The Great Phone Directory of the Earth and neighbouring planets: Chapter 28
Chapter 28
- Τηισ ισ αλλ ωερψ ιντερεστινγ, βυτ Ι'ωε γοτ το γο νοω...
- Okay, I'm done, we can start now.
- Huh, what did you say? We can start what? The ceremony?
- No, not yet. You are always so impatient, you know that?
- You are so right. How foolish of me to be perturbed by a couple of killers invading my house.
- On Sedna you cannot proceed with the marriage without signing the ISAIAH form.
- What's that? Some kind of Jewish ritual?
- What are you talking about? ISAIAH is the name of a form. It stands for “In Sickness And In Absolute Horribleness”. It's a kind of prenuptial agreement that safeguards the bride.
- I really don't get that one.
- What, exactly, you don't get?
- The list would be far too long… For a start: why should the bride be safeguarded, and not me, for instance?
- Apart from the fact that I am the father of this specific bride here, you mean?
- Well, yes, apart from that.
- And also apart from the fact that my daughter will soon be married to a stranger that until a few minutes ago I was on the verge of leaving to a destiny of certain death, you mean?
- Well, yes, more or less…
- The reason is quite simple and I'll tell you why: you will have understood by now that one of the distinctive traits of our species is our ugliness...
- Yes, I sort of sensed that.
- Well, we are not talking simple ugliness here. It's a kind of ugliness that transcends the concept of “ugly”. You get used to normal ugliness. Let me give you an example: I bet you too have a friend or relative who is decidedly ugly. Well, you may have noticed that with time, with years going by, your brain has become accustomed to the monstrosity of that vision and slowly the sense of repulsion has diminished. That’s the force of habit. Well, ours is a kind of ugliness you never get used to: it remains impressed on the retina forever. According to a research carried out by our scientists, the neurons located closer to the eyeballs of those who look at us decide to commit suicide all together each time they lay their eyes on us.
- Come on, you are exaggerating!
- Just think that even today, after twenty-five years of marriage, before going home I must still make sure I have two precautionary bags with me.
- In what sense... precautionary?
- The first one for the possible retching that may occur every time I see my wife on the doorstep, waiting to welcome me; the second one, quite obviously, in view of the kiss on my daughter's forehead.
- Horrible.
- Yes, really hard to watch.
- No, I mean, the situation is horrible.
- To tell you the truth, not so much. Throughout the centuries our species has learnt to consider it like a distinctive trait which, besides, entails not a few advantages.
- Like what?
- Just to name one: the end of mediocrity. We are all immensely, immeasurably, irreparably ugly. We don't get the “nondescript type” over her, or people who do not stand out: each one of us, our own way, is actually so repulsive – in a decidedly peculiar manner – we see ourselves as unique. A sentence like “See that girl? I wonder what she had to do to become so successful” makes no sense at all for us. To make things clearer: film producers beg our actresses to maintain the relation exclusively on a professional level and, since they cannot always control it, they had to remove all the couches from their offices. Moreover: all films screened in cinema theatres on Sedna starring local actors are classified as “horror movies”. Even romantic comedies. Especially romantic comedies. Teenagers exchange under the counter movies without nude scenes. I could carry on for hours, and I would, if only it could help you understand that you never forget a face on Sedna.
- To tell you the truth, I think I got your point. What is still rather obscure to me is what has this ugliness thing got to do with the prenuptial agreement .
- Believe me, it is quite simple. Tell me, what was the name of that alien actress you mentioned just a few hours ago?
- Jessica Alba, you mean?
- Yes, her. If you were a hideous Sednian girl in your prime, about to get married with a stranger who will never be able to take you to dinner without throwing up half of it, often without even making it to the restaurant's toilet; and if you knew that for this stranger the image of the perfect woman, the finest of all, the one to make erotic dreams about, for hours on end, has the looks of Jessica Alba … I mean: you know what Jessica Alba looks like, don’t you?
- I do know.
- So, try this memory test: choose the best Jessica Alba image you can recall.
- What do you mean? But...how? Just like th…
- Just choose it and store it in an imaginary place to the left of you visual field.
- All right, done.
- Are you sure?
- Yes, it appeared in GQ, in 2005, I think it was the April issue.
