were refreshed by the dew of the coming dawn. And the silence continued! But suddenly Marcus appeared in that bloody extermination field, and gazed in horror at the aftermath of the battle. Moments later, small wings began to emerge from his back, growing until they became two large wings capable of lifting him into the air. Marcus clumsily practiced the wing movements necessary to fly, and after several failed attempts, he finally found himself suspended in the air with the agility of a bird. Back on the ground, he wondered what significance those large wings that had grown on his back might hold. But he had no reasonable explanation. Dawn was breaking, and the dew made the petals of the simple wildflowers glisten in the place where the last battle of this world—with neither victor nor vanquished. Millions of men and women, including some teenagers, almost children, sympathizers from both sides, lay lifeless, with no one to give them a proper burial. Not even their mothers would be able to recognize their children among so many bodies, all uniformed by the red color of blood. Marcus roamed the battlefield hoping to find a familiar face—an old friend from the neighborhood who might have taken part in that bloody battle—but he found no one he knew. He didn’t have the strength to spread his wings again and escape that macabre landscape, and he slumped dejectedly onto one of the few patches of ground free of corpses. Suddenly, he was startled by the sound of flapping wings that could not have come from a bird, and in the faint light of dawn he made out someone who, like him, was endowed with wings and was approaching, flapping them at a slow but steady pace. Moments later, he recognized the winged man as he alighted on the fresh grass. It was Calixto, the beggar from another planet! “Calixto! Are you the beggar from my old neighborhood? Why do you have wings too? Why do I have them? You were dead! I saw them take you into the crematorium!” “Calm down, Marcus, I’m the same beggar! You saw an empty coffin!” I already told you I had supernatural powers. I’m the one who started this war! Now stop asking questions and get up—we have a long journey ahead of us. You no longer belong to this world, and in the world we’re going to, men have wings. You couldn’t have come to this world without your wings. —To another world? What world? So you’re the one responsible for this slaughter? Why, Calixto? —There isn’t a single one of these dead who didn’t deserve this punishment! They were willing to kill their brothers just because their flags were different colors. None of them knew the enemy they hated and were burning with a desire to kill. They blindly followed a deranged leader who hated himself, and he projected his hatred onto an imaginary enemy. But those on the other side were no better. They only needed an excuse to become murderers. They didn’t know their enemies either—only the color of their flag, which was enough for them. Both sides were the bad guys. The good ones didn’t enlist. They stayed in their homes, with their wives and children. They scorned the leaders’ power of suggestion, because they are their own leaders. They don’t need anyone to guide them, because they are their own guides. They don’t hate those they don’t know. They don’t kill, not even for a just cause; they do not chant revolutionary slogans along with the crowd, because they are not part of the crowd; they do not cheer for their leaders because no one is righteous enough to deserve praise; they do not believe in a common God, but in a personal and unique God. They do not recite psalms learned from sacred texts, but prayers they have created themselves, according to their spiritual needs. But these people, Marcus, are neither good nor evil; they are simply human beings who strive to be themselves, to listen to what their conscience dictates, to believe in what their faith inspires; they think reasonably; they do not imagine beyond what is tolerable; they enjoy no pleasures other than those obtained with consent. And of such men or women, there is not a single one on this battlefield! And now, enough talk—let’s take flight! Marcus never awoke from this dream. He died peacefully, dreaming that he was flying to a world inhabited only by angels, for he had more than earned his angel’s wings. Linda was lying in bed when he died, but she didn’t know it until the first light of the new dawn. When she discovered that her husband had died during the night, she covered his face with the sheet and whispered in his ear, “Let this be the last time you fall asleep without giving me a kiss!” ” Then she wept in silence so as not to wake Isabel, her husband, and her grandson, who were spending the weekend at her house, because that day was Marcus’s 93rd birthday, and they had planned to celebrate it together. X   The Double Miracle of Kreuzberg Ali Hasan was an Arab merchant of Syrian origin who owned a modest carpet shop on the bustling Oranienstraße, in the heart of the Kreuzberg neighborhood. He was a devout Muslim; he said his daily prayers, observed the religious prohibitions, and scrupulously observed the fast of Ramadan. By one of those ironies of fate, his next-door shopkeeper was a Muscovite Russian, Vladimir Ivanoff, who specialized in Russian art and icons—a faithful Christian, a worshiper of the Holy Spirit, a devotee of the Virgin Mary, respectful of his patriarch, and knowledgeable about some twenty religious hymns that he sang in his deep, resonant voice at his Orthodox church in Berlin. Despite their religious differences and disparate customs , they had something in common: a taste for a good cup of tea with Turkish pastries served to them by the bakery one block up. Sometimes, if they weren’t too busy, they would share a steaming cup of good tea accompanied by a hard-fought game of chess. “Dear Ali, chess is a game designed for Russians. Not because we’re smarter than Arabs, but because we’re more calculating and shrewd.” “No people are more skilled at calculation than the Arabs; it’s no coincidence that we were the ones who invented numbers.” Competing between their respective cultures and religions was more than just a personal matter, for each of them felt he was the representative in this world of Allah and the God of the Christians. Ali Hassan was going through a rough patch in his carpet business; carpets were becoming increasingly expensive, and customers who loved exquisitely hand-knotted Persian carpets were growing scarce, and his debts and financial pressures had soured his disposition somewhat. Finally, the bank and his creditors threatened to take him to court, and his business was hanging by a thread. Vladimir was unaware of his financial situation, but Ali was losing his games far too easily and could barely concentrate. Finally, Vladimir wanted to know the reason for his distraction—and even his outbursts of bad temper—and managed to elicit a sincere confession from Ali: “Business is bad, Vladimir! I’m selling rugs that are too good and too expensive for these times. Unless a miracle happens, I’ll have to close up shop. But Allah is just, and I’m a good Muslim; I’m sure He won’t abandon me. Vladimir’s business wasn’t anything special either, but unlike Ali’s, he knew how to adapt to the times and stock low-quality items, intended mainly for tourists, which, combined with a nearly hermit-like lifestyle, had allowed him to achieve a respectable position. He slept on it and decided to help his friend—but in secret. So, through a friend, he had him buy the best rug he had, without skimping on the price. Once the deal was done, Ali showed up at his shop, smiling and happy. “I told you, Vladimir, that Allah couldn’t abandon a good believer! I just sold the best rug I had in the shop for 2,500 euros, and without haggling. It was a miracle!” Praise be to Allah for remembering this humble believer! But Vladimir had his own opinion, which he obviously kept to himself: “Blessed be the God of the Christians, who is merciful and good, and has inspired my charitable act.” And that’s how things stood. Ali paid off some debts, and business picked up with the arrival of winter. One cold January morning, Ali was surprised to see Vladimir’s shop closed on a Saturday morning—the best day for foreign tourists visiting his shop. Ali knew his friend suffered from kidney problems, since they couldn’t finish a single game of chess without him having to empty his bladder several times, but it didn’t seem serious enough to prevent him from tending to his business. Worried, he called his home and was told the news: he had been admitted to the emergency room because he needed kidney surgery. Ali didn’t want to hear the details, so without a second thought, he closed his own shop and rushed to the hospital. “Dear Ali, we won’t be able to play our little game today! But why did you go to all this trouble? I appreciate it anyway! Go back to your store—these aren’t the times to be losing sales.” —What do the doctors say? —Unfortunately, they can’t operate; they don’t have blood like mine. I’m a rare Russian, Ali—there aren’t two like me! Ali Hassan said goodbye to his