The Divine Supermarket by Ruthven Malise

Author:Ruthven Malise
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857731425
Publisher: I.B.Tauris
Published: 2012-04-24T00:00:00+00:00

IX

Cosmic Biz

God is the Iz-ness of the Is,

The One-ness of our Cosmic Biz;

The high, the low, the near, the far,

The atom and the evening star;

The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod,

The whole darned Universe – that’s God.

ROBERT SERVICE

I took the coast road to San Francisco. The weather was disastrous. The persistent Pacific mists kept most of the famous coastline with its rocky headlands and its black volcanic sands out of view. My knowledge of whales, giant sequoias, sea birds and what was termed the ‘eternal contest of ocean and continent’ had to be gleaned from fading tourist notices placed at scenic stops along the route. South of Florence, however, the mists parted for a few hours, revealing a thin, watery sun. I walked for several miles along a dune-flanked beach, watching small waders scudding mechanically before the waves and admiring a forest of ancient tree stumps that the ocean had sculpted into fantastically beautiful shapes. There was not a human in sight.

I spent one night at a campsite in a giant redwood grove south of Eureka. It was late and the few weekend campers were already asleep, except for a group of discreet revellers ensconced around a fire. There was a primeval, magical quality to the glow of faces under the massive, receding trunks, a distant echo of some ancestral memory of the forest. Too tired, and timid, to seek inclusion, I found a secluded lot at the edge of the ground. I switched off the lights and the engine, and was startled by muffled cries of a woman followed by what sounded like the heavy grunts of a bear. Alarmed, I got out of the camper and flashed a torch through the trees. The beam revealed a tiny canvas tent that was heaving and palpitating like a sackful of piglets: a couple, evidently in the throes of passion.

This had to be California.

Ivan had been recommended to me as the man with his finger on the city’s pulse. I met him next day at his home on Liberty street, at the top of a very steep hill with a magnificent view of the Bay. Above us a tall three-pronged radio mast skewered the mist, a diabolic symbol towering over the City of Sin. The neat painted rows of houses fell below in semi-circular rows, like seats in a Greek theatre. The house – really a cottage – was furnished with oriental rugs and kelims, Indian carvings, house plants and other organic things. The stereo was playing a version of the Beethoven Violin Concerto adapted for piano and orchestra. It seemed an appropriate theme for San Francisco: familiar yet somehow outrageous, like the carved and gabled ‘Victorian’ houses that people painted in over-bright colours.

When I commented on the music Ivan threw back his blonde Slavonic head and laughed at my purism. ‘I guess there’s a market for everything in this town,’ he said.

He was a fine-looking man, tall with piercing blue eyes and an infective exuberance. Over coffee and salad

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