- Well done, excellent choice. Not a bad issue at all.
- But how…?
- Please, don't interrupt me, I'm only halfway through. I was saying, take this picture of Jessica Alba by Mark Seliger…
- No, wait… how can you possibly know the name of the photographer?
- …and put it to the lef… What?
- How come you know those things?
- What things?
- Things like Jessica Alba's name, or the name of that photographer.
- Why, you think I don’t appreciate terrestrial women (or, in Jessica's case, women who only work on the Earth)?
- Well, no, in theory you shouldn't. But, even in that case, you are not supposed to know them, what their name is, or what magazines they have appeared in.
- Why not? You think that people like me have no right to subscribe to harmless terrestrial men's magazines? Or to have them regularly sent through the InterPipe?
- First of all, I don't even know what this InterPipe is. And anyway, you should only like those belonging to your… your…
- Come on, say it: “to your race”. Is that what you meant, right?
- Yes.
- But I am asking you: have you seen the women of my race? I have already described them, haven’t I? Now, tell me why I should choose one of those.
- Well, because they are your women.
- Your actress doesn't come from the Earth but I don't think I have detected the slightest qualm on your part.
- No, well, I was just thinking that ugliness, in a world of ugly people, would somehow be neutralized. Or that you may be able to notice other details, disgusting for us but, who knows, maybe seducing for you.
- You haven't understood a single thing of what I told you! You will never get used to Sednian ugliness! One of the greatest lies you can tell to a Sednian woman is “Darling, I think you are beautiful because I am looking at you through the eyes of love”. It's not true. Even the eyes of love could roll away. I'll tell you something: a few years ago one of my daughter's pen friends came to Sedna from Venus on a school trip. One of the first things he wanted to do was to meet my daughter. We tried to discourage him in every way, but couldn’t make him give up that insane plan. And, then, he saw her.
- Why you stopped talking?
- Well, because it's not a pleasant thing to describe: his eyes, after a moment of hesitation, started rotating in opposite directions, at first in sync, then in a totally casual way and, in the end, as in a last desperate attempt of a living organ going haywire like a machine, they suddenly stopped, one facing the other, generating the most improbable and gruesome type of squint that was ever analyzed by medical teams from here to the constellations of Andromeda and the Triangle.
- Poor bloke. What happened?
- Something that could also happen to you: they were staring at my daughter's image…
- They, who?
- They, the eyes. As you probably know, the images that our brain elaborates come from different sources (and I'm speaking in general terms, as there aren't many species, apart from mine and yours, that are provided with only one pair of eyes). Well, these different images are superimposed in order to obtain a meaningful one and, if the eyeballs are properly positioned, a three or four-dimensional image. What that unfortunate pair of eyes was trying to transmit to the neurons were two images whose respective details clashed so much that a comprehensive vision resulted impossible. The brain would receive the first image from the right eye, then the second one from the left eye, and in the attempt to compare and overlap them, could not find a single element of contact between them. Then, just like a machine or a robot would do, it considered that...
- Who?
- What do you mean “who”?
- Who… considered?
- The brain, this time. But, hey, Chance, or whatsyourname again... You cannot follow all I say employing only that part of brain that the wild Leotards from planet Pudloaf activate when they pick fleas from one another under the sun. Got it?
- You are oh so right! How stupid of me, while I'm listening to you, to insist on casting listless glances to the polishmen who are sealing with silicone all the shutters in my house.
- Oh, they have already reached that phase?
- What phase?
- Let me finish what I have to say first.
- As long as you remember telling me afterwards.
- …
- What’s wrong now?
- I cannot remember where exactly you have interrupted me. You always ask so many questions, and every time I have to make the umpteenth digression. This time you gave up immediately. You really caught me on the hop.
- You were saying that the brain was acting like a robot.
- That's right: it considered that the inconsistency of the images was due to a malfunctioning of the eyes, so it did what it had to do.
- And what was that?
- It put the eyes in stand-by mode: one facing the other. “Reversed amplified lateral vision”, it is called. It means that you see all that takes place on your left with the right eye, and all that occurs on your right with your left eye. But you see nothing in front and nothing at the back. You need years of rehabilitation only to restore a normal function like picking up a pencil with the right hand. Poor soul: I met him recently and he was walking Fosbury style. He was very glad to see me, and I would have been too, hadn't he spent 45 minutes only to take aim and shake hands properly. As he walked away, in an attempt to nod his head he produced a somersault and a perfectly performed pas de bourrée. It must not be easy to be cross-eyed, even on Venus.