friend, worried about the situation, because he didn’t understand these things. In the hospital hallway, he ran into the doctor treating him and wanted to know for sure how his friend was doing. “There’s no blood of his type; we can’t operate!” “How do you know that about the blood? Couldn’t mine work?” “We can run a test—who knows… it doesn’t hurt to try.” As it turned out, they shared the same blood type, and Ali provided the blood needed for the operation to take place. A week later, weak and emaciated, Vladimir returned to his shop, and the first thing he did was visit his friend to share the good news. “I’m as strong as an ox now, my friend Ali! But it’s not thanks to those butchers—it’s thanks to the mercy of my God, who performed the miracle of finding a donor at the last moment! It’s a true miracle that I’m still alive!” But Ali Hassan had a different opinion, which he obviously also kept to himself: “Praise be to Allah and His infinite wisdom, which has given me the courage to help a good friend.” Months later, the two friends were still debating the superiority of their respective religions, but because of the strong friendship that bound them, they never revealed their respective X  Ivette’s Story -“I had so much fun at your party, Ivette. You have a great mom.” No one tells stories like she does. -“Yeah, she knows lots of beautiful stories; she’s a writer!” I remember this simple conversation with one of my best friends at the end of my birthday party, when I turned seven—that delicate age when we begin to distinguish between reality and fantasy, mixing the two together. That very same day, when it seemed like everything was joy and smiles, a real ordeal began for me. I’m a writer and I’ve imagined many stories, but it’s true that reality surpasses fantasy, because what happened to me in the days that followed surpasses any fantasy story I could imagine. That was also the day I realized what it meant to be a writer—especially of children’s stories—as I watched the expressions of happiness on my friends’ faces as they listened, spellbound, to my mother’s stories. She taught me the importance of our laborious, self-sacrificing, and creative craft as writers, but I’ll never be able to measure up to her, because my mother was a wonderful person, the kind who comes along only once in a million. When I said goodbye to all the guests, offering congratulations and praise to my mother, I found her slumped on the sofa, with an alarming look of pain on her face—pain she had suppressed throughout the entire party. “Mom, something’s wrong; are you okay?” “No, sweetheart; it’s just a little dizziness from all the commotion at your party—those little rascals wear you out. Did they enjoy your party?” But I couldn’t focus on her answer, because even then I had a premonition that my mother was very ill, though I couldn’t imagine just how serious it was. On other occasions, during our usual Sunday bike rides along the banks of the river that runs through our city, she would beg me to stop and rest for a few moments, and again I’d see that same look of pain and the effort she made to hide it. Not only did I admire my mother for her talent, her sweetness, and her sharp intelligence, but I was also very close to her, because the two of us practically lived alone in our apartment in Berlin. My father is a renowned architect and had to oversee the many buildings he had designed that were still under construction, scattered throughout the country. We could only get together as a family on weekends, which my father used to rest and take a relaxing bath, without paying much attention to what was taking shape within my mother. But the effects of her serious illness were evident in the alarming pallor of her sweaty face and a permanent grimace of pain on her lips. What finally alerted my father to her health condition was the day she stopped writing her weekly story for a local radio station. “Mom, what’s wrong? You’ve never stopped writing those stories for the radio…” “Ivette, sweetheart, nothing’s wrong, but all writers have bad days when our imagination just doesn’t work.” “But, Mom, all the kids at my school listen to your stories…” Yes, my mother was suffering a writer’s greatest tragedy: not being able to write! Just as I’d feared, one tragic morning my mother suffered a severe heart attack as I was getting ready to leave for school, and she collapsed to the floor, clutching her chest where her immense, damaged heart lay. I didn’t know how to react; all I could think to do was hug her and cry out in terror. -“Mommy, Mommy, what’s wrong with you? Why why won’t you talk to me? Mommy, I don’t want you to be like this; Mommy, I’m scared, and you’re not saying anything or moving—Mommy, say something to me, please, say something…” I didn’t know what to do; I was too young to handle such a dramatic situation. I burst into tears without letting go of her body, my heart frozen in fear. I stayed that way—I don’t know for how long—until a housekeeper who helped my mother with the housework came to our home. The poor woman had a nervous breakdown when she saw that scene: a crying little girl was hugging her dead mother! If I had reacted and gone out to find someone to help me take her to the hospital or call an ambulance, maybe she could have been saved. Those were some horrible minutes; I didn’t want to be separated from my mother, because I couldn’t conceive of the idea of death and thought she would soon regain consciousness and everything would go back to normal. They practically had to tear me away from her body. I kept pleading, trembling from head to toe and crying uncontrollably. “Mommy, wake up! I don’t want you to be like this—please wake up…!” When the ambulance arrived and they took her to the hospital—where they could only certify her death—they had to hold me back so I wouldn’t run after the paramedics who carried her body out of our house, and I was left in a state of shock, barely aware of what happened next. My father appointed one of his assistants to replace him and went there, deeply distressed by my mother’s unexpected death. I let myself be led around like a robot, still in a state of shock, unable to think or remember what had happened. My father believed he was responsible for her death because he hadn’t taken better care of her, and for a while he shut himself away in our house and neglected to his commitments, and work on many of his construction projects had to be suspended, resulting in enormous losses. Only when he was threatened with a lawsuit did he react, and then he returned to his absences. It was useless for him to try to make me understand his situation and his grave, inescapable responsibilities, but I wasn’t listening to what he was trying to tell me, because I was still in a state of shock. He turned to a sister of his mother’s—an elderly woman, but one with a cheerful and jovial spirit, whom my father believed was the best person for the job—so that she could take care of me 24 hours a day and bring me back to the real world and help me accept the irreversible facts. But I locked myself in my room, and as if it were etched into my brain, I repeated the same lament in a whisper: “Mommy, come back from wherever you’ve gone. I’ll be good—I won’t sneak sweets, I’ll eat the vegetables you know I hate, and I won’t forget to brush my teeth a single day.” Despite my pleas , my mother didn’t appear on my bed the next night or any of the nights after that. I was so depressed that I began to hatch a terrible plan to be reunited with her: If she was dead but at the same time, somehow, also alive, I could be reunited with her wherever she was if I died too. At that tender age, I believed that dying was like moving to another house in another . I had heard mothers chatting as they came to pick up their children from school, that some famous people had died from an overdose of sedatives, and I remembered that my mother took them too and kept them in a cabinet in the bathroom—and there they were!