funny, Massimo?”
He’d stopped drinking, but that killer brandy was still percolating through his gut.
“Yes, you’re funny, Luca. You’re weird. You’re a terrible joke. Especially in this version of Italy. And especially now that you’re finally catching on. You’ve got a look on your face now like a drowned fish.” He belched into his fist. “Now, at last, you think that you understand, but no, you don’t. Not yet. Listen, in order to arrive here—I created this world. When I press the Function-Three key, and the field transports me here—without me as the observer, this universe doesn’t even exist.”
I glanced around the thing that Massimo called a universe. It was an Italian café. The marble table in front of me was every bit as solid as a rock. Everything around me was very solid, normal, realistic, acceptable and predictable.
“Of course,” I told him. “And you also created my universe, too. Because you’re not just a black swan. You’re God.”
“‘Black swan,’ is that what you call me?” He smirked, and preened in the mirror. “You journalists need a tag-line for everything.”
“You always wear black,” I said. “Does that keep our dirt from showing?”
Massimo buttoned his black woolen jacket. “It gets worse,” he told me. “When I press that Function-Two key, before the field settles in… I generate millions of potential histories. Billions of histories. All with their souls, ethics, thoughts, histories, destinies—whatever. Worlds blink into existence for a few nanoseconds while the chip runs through the program—and then they all blink out. As if they never were.”
“That’s how you move? From world to world?”
“That’s right, my friend. This ugly duckling can fly.”
The Elena’s waiter arrived to tidy up our table. “A little rice pudding?” he asked.
Massimo was cordial. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Got some very nice chocolate in this week! All the way from South America.”
“My, that’s the very best kind of chocolate.” Massimo jabbed his hand into a cargo pocket. “I believe I need some chocolate. What will you give me for this?”
The waiter examined it carefully. “This is a woman’s engagement ring.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It can’t be a real diamond, though. This stone’s much too big to be a real diamond.”
“You’re an idiot,” said Massimo,“but I don’t care much. I’ve got a big appetite for sweets. Why don’t you bring me an entire chocolate pie?”
The waiter shrugged and left us.
“So,” Massimo resumed, “I wouldn’t call myself a ‘God’—because I’m much better described as several million billion Gods. Except, you know, that the zeropoint transport field always settles down. Then, here I am. I’m standing outside some café, in a cloud of dirt, with my feet aching. With nothing to my name, except what I’ve got in my brain and my pockets. It’s always like that.”
The door of the Elena banged open, with the harsh jangle of brass Indian bells. A gang of five men stomped in. I might have taken them for cops, because they had jackets, belts, hats, batons and pistols, but Turinese cops do not arrive on duty drunk. Nor do they wear scarlet armbands with crossed lightning bolts.
The café fell silent as the new guests muscled up to the dented bar. Bellowing threats, they proceeded to shake-down the staff.
Massimo turned up his collar and gazed serenely at his knotted hands. Massimo was studiously minding his own business. He was in his corner, silent, black, inexplicable. He might have been at prayer.
I didn’t turn to stare at the intruders. It wasn’t a pleasant scene, but even for a stranger, it wasn’t hard to understand.
The door of the men’s room opened. A short man in a trenchcoat emerged. He had a dead cigar clenched in his teeth, and a snappy Alain Delon fedora.
He was surprisingly handsome. People always underestimated the good looks, the male charm of Nicolas Sarkozy. Sarkozy
He’d stopped drinking, but that killer brandy was still percolating through his gut.
“Yes, you’re funny, Luca. You’re weird. You’re a terrible joke. Especially in this version of Italy. And especially now that you’re finally catching on. You’ve got a look on your face now like a drowned fish.” He belched into his fist. “Now, at last, you think that you understand, but no, you don’t. Not yet. Listen, in order to arrive here—I created this world. When I press the Function-Three key, and the field transports me here—without me as the observer, this universe doesn’t even exist.”
I glanced around the thing that Massimo called a universe. It was an Italian café. The marble table in front of me was every bit as solid as a rock. Everything around me was very solid, normal, realistic, acceptable and predictable.
“Of course,” I told him. “And you also created my universe, too. Because you’re not just a black swan. You’re God.”
“‘Black swan,’ is that what you call me?” He smirked, and preened in the mirror. “You journalists need a tag-line for everything.”
“You always wear black,” I said. “Does that keep our dirt from showing?”
Massimo buttoned his black woolen jacket. “It gets worse,” he told me. “When I press that Function-Two key, before the field settles in… I generate millions of potential histories. Billions of histories. All with their souls, ethics, thoughts, histories, destinies—whatever. Worlds blink into existence for a few nanoseconds while the chip runs through the program—and then they all blink out. As if they never were.”
“That’s how you move? From world to world?”
“That’s right, my friend. This ugly duckling can fly.”
The Elena’s waiter arrived to tidy up our table. “A little rice pudding?” he asked.
Massimo was cordial. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Got some very nice chocolate in this week! All the way from South America.”
“My, that’s the very best kind of chocolate.” Massimo jabbed his hand into a cargo pocket. “I believe I need some chocolate. What will you give me for this?”
The waiter examined it carefully. “This is a woman’s engagement ring.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It can’t be a real diamond, though. This stone’s much too big to be a real diamond.”
“You’re an idiot,” said Massimo,“but I don’t care much. I’ve got a big appetite for sweets. Why don’t you bring me an entire chocolate pie?”
The waiter shrugged and left us.
“So,” Massimo resumed, “I wouldn’t call myself a ‘God’—because I’m much better described as several million billion Gods. Except, you know, that the zeropoint transport field always settles down. Then, here I am. I’m standing outside some café, in a cloud of dirt, with my feet aching. With nothing to my name, except what I’ve got in my brain and my pockets. It’s always like that.”
The door of the Elena banged open, with the harsh jangle of brass Indian bells. A gang of five men stomped in. I might have taken them for cops, because they had jackets, belts, hats, batons and pistols, but Turinese cops do not arrive on duty drunk. Nor do they wear scarlet armbands with crossed lightning bolts.
The café fell silent as the new guests muscled up to the dented bar. Bellowing threats, they proceeded to shake-down the staff.
Massimo turned up his collar and gazed serenely at his knotted hands. Massimo was studiously minding his own business. He was in his corner, silent, black, inexplicable. He might have been at prayer.
I didn’t turn to stare at the intruders. It wasn’t a pleasant scene, but even for a stranger, it wasn’t hard to understand.
The door of the men’s room opened. A short man in a trenchcoat emerged. He had a dead cigar clenched in his teeth, and a snappy Alain Delon fedora.
He was surprisingly handsome. People always underestimated the good looks, the male charm of Nicolas Sarkozy. Sarkozy
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