- Well: the fact that you have ended a story makes me think we may find a conclusion to the other digressions left open.
- Tell me.
- You left me here with my imaginary Jessica placed in an imaginary place, to the left of my visual field.
- You are right. Keep Jessica there, move your eyes to the right. What do you see?
- Without taking drugs, you mean? Nothing.
- Good. In that exact point the image of my daughter as I will now describe her to you will appear. Are you ready?
- When you ask me those questions you are not really expecting an answer from me, are you?
- No, I’m not. But let's proceed. You must imagine a shapeless and disgusting surgical drainage bag a gruesome colour, full of liposuction leftovers. With holes, all around. On top, mimicking the hair, a sickly fantasy of overcooked squid-ink spaghetti, with a nice sprinkle of seasoned dandruff on top. The eyes. Oh, dear, those eyes. They seem to have fun dangling out of the orbits, held only by the blood vessels that protect the optic nerve. In order to look at a precise point she has to hold them both in her hands and orientate them manually. To clean the fingerprints left, then, usually a nice spit in the eyes is enough, followed by a good wiping on the sleeve. As for the nose, imagine a cavity from which mucus of various consistencies and colours spurts out non-stop, setting on her breasts, from where it must be necessarily chiselled away with a firm hand before going to bed. Luckily, the ears are not visible, hidden by two earwax stalactites that, in moments of inertia superior to two terrestrial minutes, also produce bizarre stalagmites at the ground level. About the mouth: the best period to observe the mouth is Autumn, when the wild mosses that nest in the teeth are still in the foliation phase: you can almost get a complete overview of the teeth, consisting of twelve canines and, for the rest, of molars coming in different shapes, sizes and inclinations. The breath composition has remained a mystery for all of us until a team of fearless scientists decided to analyze its content. The result was, in their exact words: “This is what we would obtain if we hid a putrescent truffle inside a used sock marinated in rotten egg yolk and left to dry a whole season beneath warm dung”. The good news is that we don't suffer from cavities: the environmental conditions of the oral cavity were found to be lethal to that kind of microbes. Let's examine the body...
- Do we really have to?
- I think you have the right to know exactly what is expecting you.
- Believe me: I appreciate a nice surprise.
- As the father of the bride, I must insist. The body, I was saying...I’ll skip the neck, for the simple reason that we don't have one: the trunk starts directly under the chin, taking on shapes that I could not possibly describe as some of them don't even have a name. The whole body, bar the armpits, is covered in thick hair. The whole year. Except for, obviously, the moulting season when the crab lice that live there against their will are finally free to escape, heading for a better life. Then, let's see... Have I already mentioned that our huge perspiration problem, even in winter, helps to preserve that characteristic stink of wild wet animal that...
- Please, stop.
- What do you mean, “stop”? We still have the belly left, then the reproductive system, the legs and the feet...
- No, I'm serious, I've had enough.
- So you are not doing it?
- I'm doing it anyway.
- Hang on, let's talk about it.
- I'm not hanging on forever. Here, for some reason, the polishmen are still sealing everything with silicone and, anyway, I like to see things through when I make a commitment.
- Are you sure you have positioned Jessica Alba to the left of your visual field, and the... thing I have just described to the right?
- I have. And despite the fact that – believe me – your description has somehow made the idea of death a pleasant and, on the whole, acceptable alternative, I still believe it's the right thing to do: I will get rid of the forced coexistence with this band of crazed killer editors, and your planet will be free at last to become a member of that Lyon's Club on the Milky Way.
- It's called Community Solar System.
- Whatever. Tell me about that ISAIAH form instead.
- What do you want to know?
- Everything. Since I have to sign it, I want to know what kind of obligations it entails.
- No obligations at all. We will take care of everything.
- What do you mean you will take care of everything?
- Just relax, that's all you have to do. It will only take a minute.
- No, first of all I want to know in detail what am I to do. Or, from what I see, what is it that you want to do to me.