—a whole bottle of white and red pills that looked like candy. Excited by the discovery, I hid the precious bottle in my room and waited until nightfall, when my nanny would be asleep . Then I imagined that very night I would be reunited with my mother. Those were terrible hours of anguish that made me cry without being able to help it. My nanny realized that something serious was happening to me, but she couldn’t imagine what I was plotting. “Little girl, you’re shaking from head to toe. If it’s because something is scaring you, you can come sleep with me tonight.” Today I’m certain that that cheerful woman could tell from my agitation that I was plotting something serious. I didn’t know what excuse to come up with to turn down her invitation, but after a dramatic silence, a good alibi occurred to me: “Since Dad says Mom can’t be there, I’m not afraid to sleep alone anymore.” That answer made the poor woman believe I was losing my mind, and she began to resign herself to the situation and return to normal. I locked myself in my room and pretended to play with my dolls, which reassured my overprotective caregiver even more. I was firmly determined to go through with my plan, so I pretended to play with all those things I liked and that made me feel good—like the teddy bears someone gave me every birthday; or the clown and fairy costumes I wore during the last carnival; or the posters of my cartoon characters that made me laugh; or the little music box playing the melody of “Für Elise,” and so many other toys that I couldn’t take with me wherever my mother might be. Those were moments of a terrible internal struggle in which the deep love I felt for my mother competed with all those objects that bore witness to the happy moments of my short life. But I reacted decisively and put my mother first. I took out the little pill bottle from where I kept it and it seemed incredible to me that something so small could take me so far. That night my caregiver was very restless, because she must have had a premonition of my suicide attempt, and she burst into my room twice under the pretext of asking if I wanted anything. Paradoxically, she contributed to my thwarted suicide, and I asked her for a glass of milk, because I had forgotten to bring something to drink to take the pills with. After midnight, nothing could be heard, and I assumed that my caregiver was already asleep. I could barely stay awake. During those agonizing hours, my childish mind struggled in vain to wake me from that nightmare, but I didn’t listen to it. I scattered the pills on the bedspread, and for a few agonizing moments I was struck by the thought that that very night I might be with my mother, whom I called out to once more in a dramatic final plea. “Mommy, if you’re listening to me, come, and I won’t take these pills.” But she didn’t appear, and amid increasingly bitter sobs, I swallowed… one by one all those colorful pills. A few moments +later, as I waited for the miracle of our reunion, I felt a painful twinge, as if a bolt of lightning had pierced my brain, and I lost consciousness. .0 As I collapsed onto the pillow, the empty bottle of + .rolled across the bedspread until it crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.0 The noise woke up my guardian, and she ran into my room, wailing, because she sensed that something serious had happened to me. When she entered my room and saw me lying there, she exclaimed: “Good heavens! What have you done, little one?” She came over to me, and when she saw that I was unconscious, she shook me, trying to revive me. When she discovered the remains of the bottle, she immediately realized what had happened. “No! For God’s sake, it’s not possible that you’ve done something like this! But yes, you have; you must have swallowed all the pills from this bottle. Oh my God, what a tragedy! I have to call an ambulance, but where did I put that darn cell phone? In her panic and nervousness, she couldn’t find her cell phone, even though it was right within reach, and she let time slip by, putting my life at risk. Bewildered and distraught, she went out into the street looking for help, and as fate would have it, at that very moment a municipal police patrol on night watch was passing by, and a few minutes later an ambulance arrived with a doctor: “We can’t perform gastric lavage here because she’s in a coma. We have to get her to the hospital immediately, and may God help us—let’s hope she doesn’t die on the way. Poor child! Why would such a young girl try to kill herself?” That was the grim prognosis from the doctor who treated me. They had to be given a strong sedative, because she wouldn’t stop moaning and cursing herself for her carelessness. At the hospital, they treated me with all the standard medical procedures for such cases, but I showed no response, so they contacted my father to inform him of my admission and the treatment’s lack of results. Deeply shaken, he set out on a reckless journey back home. During the dramatic journey, he nearly crashed his car and took his own life as well, because two deaths in his absence were unbearable. To his despair, the reports from the doctors who treated me could not have been more negative. “Unfortunately, the bottle contained not only sedatives but also medications for your wife’s cardiovascular disease, and the combination could not be more harmful. I regret to tell you that your daughter’s life is now in God’s hands and in her own if she fights against death, but she is very young and does not have enough strength to fight against fate.” As if these grim statements from the doctor treating me weren’t overwhelming enough, they warned him that even if I were to come out of the coma, my brain might have been damaged and I might spend the rest of my life in a vegetative state. “Can I stay in her room until she comes out of the coma?” “Yes, we’ll make an exception. You can even talk to her, showing your love and your hope that she’ll survive—she might he might hear you—medicine isn’t an expert on souls, only on bodies. They set him up on a folding bed next to mine, and he remained watchful for any sign from me that might indicate my recovery. But the next day, I still hadn’t regained consciousness. As dawn broke and an unusual silence fell over the hospital, my father followed the doctor’s advice and decided to speak to me. He had been crying silently; he wiped away his tears and sat on the edge of my bed: “Daughter,” the doctors say that you might be able to hear me. If so, I beg you to fight against whatever is trying to drag you to your death and to survive, because if you die, I’ll lose the little girl I’d always dreamed of having as my daughter—the one who filled me with happiness and gave meaning to my life. I love you very much, just as much as I loved your mother, but in a different way. I’m not a good speaker, nor do I know how to express my feelings the way she did; I only know how to design houses, but I hope it’s enough for you to hear me repeat that I love you very much, and I beg you to find the will and energy to defeat death and recover without any lasting effects. As if nothing had happened—just a bad dream; a nightmare. That’s all I wanted to tell you... I hope you heard me. He came closer to me, kissed me on the forehead, and whispered anxiously, “Daughter, don’t you leave me too!” Then he returned to his tiny bed, where sleep overtook him. I was listening to him, but in a strange way. His voice echoed in my head as if he were speaking to me from inside a cave. No; my father wasn’t blaming me for my mother’s death, and I’d made a grave mistake for which I was paying the price. I tried to wake up, but all my efforts were in vain. Something was holding me fast, as if I’d been tied down. I couldn’t even open my eyelids, nor did I feel cold or hot. It was clear that my body was already lifeless—perhaps I was already dead. “Ivette, my little one, why did you do it?” Suddenly I heard, in that same strange voice, what seemed to be my mother. “Mom, is that you? But you were dead! - Yes, Ivette, I’m dead, and you’re clinically dead too—that’s why I can talk to you. But you’re only on the threshold, and you can still save yourself. - Mom, forgive me for letting you die—it was my fault. .. - Ivette, my little one, it wasn’t you but my destiny that was responsible for my death. Everything is written in the star from which we come. Just as pollen travels long distances in search of a flower to fertilize a fruit, souls emerge from the stars and travel long distances across the universe to fertilize the egg of a human being. It was written that I had to die that day, and no one could have prevented it. It is not written in your destiny that you will die in this hospital. You still have a long road ahead of you, many beautiful works to write, because you, too, will be a writer. I have only one piece of advice to give you before I embark on my long journey back to my star: when you have doubts about your talent, look up at the sky on a clear night and you’ll see that there are millions of stars—some are big and others are small, but they all shine with their own light. Whether you’re a great writer or a small one, always shine with your own light. My little Ivette, live, wake up, and greet your father with a smile, so he’ll know that you’ve conquered death. And now I must go. Never forget this advice; don’t forget that I gave it to you… And I could no longer hear her voice, because it had faded away A few moments later, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach and a bitter taste in my mouth. Little by little, my senses came back until I could open my eyes and see my father asleep. Dawn was breaking, and a ray of sunlight was streaming through my window; I could feel its warmth on my cheeks, so there was no doubt that I was regaining all my senses. I wanted to call out to him and wake him up, but I couldn’t get a word out. I tried again and again until finally, stammering, I managed to call out to him. - “Da… dad!” He woke up, and when he saw the ray of sunlight illuminating my face, he thought it was a hallucination. “Ivette, is that you calling me, or is this a hallucination?” I couldn’t answer, but I smiled at him just as my mother had asked me to, and my father realized