Divine inspiration

Torrenostra is a dismal carbuncle on the smooth face of the Costa del Azahar. If it were not for the dead motor in the taxi, dead and cooling in the lesser heat on the N-340, I would have spent the minimum possible time there. I would have stayed long enough to visit my customer and then fled to the hills.

Well, at the very least I would have headed to Torrenostra's ugly-beautiful twin, Torreblanca. From the main body of Torrenostra a wide multilaner hurtles off at right angles to the coast, like a lightning bolt heading towards the first slopes of the crumpled mountains; gradually it earths itself in fields of succulents, narrowing and slowing, until the tarmac crackles against Torreblanca. Utilitarian and less developed, Torreblanca has more charm in any given brick than its seaside sibling has in its entirety. It is hardly a coincidence that none of my clients would look twice at it.

Perhaps I am maligning him too much, this gentleman, manager of one of the sea-front properties. Perhaps I am deriding his identical tower blocks more than they deserve. These buildings are hammered into the ground along a fragment of shoreline, the straightness of which makes one marvel at how it could have come into being without man's intervention—that is, marvel for as long as it takes to conclude that Mother Nature has had little to do with Torrenostra. Perhaps I am not qualified to cast the first stone, though. After all, it is not as if he had stooped as low as I: he owned; I merely consulted. At any rate, I was happy to finish my conversation with him and, once his secretary had delivered the bad news about my transport to Valencia, wander briefly around the development. Very briefly.

The coastal strip of Torrenostra consists of two or three parallel roads, linked by a baffling one-way system. Right by the ocean are the thrusting benidormitories, but off the promenade a handful of surprisingly nonidentical buildings slouch together: half a dozen houses daubed in the regional, traditional way contrast with the thrusting, dynamic image of the rest of the town; a small church's architecture is an odd mix of mid-American Pentecostal and storehousing; and a patioed restaurant/bar looks for all the world like a miniature White House.

This last building is an indescribable mixture of outré nonsense and subservient staff ethic; frankly, it is the last place, in this last place on earth, where I would expect to find God.

Now. I hope I haven't led you astray with my talk of the church. I worry that you are now assuming that the great, uncatholic Catholic Church, dotted across Spanish soil like an asperges-me sprinkle, has netted me and rendered spotless my ungodly, consultant's soul. The odd mixture of humble toil and wide, Utah expanses exuded by the construction of that holy building has touched my heart, you are thinking. Well, perhaps not exactly that, but you hopefully see my point.

Let me reassure you: no. Not a bit of it. When I say I found God, do not take that as some Damascene fit. I found him. Talked to him, I mean. In the bar of that Casa Blanca. When I first clapped eyes on him—Him, I suppose, but let him speak for himself—he was munching on the olive from his twenty-fifth vodka martini.

He grinned at me from across the bar, and waved me over.

I had time to kill. The taxi firm could spare no replacement vehicles for a few hours. I was bound only for an overnight stay anyway, and then an early train to Madrid, so although I would have to book another taxi eventually there was no rush. Still not completely certain he was who I thought he was—it was as yet a gut feeling, something intuited—I strolled over and sat down.

"It sure is good to see a friendly face around here," he said, rolling his words past the olive stone that he eventually plucked from his mouth. Like the Ancient of Days he was bearded and dressed in white; unlike any divine vision I have seen before or since his beard was a salt-and-pepper Oliver Sacks, and his raiments were a crumpled Man from Del Monte that accommodated, but did not hide, a middle-aged paunch. He also sounded faintly Bostonian, and was balding. "Have a drink?"

Something about it all was so... unshocking (if not unsurprising) that before I knew it I had already ineptly ordered una cerveza pequeña and started thinking about what to say (what could one say?) I let my companion complain about the weather and praise the food. Before my first sip of beer he had got through three more olives and their accompanying martinis, and started on some tapas that might have been placed on the table when I had been looking elsewhere. Maybe. All this gave me time to think, though, to weigh up eternal verities and prioritize my enquiries. This made it all the more disappointing that my first question was:

"What's going on with your accent?"

Now, I know it had been tickling my attention since he had first started speaking in that Amerenglish wash, but really, if this actually was the Host of Hosts in front of me then you would think I could have opened more smoothly than that.... But he seemed glad of a conversational start and nodded, as if I had said exactly the right thing.

"Like it?" he asked rhetorically. "I thought it was quite an Everyman touch, to be honest. Very hard to pin down, and with the right lilt you can sound like you're from anywhere: Australia, eastern Europe, even America." He grinned at this non-joke, and then winced at a memory. "I tried a deep South accent for a while. People's reactions were so darned extreme towards Me talking like that. It was an improvement on my Italian, though. The Pope himself probably wouldn't have been able to have a conversation with me then, though, as it was only really medieval Latin, vulgarized a bit. Well, a bit more."

"So do people recognise you often?" I blurted out and, if it brings me forgiveness then I'm sorry. I still like to think that, as my mouth was opening, I was hoping for perhaps a "why are we here?" to rumble decisively forth; instead, there I was, talking to him as if he were a pop star. He ruminated for a few seconds and swiped another drink from somewhere, pulling the fat, unstoned fruit off the cocktail stick with his teeth. Twenty-nine.