- You still have the images of Jessica Alba and my daughter impressed on your visual field?
- Yes, I have.
- It's easy to understand, then: look at my daughter, the one on the right. Are you looking at her?
- I'm doing the best I can.
- All right. If you were her, if you were that shapeless cluster of bones, flesh and bodily fluids, wouldn't you feel at least slightly threatened by the fact that the mind of your fiancé is occupied, if only as an icon, also by the woman that, instead, is looming on the left?
- Well, let's say...
- Let's say what?
- Let's say I would be.
- See? You got your answer.
- What does it mean, that I should forget about an actress? Is that all?
- If it were simple as that, we would not need the help of a trained wiglet.
- No way, you can forget it. I have no intention of going near one of those things.
- I think you have no choice.
- Let’s do it this way: I solemnly swear that I will make an effort never to make impure thoughts again about Jessica Alba or any other human or alien female having similar features.
- As I was saying before you made a promise you know you cannot keep, it’s not so easy. The wiglet that is now approaching you has been modified so that it will introduce in your brain fake memories of unhappy love affairs with all the women you have loved in your life.
- What does that mean? That after being stung by the wiglet I will be convinced I had an affair with Jessica Alba for real?
- It is exactly as you say. And you will remember there was nothing so special about her. Yes, pretty girl, but nothing more than that. In the morning then, just out of bed, a real mess. Not to mention her lousy temper.
- I will remember that?
- Yes, and those split ends...
- Yeah, right, how could I forget those split ends!
- What about the valgus big toe?
- Don’t tell me!
- And sex, well, in the end, was nothing special.
- I can make it.
- You are a brave man.
- May I ask you just one question?
- Go ahead.
- What does "fake memories of all the women you have loved in your life " mean?
- What puzzles you in particular?
- The word "all".
- It means that the treatment will affect all your memories involving any female living being associated to kind feelings such as affection, friendship, love... Including, for instance, your beloved little waitress from your favourite pub you never had the nerve to speak to.
- No, no… Hold on... Including her?
- Well, that’s obvious.
- Stop everything now! And that wiglet, send it away immediately! I’m calling the whole thing off.
- What do you mean?
- I mean that I'd rather die.
- Okay, I'm done, we can start now.
- Huh, what did you say? We can start what? The ceremony?
- No, not yet. You are always so impatient, you know that?
- You are so right. How foolish of me to be perturbed by a couple of killers invading my house.
- On Sedna you cannot proceed with the marriage without signing the ISAIAH form.
- What's that? Some kind of Jewish ritual?
- What are you talking about? ISAIAH is the name of a form. It stands for “In Sickness And In Absolute Horribleness”. It's a kind of prenuptial agreement that safeguards the bride.
- I really don't get that one.
- What, exactly, you don't get?
- The list would be far too long… For a start: why should the bride be safeguarded, and not me, for instance?
- Apart from the fact that I am the father of this specific bride here, you mean?
- Well, yes, apart from that.
- And also apart from the fact that my daughter will soon be married to a stranger that until a few minutes ago I was on the verge of leaving to a destiny of certain death, you mean?
- Well, yes, more or less…
- The reason is quite simple and I'll tell you why: you will have understood by now that one of the distinctive traits of our species is our ugliness...
- Yes, I sort of sensed that.
- Well, we are not talking simple ugliness here. It's a kind of ugliness that transcends the concept of “ugly”. You get used to normal ugliness. Let me give you an example: I bet you too have a friend or relative who is decidedly ugly. Well, you may have noticed that with time, with years going by, your brain has become accustomed to the monstrosity of that vision and slowly the sense of repulsion has diminished. That’s the force of habit. Well, ours is a kind of ugliness you never get used to: it remains impressed on the retina forever. According to a research carried out by our scientists, the neurons located closer to the eyeballs of those who look at us decide to commit suicide all together each time they lay their eyes on us.
- Come on, you are exaggerating!
- Just think that even today, after twenty-five years of marriage, before going home I must still make sure I have two precautionary bags with me.
- In what sense... precautionary?
- The first one for the possible retching that may occur every time I see my wife on the doorstep, waiting to welcome me; the second one, quite obviously, in view of the kiss on my daughter's forehead.
- Horrible.