I had woken up. It’s been twenty years since those events, and I’ll never know if the mother who appeared was really her or just my imagination, but every time I gaze at a starry sky, I remember her advice: “Whether you’re big or small, always shine with your own light.” The End X  Me, Adán. My memmories of Paradise ies Some readers will be surprised by the title of this story—and I’m not surprised! There must be a good reason why, after so many years, I’ve decided to write my memoirs—and there is. So many absurd and nonsensical things have been said about Eve and me that a bit of seriousness is called for, and who better than myself to tell my true story and recount my hardships? It’s not easy for anyone to be the first man on this world, but despite the difficulties, we’ve managed to get by—and there’s humanity, with nearly seven billion descendants and still growing! I don’t need to introduce myself, but for some clueless folks from remote cultures still waiting to be properly civilized, my name is Adam. Obviously, I don’t have a last name because I never had a recognized biological father, but for the sake of clarity, you can call me Adam of Paradise or Adam of Clay—it’s all the same, since both ideas relate to my origins. My biographers claim that God created me from a figure of clay into which He breathed His breath, and I’m not going to argue with the fundamental fact that I was created by God, but the part about the clay requires an important clarification. I was born in the depths of the ocean—and I won’t specify which one, because in my day there was only one, and everything else was land. Apparently, we already had problems with atmospheric pollution back then, though I couldn’t say why, since back then there were neither cars nor factories—in fact, there was nothing but viscous, heavily polluted mud. I don’t know who fixed it or how many millions it cost, because, among other things, we hadn’t invented money yet, but as soon as the atmosphere became breathable, you could say I was reborn—but this time on land, hence the idea put forward by my biographers. I still remember my early childhood, when I was nothing more than an insignificant little frog, just beginning my adventures on dry land. What happened next would take too long to recount, so I’ll summarize it by saying that one fine day I found myself an adult living in a paradisiacal place that God called the Garden of Eden. What was it like? I don’t know much about this subject because I’ve never been known for my knowledge of botany, but I remember there were many trees, since in my youth, you could say I hardly ever touched the ground. Nothing amused me more than jumping from branch to branch, from tree to tree, and traversing the boundaries of this earthly Paradise in the blink of an eye. Although it’s not proper for me to praise myself, I was such a cute little creature! The climate must have been like that of the Canary Islands, between 25 and 30 degrees Celsius, because I remember that because of it, it never even occurred to me to invent clothes. That came after the tragedy. Besides, what would I have wanted them for? Who could see me if Eve didn’t even exist? Back then I was strictly vegetarian, although by mistake I’d occasionally eat a bug because of their habit of camouflaging themselves among the foliage. How was I supposed to know the habits of chameleons! There were normal rivers, where I used to take good dips and, while I was at it, keep myself clean—because, yes, I’ve always been; but others were made of honey—though perhaps it’s a bit of an exaggeration to call them rivers; they were more like streams, and not even that—let’s just say honey was dripping everywhere, because there was an abundance of wild beehives. Of course, the bees in Eden didn’t sting like the ones do now! As for food, needless to say; it could be said that there was nothing inside Paradise that wasn’t edible. The legumes and vegetables weren’t like the ones we have today—they were all organic, of course, and so tender and soft that there was absolutely no need to cook them. Of course, on the other hand, fire hadn’t been invented yet! As for the other animals—which I certainly couldn’t call wild, since they were all as docile as c household pets, one could say there was a wide variety of them. In fact, for that very reason, years later Noah had quite a job gathering them all onto his ark during the Flood. My favorite animal was an African lion—well, so to speak, because Africa didn’t exist back then either; as I said, everything was called by the same name, Pangaea, although I have my doubts as to whether there might not have already been a continent or two by then. It was a calm and well-trained lion, whose primary purpose was to serve as a pillow for my regular sleep and naps. Has Hasn’t anyone ever experienced how comfortable and warm an African lion’s mane is? Well, to tell the truth, after Paradise, lions have grown weary of doing these and other favors for human beings. You could say that in the Garden of Eden I lacked for nothing and everything was within reach—unlike now. Back then, things were just as God intended! And speaking of God, of course from the very beginning we got along wonderfully. Don’t go thinking that God settled for just anything—He was extremely demanding in everything. There was nothing He created before me that He didn’t give His approval to after seeing how it worked. He made the heavens so vast that even today no one knows where they end. The Earth turned out a bit smaller, but it’s still vast—none of my earliest descendants could fully grasp the distances, and there was one who miscalculated—and thank goodness he discovered America, because otherwise I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to him. At first I thought the Earth was flat—how could I have imagined it was round! Even today I still wonder what prompted God to come up with such an idea, when it would have been so much simpler to make it flat. Oh well, He must have had His reasons. As I was saying, after seeing how I behaved—once my adolescence and my obsession with trees and other follies typical of that age had passed—it seems He was fully satisfied. For quite some time, things in Paradise worked like a charm. There wasn’t the slightest cause for complaint on either side. Of course, I wouldn’t have complained, since I’ve always known how to act with discretion and keep my distance. I have to say, in all honesty, that we never actually met face to face, and I still don’t know why, but I suspect that God is too great to fit into the world He Himself has created. That’s why I said it had turned out to be a bit too small for Him, unlike the heavens, which, as I said, are immense, and He must move about in them as if at home. To tell the truth, heaven is His home, as is written in all religious texts. Despite our initial difficulties in communicating, He always managed to get in touch with me and take an interest in my affairs. My health was of no concern to Him because diseases were not yet known. Sometimes He did so through an animal—though, of course, He didn’t use snakes for the reason everyone knows, which I’ll discuss later—other times by stirring up a gale with a voice-over, as they say nowadays, and most often He appeared to me in dreams. During these pleasant conversations between Creator and creature, He used to ask me questions that were sometimes difficult to answer given my ignorance of life, through which He tried to take an interest in my well-being, for it can be said that He did nothing else but keep abreast of my desires and, of course, control the other aspects of His creation. But I must clarify that while Creation itself did not concern Him at all, since He had endowed it with its own means for survival and stability, I was a special concern to Him. It was as if He were not entirely sure He had done a good job with me. I think He suspected I was plotting something against Him, when it is obvious that such an idea never even crossed my mind. Why on earth would I rebel against God if He provided me with everything I wanted and I was happy? But He insisted again and again: “Are you sure, Adam, that you’re not missing anything?” “Nothing at all!” “Well, I mean, is there anything that bothers you; something you don’t like…” “Actually, now that you mention it, if you could make the elephants a little smaller… They take up too much space, and this garden isn’t very big!” Plus, there’s the risk of getting trampled—not on purpose, of course. “No, that’s not what I mean; I’m asking if there’s anything you miss—if there’s something about your human nature that doesn’t work as it should.” —Honestly, if you don’t speak clearly, I don’t understand you! If you mean that I relieve myself anywhere when the urge strikes, next time I’ll look for a more secluded spot… —That’s not it, for heaven’s sake! —Well, I don’t understand you! —Don’t you observe the other animals? —Well, to tell you the truth, I do miss my youthful ability to climb trees like monkeys do, but that’s in the past now that I’ve settled down… —All right, fine, I’ll put it plainly: Don’t you