Good To Be God by Tibor Fischer

Author:Tibor Fischer [Tibor Fischer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781846881053
Publisher: ALMA Books

Two days later, I come down to the kitchen to make some holy breakfast when I find the builders gathered around the television watching a sitcom. They are drinking what looks very much like Sixto’s beer.

I say nothing, but pick up a copy of the Miami Herald lying by the phone to read.

“Hey,” shouts one of the builders, “I’m reading that.” The impossibility of his reading a folded paper, two feet above and ten feet behind his eyes occurs to me. But in the mornings I prefer to be left alone, so I withdraw to my room.

When I leave at lunchtime, the builders are listening to some of Sixto’s compas collection. An hour later when I return they’re gone, and as I hydrate myself, I flick through the paper and notice a not-so-small item about the Mayor of Miami Beach’s son being abducted. Unsportingly, the taxi fare isn’t reported.

So, when Gamay phones up later and assures me they now have Cosmo (“we checked his ID”) I’m very tempted to say forget it. But, barely visible, ahead of me, is the glimmer of success. Be unidirectional.

My car won’t start. I call Gamay and Muscat repeatedly, but only get voicemail.

When the taxi drops me off at the new interview site (“Are you sure you want to be left here?”) after a comically expensive ride, there is no sign of Gamay and Muscat. If I’d driven, I would have driven off by the time they roll in, an hour and a half late, claiming they couldn’t find the turning. I’m very tired and dissatisfied.

To my great surprise, they extricate Cosmo from the trunk. He’s even handcuffed. Something’s wrong I think. We’re in a dark, isolated, I don’t know… unused part of Florida and Cosmo is on all fours in front of me, handcuffed. It’s exactly how I wanted it. Cosmo is shaken, but seems emboldened by the sight of me.

“You,” he says, “you can’t do this.” A little humiliation is in order. Recalling another anecdote of my Iraqi neighbour I order the DJs to urinate on Cosmo. Muscat can’t go with everyone watching, and although Gamay manages a trickle, Cosmo keeps rolling out of range. If you fail, you always have the tactic of pretending you haven’t, so I carry on with the admonition.

“Cosmo, you should go. You can go where you want, but you have to leave Florida.” I then pull out the Hierophant’s .22. The drawback with the .22 is that it’s small and looks as if it came from a packet of cereal or a teenage girl’s handbag. Professional killers apparently are very fond of the .22, but I doubt Cosmo knows that.

“This is a holy gun,” I say, remixing the Hierophant’s shtick. “The .22 is the choice of the godly, because it punishes the wrongdoer, but doesn’t, like a .44, go through the wrongdoer, three walls, a gardener and then kill a child on a bike half a mile away.”

Our eyes meet and Cosmo sneers: “You won’t shoot me.” This is the trouble with religion in the present day.

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