- Yes, really hard to watch.
- No, I mean, the situation is horrible.
- To tell you the truth, not so much. Throughout the centuries our species has learnt to consider it like a distinctive trait which, besides, entails not a few advantages.
- Like what?
- Just to name one: the end of mediocrity. We are all immensely, immeasurably, irreparably ugly. We don't get the “nondescript type” over her, or people who do not stand out: each one of us, our own way, is actually so repulsive – in a decidedly peculiar manner – we see ourselves as unique. A sentence like “See that girl? I wonder what she had to do to become so successful” makes no sense at all for us. To make things clearer: film producers beg our actresses to maintain the relation exclusively on a professional level and, since they cannot always control it, they had to remove all the couches from their offices. Moreover: all films screened in cinema theatres on Sedna starring local actors are classified as “horror movies”. Even romantic comedies. Especially romantic comedies. Teenagers exchange under the counter movies without nude scenes. I could carry on for hours, and I would, if only it could help you understand that you never forget a face on Sedna.
- To tell you the truth, I think I got your point. What is still rather obscure to me is what has this ugliness thing got to do with the prenuptial agreement .
- Believe me, it is quite simple. Tell me, what was the name of that alien actress you mentioned just a few hours ago?
- Jessica Alba, you mean?
- Yes, her. If you were a hideous Sednian girl in your prime, about to get married with a stranger who will never be able to take you to dinner without throwing up half of it, often without even making it to the restaurant's toilet; and if you knew that for this stranger the image of the perfect woman, the finest of all, the one to make erotic dreams about, for hours on end, has the looks of Jessica Alba … I mean: you know what Jessica Alba looks like, don’t you?
- I do know.
- So, try this memory test: choose the best Jessica Alba image you can recall.
- What do you mean? But...how? Just like th…
- Just choose it and store it in an imaginary place to the left of you visual field.
- All right, done.
- Are you sure?
- Yes, it appeared in GQ, in 2005, I think it was the April issue.
- Well done, excellent choice. Not a bad issue at all.
- But how…?
- Please, don't interrupt me, I'm only halfway through. I was saying, take this picture of Jessica Alba by Mark Seliger…
- No, wait… how can you possibly know the name of the photographer?
- …and put it to the lef… What?
- How come you know those things?
- What things?
- Things like Jessica Alba's name, or the name of that photographer.
- Why, you think I don’t appreciate terrestrial women (or, in Jessica's case, women who only work on the Earth)?
- Well, no, in theory you shouldn't. But, even in that case, you are not supposed to know them, what their name is, or what magazines they have appeared in.
- Why not? You think that people like me have no right to subscribe to harmless terrestrial men's magazines? Or to have them regularly sent through the InterPipe?
- First of all, I don't even know what this InterPipe is. And anyway, you should only like those belonging to your… your…
- Come on, say it: “to your race”. Is that what you meant, right?
- Yes.
- But I am asking you: have you seen the women of my race? I have already described them, haven’t I? Now, tell me why I should choose one of those.
- Well, because they are your women.
- Your actress doesn't come from the Earth but I don't think I have detected the slightest qualm on your part.
- No, well, I was just thinking that ugliness, in a world of ugly people, would somehow be neutralized. Or that you may be able to notice other details, disgusting for us but, who knows, maybe seducing for you.
- You haven't understood a single thing of what I told you! You will never get used to Sednian ugliness! One of the greatest lies you can tell to a Sednian woman is “Darling, I think you are beautiful because I am looking at you through the eyes of love”. It's not true. Even the eyes of love could roll away. I'll tell you something: a few years ago one of my daughter's pen friends came to Sedna from Venus on a school trip. One of the first things he wanted to do was to meet my daughter. We tried to discourage him in every way, but couldn’t make him give up that insane plan. And, then, he saw her.
- Why you stopped talking?
- Well, because it's not a pleasant thing to describe: his eyes, after a moment of hesitation, started rotating in opposite directions, at first in sync, then in a totally casual way and, in the end, as in a last desperate attempt of a living organ going haywire like a machine, they suddenly stopped, one facing the other, generating the most improbable and gruesome type of squint that was ever analyzed by medical teams from here to the constellations of Andromeda and the Triangle.
- Poor bloke. What happened?