miss having someone else of your own kind to chat with, go for walks with, and… well, what the heck, to enjoy the pleasures of nature! ? And so it went, day after day! The truth is, there wasn’t a single night when we didn’t talk about this new idea that had gotten into his head, because honestly, I didn’t miss anything at all. Little by little, I began to understand his reasons. Maybe he was bored with my conversation, and since I didn’t talk this way with the rest of Creation, it must have occurred to him that if there were more of us, we’d have more reasons to talk and other topics of conversation. But to be honest, I didn’t like the idea at all, because I had a feeling it would simply be a mistake, not to mention that it would put an end to the peace and quiet of Earthly Paradise. But back then I couldn’t explain this feeling, so God kept insisting that I give him my approval, because, as I said, He lived for nothing else but to please me, as if I were a spoiled child—of course, I was the only one! God insisted so much on the idea of creating a humanity to populate the Earth and rule over the rest of the poor animals and the wretched plants that I ended up giving in reluctantly. But what I didn’t find funny at all was the means He proposed to use for His purpose. Nothing less than using one of my ribs! It’s not that I knew at the time how many ribs were necessary for a normal existence, or whether I’d survive with one less—but what I wondered was, with all that clay available, why not use the same method, with whatever he was planning to create, just as he did with me? Had he run out of divine breath? Was he unsure whether the creature he was creating would turn out even as well as I did? “Why from my rib?” I dared to ask him in one of the dreams where we revisited the subject. “Because it is my will!” “Is there some hidden motive you’re keeping to yourself? —There is one: I want her to be clear about the subordinate place she must occupy in the world, since she was created from your rib! —I don’t see the point. —You’ll understand when you see her! —Is it a surprise? —You can’t even imagine! And that was the entire conversation we had about the new creature He planned to extract from one of my ribs islands. Fortunately, thanks to her special powers, the operation would pose no risk to my health and wouldn’t be painful. What’s more, I wouldn’t even notice it, because she planned to perform this delicate operation while I slept. So one fine day—I don’t know if that’s the right way to put it!—when I woke up on a misty spring morning, there it was! My first impression was disappointing. It was obvious that this thing, because I don’t know how to describe it, didn’t resemble me at all; it was missing some things and had others in excess. For example, in the lower groin area, it had no way to relieve the urge to urinate, and at chest level, two horrible, misshapen lumps protruded. With a body like that, it was impossible to take seriously the idea that it was “human,” and I say this in reference to God’s creation of humanity. At first, the thing didn’t say anything, but right from the start I noticed a certain air of superiority, and no doubt, despite its notable and obvious flaws, deep down it must have believed itself to be beautiful. What a mistake! I knew that if God didn’t use clay again, He’d mess things up! I immediately went to complain to God, but it was His day of rest, so I had to face the facts and resign myself to the idea that I’d at least have to spend the weekend with that misshapen creature. From the very first moment of its existence, that thing failed to live up to God’s expectations regarding its social standing, and without my giving it permission to speak to me, it started rambling on about a bunch of nonsensical things. “Hey, look who’s here—the hunk Adam!” “Ah, but don’t think I’m going to be easy—no way! Get used to the idea, handsome, that I’m not one of those!” “Which ones?”—I hadn’t intended to play along, but she’d barely opened her mouth for the first time and she’d already driven me up the wall. —Like those tree girls. The days of the alpha male and all that nonsense are over here! I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I had to put up with endless impertinences and demands of all kinds until finally, that night, after the Sunday rest, I was able to lodge my complaint with God, to see if there was still any hope of fixing this. “You’ll get used to her, Adam!” “But she’s a monstrous creature!” I replied in a manner uncharacteristic of me, but I was so furious that I couldn’t control myself. “Besides, she’s missing some parts and has too much of others—I don’t think I’ll survive!” “Adam, Adam, my child, don’t you understand? That’s the whole point of those differences!” But God didn’t want to give me any more details; He merely argued that she had to be different—among other good reasons—to prevent homosexuality, or at least until there were at least a couple dozen more human beings on Earth, a task He had entrusted to me, but without bothering to give me a clue as to how to go about it! Naturally, from the very beginning she tried to organize my life, telling me what I should and shouldn’t eat; correcting some of my manners—which were, of course, somewhat animalistic—at mealtimes; deciding where we should go for walks and which places we shouldn’t frequent because, according to her, they weren’t fit for human beings. She insisted that we live in a particular cave, which she thought was safe, even though there was nothing to fear in Paradise—but she must have carried this obsession with safety as some kind of genetic flaw, because it consumed her from day one. She strictly forbade me from climbing trees or sleeping next to the African lion, whom she wouldn’t let into the cave because she said those animals brought bugs and left everything covered in urine, as well as hair and other undesirable things. She told me what time I had to get up and go to bed, when and how I was to wash myself—especially my ears, which I detested. She also picked on my beard and my long, beautiful hair, which already reached my waist, because she said it didn’t make me look manly—as if I knew what she meant! Anyway, in just two or three days she turned the Garden of Eden upside down; it was never the same after her arrival! But worst of all was carrying out the task I’d been entrusted with: populating the world. At first, busy as she was putting the cave in order—obsessively cleaning every nook and cranny, placing odd things in the corners that she said created ambiance, and making a bed of hay, which, to tell the truth, was more comfortable than the hard floor where I used to sleep— she didn’t pay me the slightest bit of attention. Among the contraptions she invented around that time, the most curious was a stick with branches on one end that she used to sweep the floor—which we eventually came to call a broom—undoubtedly one of her most brilliant ideas, aside from the bed, of course. Because of all this, I actually began to gradually realize the advantages of her peculiar way of being, since it was obvious that she came up with more ideas than I did—and, to be honest, I didn’t have any at all back then. Resigned to having to share my life with such a person, I figured I should at least know her name, because she didn’t like it when I called her “thing,” as I used to do at the beginning of our relationship, and God didn’t let me get her name right. “Eva! My name is Eva—Eva of Paradise! And don’t you dare call me ‘thing’ again, and certainly not with that derogatory and condescending name, ‘my rib.’ That’s history now; we’re both equals in the eyes of society. And honestly, now that I know you, I don’t know what God was thinking when He created you that way. He must have been a little tired after creating so many good and useful things—like the entire Creation! Because I’m good for so many things, but you—go ahead and tell me what a man is good for in this world! She always had critical words for me, seeing nothing good or positive in me. If it had been up to her, she would have schemed to convince God of my uselessness, and, taking advantage of the fact that I was the only one on the entire Earth, she would have had me destroyed. But whatever the reason, the fact is that God didn’t usually address her directly during His appearances, but instead spoke directly to me. I think that by then God must have realized the mistake of having created such a creature, but things in Creation are irreversible, so I had to learn to live with her. After a few weeks, God appeared to me again in a dream, and from the tone of his voice I could tell he wasn’t in a good mood. “How are things going with Eve?” He asked me. “So-so, but I suppose it’s just a matter of giving it time. It’s not easy getting used to her cleaning quirks!” “And what about my humanity?” “What do you mean?” “What do you want me to mean? Do you think I created Eve to be your servant? I’m talking about your offspring!” “What offspring?” “Haven’t you… yet? Doesn’t Eve attract you sexually? Well, now that you mention it, if you mean that at night I feel strange when I brush against her…” “—Yes, of course; call it whatever you like! But have you done it yet?” “—Done what?” “—Love, man of God, love!” “—If you don’t speak more clearly…” —Yes, of course; call it whatever you like! But have you done it yet? —Done what? —Made love, for heaven’s sake, made love! —If you don’t speak more clearly! —“Well, let’s drop this subject, because it’s not my place to teach you those things; you’ll learn them sooner or later—Eva’s got a knack for that and knows how to handle things. When she asks you, you’ll find out!” —“I don’t understand why, ever since Eva’s been in Paradise, you’ve been talking to me in riddles. You used to always speak plainly!” —“Speaking of Eve, I’ve noticed she talks too much with the snakes…” —“Man, now that you mention it, it’s true—and she won’t let me sleep with my lion!” —“You need to keep an eye on this. Snakes are one of my few mistakes in Creation. I don’t trust them—they’re so slimy!” —“Well, if that’s the case, you’ve created other creatures that are even more repulsive, like cockroaches and bedbugs! —You’re always so quick-witted! —The truth is, I’m unable to control her, because she always does whatever she wants. She won’t even hear of her inferiority and submission to me—that drives her up the wall—and I’m not about to spend the whole day fighting with her over this! —I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have to do something to test her loyalty. I have no choice but to forbid you both from eating from the apple tree on the central hill in the Garden of Eden. —But that’s the very tree that bears the sweetest and juiciest apples! “That’s exactly why—because it’s such a great temptation—I’m forbidding you to eat them, to test your willpower. You have to learn that in this world, you shouldn’t do everything you can, but rather what you ought to do. Duty is the standard of conduct for every civilized human being! These were the kinds of conversations God and I had been having ever since Eve arrived in Paradise. Always arguing because of her! But the truth is that Eve surpassed me in practically everything, and while I was struggling to learn all about human nature, she seemed to know it all without having experienced a thing. It was baffling! What did she have that I didn’t? How was it possible—since she had been created from one of my ribs—that she was so different? The answer came to me from a serpent—specifically one that used to lurk around the forbidden apple tree—one time when I took an interest in its conversations with Eve. “ “She has intuition, and you don’t!” it explained to me. “And what is this thing that’s so important?” “It’s the knowledge found in nature; natural wisdom.” “You haven’t passed it on to her, have you?” “Maybe…” “And since I’m here, might I ask what you’re talking about all those hours you spend together under the sacred apple tree? You aren’t plotting something against God, are you?” “What sacred apple tree? All the trees here are the same!” “That was before; now it’s different, and you need to know that. Neither Eve nor I can eat from this apple tree!” “And who said so?” “God, of course!” “And who is God to interfere with nature?” —What nonsense! He can command whatever He sees fit—that’s why He created it! —You’re wrong, Adam. Neither He nor anyone else can interfere with natural laws once they’ve been established. That would be unnatural! Do Do you understand? Ever since that conversation with the serpent, it was clear to me that we’d be in trouble. No doubt Eve and she were hatching some major scheme, one I had to uncover and bring to God’s attention. That very night, I set out to pry whatever information I could out of her. I certainly didn’t choose the best moment, because I was in a lousy mood—and that’s putting it mildly— because in Paradise even the dogs were in a good mood. But despite my limited experience with the opposite sex, I had already learned a thing or two, and I knew how to approach her without arousing suspicion about my true intentions. “You look so beautiful today, Eve—it seems like only yesterday that God took you from my rib!” This first comment about her appearance softened her a bit, but she remained in a bad mood. “Cut the nonsense, Adam, I’m just not having a good day today! “But what’s wrong with you, woman?” “Women’s stuff; you wouldn’t understand!” “Teach me…” “I’m not in the mood.” “Well, I just wanted to tell you that I spoke with the serpent in the apple tree for a while today, and he struck me as a very intelligent creature!” “Really, Adam; do you also agree with its views on God? It was easy to lure her into the trap, because women may have a lot of intuition, but when it comes to cunning and strategy, they’re no match for us. Deep down, they’re naive, no matter how wise and down-to-earth they may be. That’s how I found out that Eve agreed with the serpent that God had no right to forbid us anything, let alone eating from the tastiest fruit tree in the Garden of Eden. The truth is, I didn’t really understand God’s reasoning or the moral purpose of the prohibition either. Why create things if they were forbidden? If He didn’t want us to eat from that particular tree, why didn’t He command me to cut it down, or do it Himself, since He was supposed to have the power to do so? Didn’t God know that what is forbidden is what human beings desire most—even the very first two of us? Didn’t He trust us? Why put us to the test if, in the Garden of Eden, there was absolutely no reason to complain about anything? The truth is that with each passing day, the whole matter of the prohibition became harder for me to understand. On the other hand, I began to suspect that once prohibitions were invented, the day would come when everything would be forbidden. That made no sense in the Garden of Eden! Would we eventually end up with one-way paths and places where it was forbidden to walk, lie down, or take a nap? Would there be caves with restricted access? Things that were forbidden to drink, eat, or smoke? No, that definitely wasn’t a good idea! As much as it pained me to admit it, God had botched things and allowed the serpent by the apple tree to hatch its plan. Finally, the inevitable happened. One fine day—it must have been around fall— when the apples on the forbidden tree were in season, Eve suggested we take a walk through the center to see what was new there. I wasn’t very keen on the idea, because the center of the Garden of Eden had become a noisy and very stressful place. Not only because of the elephants—whom God had refused to make smaller—but also because, for some time now, it seemed that all the animals in Paradise had the same idea, and not a day went by without them taking a stroll through there. We arrived at that infamous apple tree, and there it was, as usual, the rebellious serpent. I pretended not to see it, but Eve, who had become quite familiar with it, took the opportunity to say hello. “Good morning, serpent.” “Good morning, Eve and company. What brings you here? “Just taking a little stroll. It’s been a while since we’ve been downtown!” “It’s quite lively here, especially at this time of year when fruits and apples are in abundance.” “But you won’t be eating from this tree, I suppose. Since God said that…” “More than from any other! These are the tastiest!” “And doesn’t God punish them? —Why would He? What grows in nature belongs to everyone. Here, have one—try this one! Isn’t it a shame that the juiciest apples in the Garden of Eden are left to rot on the tree? That can’t be fair, even if God Himself ordered it! Eve, who didn’t stop to think much about the things she did—because she had no idea what was fair or unfair, that is, right and wrong—was already about to bite into the apple when I had to warn her about the consequences. “Wait, Eve, don’t do anything foolish; think of your descendants! What you’re about to do is wrong!” “But what is evil?” she asked, quite bewildered. “Well, evil… evil is… Well, I don’t know—there’s no such thing here in Paradise, but if you eat it, maybe we’ll learn about it—and that wouldn’t be good for us! “You’re always going on and on about morality!” “Well said, Eve!” said the slithering serpent, determined to get her way. And without thinking about the future consequences of her actions—typical of her, and I fear of her female descendants as well—she bit into the apple with gusto. I expected God to appear to us and rebuke her for her action, punish her with some as-yet-unknown affliction, and that would be the end of it—but nothing special happened! God didn’t show up at all—not as a gale, not through some sign in the sky, not through the voice of some animal more presentable than the serpent (of which there was no shortage in those parts), or in any other way. I figured He might wait until that night to call our attention in our dreams, but the most logical explanation was that He had played a joke on us, and eating from that apple tree wasn’t forbidden. After all, the serpent seemed to be right. “See? Nothing—nothing’s happening!” “That’s true, Adam. Well, now that you mention it, if you mean that at night I feel strange when