- Something that could also happen to you: they were staring at my daughter's image…
- They, who?
- They, the eyes. As you probably know, the images that our brain elaborates come from different sources (and I'm speaking in general terms, as there aren't many species, apart from mine and yours, that are provided with only one pair of eyes). Well, these different images are superimposed in order to obtain a meaningful one and, if the eyeballs are properly positioned, a three or four-dimensional image. What that unfortunate pair of eyes was trying to transmit to the neurons were two images whose respective details clashed so much that a comprehensive vision resulted impossible. The brain would receive the first image from the right eye, then the second one from the left eye, and in the attempt to compare and overlap them, could not find a single element of contact between them. Then, just like a machine or a robot would do, it considered that...
- Who?
- What do you mean “who”?
- Who… considered?
- The brain, this time. But, hey, Chance, or whatsyourname again... You cannot follow all I say employing only that part of brain that the wild Leotards from planet Pudloaf activate when they pick fleas from one another under the sun. Got it?
- You are oh so right! How stupid of me, while I'm listening to you, to insist on casting listless glances to the polishmen who are sealing with silicone all the shutters in my house.
- Oh, they have already reached that phase?
- What phase?
- Let me finish what I have to say first.
- As long as you remember telling me afterwards.
- …
- What’s wrong now?
- I cannot remember where exactly you have interrupted me. You always ask so many questions, and every time I have to make the umpteenth digression. This time you gave up immediately. You really caught me on the hop.
- You were saying that the brain was acting like a robot.
- That's right: it considered that the inconsistency of the images was due to a malfunctioning of the eyes, so it did what it had to do.
- And what was that?
- It put the eyes in stand-by mode: one facing the other. “Reversed amplified lateral vision”, it is called. It means that you see all that takes place on your left with the right eye, and all that occurs on your right with your left eye. But you see nothing in front and nothing at the back. You need years of rehabilitation only to restore a normal function like picking up a pencil with the right hand. Poor soul: I met him recently and he was walking Fosbury style. He was very glad to see me, and I would have been too, hadn't he spent 45 minutes only to take aim and shake hands properly. As he walked away, in an attempt to nod his head he produced a somersault and a perfectly performed pas de bourrée. It must not be easy to be cross-eyed, even on Venus.
- Well: the fact that you have ended a story makes me think we may find a conclusion to the other digressions left open.
- Tell me.
- You left me here with my imaginary Jessica placed in an imaginary place, to the left of my visual field.
- You are right. Keep Jessica there, move your eyes to the right. What do you see?
- Without taking drugs, you mean? Nothing.
- Good. In that exact point the image of my daughter as I will now describe her to you will appear. Are you ready?
- When you ask me those questions you are not really expecting an answer from me, are you?
- No, I’m not. But let's proceed. You must imagine a shapeless and disgusting surgical drainage bag a gruesome colour, full of liposuction leftovers. With holes, all around. On top, mimicking the hair, a sickly fantasy of overcooked squid-ink spaghetti, with a nice sprinkle of seasoned dandruff on top. The eyes. Oh, dear, those eyes. They seem to have fun dangling out of the orbits, held only by the blood vessels that protect the optic nerve. In order to look at a precise point she has to hold them both in her hands and orientate them manually. To clean the fingerprints left, then, usually a nice spit in the eyes is enough, followed by a good wiping on the sleeve. As for the nose, imagine a cavity from which mucus of various consistencies and colours spurts out non-stop, setting on her breasts, from where it must be necessarily chiselled away with a firm hand before going to bed. Luckily, the ears are not visible, hidden by two earwax stalactites that, in moments of inertia superior to two terrestrial minutes, also produce bizarre stalagmites at the ground level. About the mouth: the best period to observe the mouth is Autumn, when the wild mosses that nest in the teeth are still in the foliation phase: you can almost get a complete overview of the teeth, consisting of twelve canines and, for the rest, of molars coming in different shapes, sizes and inclinations. The breath composition has remained a mystery for all of us until a team of fearless scientists decided to analyze its content. The result was, in their exact words: “This is what we would obtain if we hid a putrescent truffle inside a used sock marinated in rotten egg yolk and left to dry a whole season beneath warm dung”. The good news is that we don't suffer from cavities: the environmental conditions of the oral cavity were found to be lethal to that kind of microbes. Let's examine the body...