I brush against…” “Yes, of course—call it whatever you like! But have you done it yet?” “Done what?” “Made love, for heaven’s sake, made love!” “If you don’t speak more clearly!” “Well, let’s drop this subject, because it’s not my place to teach you those things; you’ll learn them sooner or later—Eve’s got a knack for that and a way with things. When she asks you, you’ll find out! —I don’t understand why, ever since Eve’s been in Paradise, you’ve been talking to me in riddles—you used to always speak plainly! —Speaking of Eve, I’ve noticed she talks too much with the snakes… —Well, now that you mention it, it’s true—and she won’t let me sleep with my lion! —You need to keep an eye on this. Snakes are one of my few mistakes in Creation. I don’t trust them— they’re so slimy! —Well, if that’s the case, you’ve created other creatures that are even more repulsive, like cockroaches and bedbugs! —You’re always so quick with a comeback! —The truth is, I’m unable to control her, because she always does whatever she wants. She won’t even hear of her inferiority and submission to me—that drives her crazy, and I’m not about to spend my days fighting with her over this! —I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have to do something to test her loyalty. I have no choice but to forbid you from eating from the apple tree on the central hill in the Garden of Eden. “But that’s the very tree that bears the sweetest and juiciest apples!” “That’s precisely why—because it’s such a great temptation—I’m forbidding you to eat them, to test your willpower. You must learn that in this world, you shouldn’t do everything you can, but rather what you ought to do. Duty is the standard of conduct for every civilized human being!” These were the kinds of conversations God and I ever since Eve arrived in Paradise. Always arguing because of her! But the truth is that Eve surpassed me in practically everything, and while I struggled to learn all about human nature, she seemed to know it all without having experienced a thing. It was baffling! What did she have that I didn’t? How was it possible—since she had been created from one of my ribs—that she was so different? The answer came from a serpent—specifically one that used to lurk around the forbidden apple tree—one time when I took an interest in its conversations with Eve. “She has intuition, and you don’t!” it explained to me. “And what is this thing that’s so important?” “It’s the knowledge found in nature; natural wisdom.” “You didn’t pass it on to her, did you?” “Maybe…” “And since I’m here, may I ask what you’re talking about all those hours you spend together under the sacred apple tree? You aren’t plotting something against God, are you?” “ What sacred apple tree? All the trees here are the same! —That was before; now it’s different, and you need to know that. Neither Eve nor I can eat from this apple tree! —And who said so? —God, of course! —And who is God to interfere with nature? —What nonsense! He can command whatever He sees fit—that’s why He created it! —You’re wrong, Adam; neither He nor anyone else can interfere with natural laws once they’ve been established. That would be unnatural! Do you understand? Ever since that conversation with the serpent, it was clear to me that we’d be in trouble. No doubt Eve and she were hatching some major scheme, which I had to uncover and bring to God’s attention. That very night, I set out to pry whatever information I could out of her. I certainly didn’t choose the best moment , because I was in a lousy mood—and that’s putting it mildly, since even the dogs were in a good mood in Paradise. But despite my limited experience with the opposite sex, I had already learned a thing or two, and I knew how to approach her without arousing suspicion about my true intentions. “You look so beautiful today, Eve—it seems like only yesterday that God created you from my rib!” This first comment about her appearance softened her a bit, but she remained in a bad mood. “Cut the nonsense, Adam—I’m just not having a good day today!” “But what’s wrong with you, woman?” “Women’s stuff—you wouldn’t understand!” “Teach me…” “I’m not in the mood.” “Well, I just wanted to tell you that today I spoke for a while with the in the apple tree, and he struck me as an incredibly intelligent creature! “Really, Adam? Do you agree with his views on God, too?” It was easy to lure her into the trap, because women may have great intuition, but when it comes to cunning and strategy, they’re no match for us. Deep down, they’re naive, no matter how wise and natural they may be. That’s how I learned that Eve agreed with the serpent that God had no right to forbid us anything—least of all eating from the tastiest fruit tree in the Garden of Eden. The truth is, I didn’t really understand God’s reasoning or the moral purpose behind the prohibition either. Why create things if they were off-limits? If He didn’t want us to eat from that particular tree, why didn’t He command me to cut it down—or do it Himself, since He supposedly had the power to do so? Didn’t God know that what’s forbidden is what humans desire most—even the very first two of us? Did He not trust us? Why put us to the test if, in the Garden of Eden, there was absolutely no reason to complain about anything? The truth is that with each passing day, the whole issue of the prohibition became harder for me to understand. On the other hand, I began to suspect that once prohibitions were invented, the day would come when everything would be forbidden. That made no sense in the earthly Paradise! Would we eventually end up with one-way paths and places where it was forbidden to walk, lie down, or take a nap? Would there be caves with restricted access? Things that were forbidden to drink, eat, or smoke? No, that definitely wasn’t a good idea! As much as it pained me to admit it, God had messed up and allowed the serpent by the apple tree to hatch its plan. Finally, the inevitable happened. One fine day—it must have been around fall, when the apples on the forbidden tree were ripe—Eve suggested we take a walk through the center to see what was new there. I wasn’t very keen on the idea, because the center of the Garden of Eden had become a noisy and very stressful place. Not just because of the elephants—whose size God hadn’t wanted to reduce to a smaller size, but also because, for some time now, it seemed as though all the animals in Paradise had the same idea, and not a day went by without them taking a stroll through there. We arrived at that infamous apple tree, and there it was, as usual, the rebellious serpent. I pretended not to see it, but Eve, who had become quite familiar with it, took the opportunity to greet it. “Good morning, serpent.” “Good morning, Eve and company.” What brings you here? “Just taking a little stroll. It’s been a while since we’ve been downtown!” “It’s quite lively here, especially at this time of year when fruit and apples are in abundance.” “But I suppose you won’t be eating from this tree. Since God said that…” “More than any other! These are the tastiest!” —And God doesn’t punish them? —Why would He? What grows in nature belongs to everyone. Here, take this—try one! Isn’t it a shame that the juiciest apples in the Garden of Eden are left to rot on the tree? That can’t be fair, even if God Himself ordered it! Eve, who didn’t stop to think much about the things she did—because she had no idea what was fair or unfair, that is, right and wrong—was already about to bite into the apple when I had to warn her about the consequences. “Wait, Eve, don’t do anything foolish; think of your descendants! What you’re about to do is wrong!” “But what is evil?” she asked, quite bewildered. “Well, evil… evil is… Well, I don’t know—there’s no such thing here in Paradise, but if you eat it, maybe we’ll find out, and that wouldn’t be good for us! “You’re always going on and on about morality!” “Well said, Eve!” said the slithering serpent, determined to get her way. And without thinking about the future consequences of her actions—typical of her, and I fear of her female descendants as well—she bit into the apple with gusto. I expected God to appear before us and rebuke her for her action, punish her with some as-yet-unknown evil, and that would be the end of it, but nothing special happened! God didn’t show up at all—not as a gale, not with a sign in the sky, not through the voice of some animal more presentable than the serpent (of which there was no shortage in those parts), nor in any other form. I assumed He would wait until that night to call our attention in our dreams, but the most logical explanation was that He had played a joke on us, and eating from that apple tree wasn’t forbidden . After all, the serpent seemed to be right. “See? Nothing—nothing’s happening!” “It’s true, Adam, that whole prohibition thing was just to test our naivety as beginners. But by eating, we’ve shown Him that we’ve matured and have minds of our own; that we’re no longer kids who can be told, ‘Don’t eat this, don’t eat that,’ and so on. Here, show God that you’re an adult, too; take a bite of my apple, too! “Don’t even think about it!” I retorted, convinced that, after all, if God had forbidden it, He must have had His reasons. “Men! You go on and on about being macho, the stronger sex, and all that, but when it comes down to it, you’re incapable of making decisions for yourselves—without someone telling you what to do!” she reproached me contemptuously. Right from the start, Eve knew how to provoke me by calling my manhood into question at the slightest opportunity. But on the other hand, she was right—there were things we had to do for ourselves, according to our own understanding, which was why we had it in the first place, and as for the prohibition, as I said, it didn’t make much sense. Finally, there was the fact that I had to live with Eva and not with God. God was up in His heavens, peacefully going about His divine business, but I had to put up with Eva’s mood swings, living with her every day, every hour, and even every minute, because in this earthly Paradise there were no offices, nor jobs where one could spend a few hours away from one’s wife and relax with coworkers—not to mention such necessities as Sunday soccer or a little game of poker on Thursday nights; in short, excuses to get away from her for at least a few hours a day. But in the Garden of Eden that was impossible, because none of those things existed there, and everything boiled down to wandering around, napping under the trees, or chatting with the animals that could speak—and there weren’t many of them. Because of all that, I realized that if I didn’t bite into the apple starting that very day, my life—even in Paradise—would be hell. She would reproach me over and over again, throughout our eternity—for back then we didn’t die—for not having had the courage to bite into that blessed apple, since, after all, she had done it and nothing had happened! I don’t know why I had that moment of weakness—to the misfortune of my descendants and the rest of the innocent animals and plants!—which was undoubtedly influenced by the circumstances described and the serpent’s complicity. The truth is that I accepted the apple Eve offered me and took a bite with relish. Indeed, it was the juiciest and sweetest apple I have ever eaten. But, as was to be feared, tragedy struck! Suddenly the sky darkened with storm clouds, and a tremendous storm broke out—something completely unknown in those parts—so I knew it was God’s wrath for biting the apple. Not a drop of rain fell, but all the blind forces of nature were unleashed. A hurricane-force wind blew followed by lightning and thunder, and I was expecting God himself to appear at any moment to rebuke me for my misdeed. When the storm subsided, I immediately realized that something had changed radically, and my first instinct was to look for the largest fig leaf I could find to cover my genitals. But why that strange reaction? It must undoubtedly have been one of the side effects of the sin we had committed. At first, Eve laughed it off, but judging by the blush on her cheeks, she was also embarrassed, and she looked for another leaf to cover herself. It was comical to see us with one hand in front and the other behind, without really knowing why we were doing it! But there was undoubtedly a reason: until that moment, I hadn’t realized how attractive Eve was, and now I saw her in a whole new light—which is why we felt ashamed in each other’s presence. Because for the first time, we desired each other! Well, at least I desired her; as for whether she felt the same way, to be honest, I’m not sure. Amid the confusion caused by these new emotions, we heard God’s distinctive and familiar footsteps as He took His usual stroll through the Garden of Eden, and for the first time we felt the urge to hide—more out of embarrassment than anything else. We didn’t want God to see us naked. God, surprised not to see me, called out: “Where are you, Adam?” To be honest, the question took me aback, because I’d always believed that God saw and knew everything. But the rest of our conversation was even more surprising: “I’m sorry I hid from you, but I’m ashamed of being naked, and I haven’t had time to make myself something more decent to wear.” “Why are you ashamed?” “What a question for God to ask! You should already know that we’ve eaten from the forbidden apple tree, because you’re supposed to see and hear everything.” “Not only have you disobeyed me, but you’re also trying to act clever. “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard people say!” “Well said, Adam!” interrupted Eve, who was hiding behind a palm tree. “You’re the one to blame, woman! I curse you and I curse your descendants for disobeying me…” —It’s not my fault; it was the serpent, who is also one of God’s creatures—well, I mean, one of yours. “Aren’t you going a bit too far, God? But I already warned you that creating woman wasn’t a good idea. And now you’re taking it out on me!” “It’s true, Adam, woman is worse than snakes, but this won’t end here! From today on, she won’t have it easy. She’ll give birth in pain…” “What does “give birth”? —Don’t interrupt me, Adam! You’ll walk on your belly and eat dust every day of your life… —And what about me…? —For having fallen into temptation! —And get ready, because you’ll have to learn a trade. The easy life in Paradise—living without working—is over! —Well, that’s not so bad. Actually, this whole Paradise thing was kind of boring. —“I’m not done yet!” —“Is there really more to this just for taking a single bite of an apple?” —“From dust I made you, and to dust you shall return!” —“What does that mean?” —“Adam, I think God means we’re mortal now.” And that’s how that whole messy business ended. Then He sent one of His cherubim, armed with a flaming sword, to do the dirty work. —Get moving; you’re banished! And rudely, he threatened us with his sword, pointing the way out of the Garden of Eden. —Don’t worry—the serpent had the audacity to tell us, having, by the way, tagged along with us—. Now that you’ve had the courage to rebel against God himself, I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll make it! —Yeah, very funny, but what’s life like out there? “Out there, you’ll have to work hard from the very moment you set foot in the real world, and watch out for me and avoid my bites, because once we’re out, I won’t be responsible for my actions—and the misfortune might befall us that humanity doesn’t even get off the ground!” Fortunately, we lived near the exit—on the north side, I think—and we soon reached soon reached the borders. Once there, the angel who expelled us from Paradise gave us some final advice—I think on his own initiative, moved by pity for our misfortune. —As soon as you leave Paradise, you’ll notice strange things, like your legs getting tired on uphill slopes, or cold in your hands—well, all over your body—because you’re naked. You’ll experience something as unfamiliar as headaches and toothaches—which are the worst—though Eve will suffer the most unbearable pains, for she will give birth in pain, and, to make matters worse, being a first-time mother. You’ll have new feelings, such as the shame of being naked and the fear of the dark. Doubt will also assail you— disillusionment, misery, and disappointment—and all of this is because from now on you will be mortal. I’ll say no more; the rest you must learn for yourselves! And now, farewell—leave Eden at once, for you can never return, because I have orders to seal the gates shut for ever and ever, amen! And she threw us headfirst into the real world! I’ll never forgive myself for my weakness and the tremendous pain it has caused my descendants. But, to tell the truth, along with countless bad things, I learned a few good ones, and now, after all these centuries have passed, I don’t know whether to think that, despite everything, it was worth disobeying God. The first good thing is that I discovered sexual pleasure, since it didn’t exist in Paradise—which is why at first we had no offspring—which I now believe was the real reason God had us expelled, for how were we ever going to have offspring if desire didn’t exist? The second thing is that Eve, proud of me and contrary to God’s expectations, grew truly fond of me, and we discovered love, friendship, and companionship; and thus, we enjoyed happiness—but human happiness, not that heavenly happiness which here on Earth serves no purpose. Moreover, her hysterical fits from Paradise came to an end. Finally, I’ll say that Eve bore the brunt of it, but at the same time reaped the greatest rewards, for she saw her natural desire to have a child fulfilled—Cain, a charming creature born from her womb and not through some trick involving ribs, as was my case. Too bad he turned out to be a calamity, but that’s another story! And this is the true story of my origins and my life in Paradise; I hope I’ve entertained you. Oh, by the way, I received an email from Hollywood expressing interest in my story, but I think the time for this kind of movie on these topics has passed—there aren’t even any good actors left for such challenging roles. Anyway, I’ll see what I do; I’ve told them I’m thinking it over. X  Eva’s Demon