- Do we really have to?
- I think you have the right to know exactly what is expecting you.
- Believe me: I appreciate a nice surprise.
- As the father of the bride, I must insist. The body, I was saying...I’ll skip the neck, for the simple reason that we don't have one: the trunk starts directly under the chin, taking on shapes that I could not possibly describe as some of them don't even have a name. The whole body, bar the armpits, is covered in thick hair. The whole year. Except for, obviously, the moulting season when the crab lice that live there against their will are finally free to escape, heading for a better life. Then, let's see... Have I already mentioned that our huge perspiration problem, even in winter, helps to preserve that characteristic stink of wild wet animal that...
- Please, stop.
- What do you mean, “stop”? We still have the belly left, then the reproductive system, the legs and the feet...
- No, I'm serious, I've had enough.
- So you are not doing it?
- I'm doing it anyway.
- Hang on, let's talk about it.
- I'm not hanging on forever. Here, for some reason, the polishmen are still sealing everything with silicone and, anyway, I like to see things through when I make a commitment.
- Are you sure you have positioned Jessica Alba to the left of your visual field, and the... thing I have just described to the right?
- I have. And despite the fact that – believe me – your description has somehow made the idea of death a pleasant and, on the whole, acceptable alternative, I still believe it's the right thing to do: I will get rid of the forced coexistence with this band of crazed killer editors, and your planet will be free at last to become a member of that Lyon's Club on the Milky Way.
- It's called Community Solar System.
- Whatever. Tell me about that ISAIAH form instead.
- What do you want to know?
- Everything. Since I have to sign it, I want to know what kind of obligations it entails.
- No obligations at all. We will take care of everything.
- What do you mean you will take care of everything?
- Just relax, that's all you have to do. It will only take a minute.
- No, first of all I want to know in detail what am I to do. Or, from what I see, what is it that you want to do to me.
- You still have the images of Jessica Alba and my daughter impressed on your visual field?
- Yes, I have.
- It's easy to understand, then: look at my daughter, the one on the right. Are you looking at her?
- I'm doing the best I can.
- All right. If you were her, if you were that shapeless cluster of bones, flesh and bodily fluids, wouldn't you feel at least slightly threatened by the fact that the mind of your fiancé is occupied, if only as an icon, also by the woman that, instead, is looming on the left?
- Well, let's say...
- Let's say what?
- Let's say I would be.
- See? You got your answer.
- What does it mean, that I should forget about an actress? Is that all?
- If it were simple as that, we would not need the help of a trained wiglet.
- No way, you can forget it. I have no intention of going near one of those things.
- I think you have no choice.
- Let’s do it this way: I solemnly swear that I will make an effort never to make impure thoughts again about Jessica Alba or any other human or alien female having similar features.
- As I was saying before you made a promise you know you cannot keep, it’s not so easy. The wiglet that is now approaching you has been modified so that it will introduce in your brain fake memories of unhappy love affairs with all the women you have loved in your life.
- What does that mean? That after being stung by the wiglet I will be convinced I had an affair with Jessica Alba for real?
- It is exactly as you say. And you will remember there was nothing so special about her. Yes, pretty girl, but nothing more than that. In the morning then, just out of bed, a real mess. Not to mention her lousy temper.
- I will remember that?
- Yes, and those split ends...
- Yeah, right, how could I forget those split ends!
- What about the valgus big toe?
- Don’t tell me!
- And sex, well, in the end, was nothing special.
- I can make it.
- You are a brave man.
- May I ask you just one question?
- Go ahead.
- What does "fake memories of all the women you have loved in your life " mean?
- What puzzles you in particular?
- The word "all".
- It means that the treatment will affect all your memories involving any female living being associated to kind feelings such as affection, friendship, love... Including, for instance, your beloved little waitress from your favourite pub you never had the nerve to speak to.
- No, no… Hold on... Including her?
- Well, that’s obvious.
- Stop everything now! And that wiglet, send it away immediately! I’m calling the whole thing off.
- What do you mean?
- I mean that I'd rather die.
English translation by Paola Corazza
© 2009 Gianluca Neri - All Rights Reserved