"Sometimes. Not often. I should mention now that you're right, and I Am Who Is. More than that, I Am Who Is eating this excellent olive. Mmm, anyway, it doesn't matter that much if people don't know who I am, although those involved would no doubt think otherwise. I don't come here for adulation, you know, and I cut my cloth to fit the wearer, not the wearer to fit My cloth. Good one, no?"

He grinned. I boggled. An ironic deity.

"Don't get me wrong," he continued. "I'm not here as the voice in your ear. I don't want to force anyone's hand. Unless someone wishes advice then I don't offer it: still less fortune-telling. And just because you've seen me here today, don't go expecting the Rapture any time soon. This isn't one of those visits. You're a bright enough guy but I mention that all the same."

"The Rapture?" I said, leading finally up to a big question. "So you're the Christian God, then? Or the Jewish one? Or Muslim? Hindi?" Please: like an idiot, I almost prayed, let it be mine.

But I had to tail off. He had unleashed His secret weapon on me. It was a fascinating, Cheshire-cat smile, hard to describe but I'll attempt to do so anyway. He fixed me with a stare. Then his eyes twinkled unexpectedly. The mirth in them swept downwards; in one slow gesture he began smiling just with his two front teeth; as he pulled the corners of his mouth into two dimples the rest followed suit, resulting in a glorious, gently mocking expression as big as, well, everything. It didn't so much convey good humour as an amused, noncommittal shrug.

"Play fair," He rumbled once the shrug-smile had faded. "No questions about ontology, eschatology or ecclesia. Or sport. I'm pretty clueless when it comes to sport."

I sighed, and thought. In my mind I struck a line through most of my questions. By the time I had finished all the big ones were deleted, so I decided on a clever-clever one instead.

"Why? I mean, why can't you tell me? Surely you can give me a hypothetical situation? I mean, it's not as if you're so convincing that I would necessarily take your word as, uh, as gospel, so-"

"Aren't you convinced?"

I squirmed. "I... Yes, I suppose I am." I was by now, but I could not say why.

"There you go then. If someone handed you what, as far as you were concerned, was the hallmarked word of Me, there's no telling what you'd do with it."

"Look, I'd be... well, I'd be all right about it, you know."

"No, I don't know. I commit myself to a denial of foreknowledge in human affairs. In My infinite wisdom—which I think you frankly underestimate when you meet Me in the guise of a fat-ass, middle-aged tourist—I cause My own self to forget what I know prior to thy deeds and the consequences thereof, that you might have free will. By permitting thee to exercise this freedom I express My boundless love for thee. And apart from that ex cathedra crap, I've told saner people than you, and they were crazier afterwards."

I had a sudden flash of insight and said: "You planned for that to happen, though, right?" but not so quick a flash that he hadn't had time to take a refill.

"That's not the point. There are rules I have set Myself and these I choose to obey. I therefore limit myself to small changes; tiny, minor changes in the backwaters of human affairs, that I might show my love while still giving you the chance to reciprocate that love."

"Minor changes like what? Conjuring vodka martinis?"

I was beginning to lose my temper. One really oughtn't to lose one's temper with God, although I suppose people do it all the time. Only they're not actually in His presence. Arguably. But—thankfully—he seemed entirely unruffled by my ruffling.

"They're tremendously good vodka martinis, you know. Have one." And before I could accept, I did: before me, swirling gently in a conical glass as if it had just been mixed, was a cool martini. Such a bizarre, almost inept gesture. If it had been anyone else I would have said they were trying to please, or even atone; it took the heat out of my temper straight away. I took a sip. Compared to the beer it tasted, I have to say, divine.

"Minor changes like having a chat, or just saying hello, or buenas dias, or even bon dia," he continued. "Just because your boffins talk about all this chaos nonsense, it doesn't follow that I don't know what 'minor' means either. And it doesn't follow that I don't know what 'major' means, and avoid it like the plague."

"Major, like what?" He began another smile and I quickly followed with: "Hypothetically. Please."

"Hypothetically. Hmm." He thought for a few seconds, and rubbed his beard. "Well, not like the plague itself, hypothetically. But were I—hypothetically—to have attempted direction of human affairs in the past, then I would have obviously not permitted myself to know how events would transpire, in advance of those events."

"Obviously." It wasn't that obvious, but I supposed he had his rules.

His face darkened a little. "I had—would have had—some notion of what possibilities I might have brought about. But even My children have some foreknowledge, unless they are truly morons. Nonetheless, like you're thinking, I have my rules. I have my rules. And if only-" (he looked at me with suddenly sad eyes) "-I had followed all of them back then... back in the twenties, then just maybe I wouldn't have convinced him to sell so fast-"

"The crash? The great depression?"

He nodded, and wailed in the voice of Cassandra: "Mammon! The root of all evil!" Then, suddenly a little happier again: "It isn't really, of course. After all, I bankroll this place with my occasional visits—this vodka comes from somewhere, although I guess it needn't—and in turn this bar can afford to give others pleasure by being so ridiculously colonnaded and dressed in tons of marble and other garbage. But," he continued, leaning back in his seat, "events in entre-deux guerres America-" (he pronounced it entray-dew gayers, or something similar) "-were an important lesson that I gave to Myself through My creation; one that, were I to have permitted it, I would have known before it needed to be learnt. Hypothetically, I should add. I've been neglecting to say 'hypothetically.'"

My head swam a little. I was confused, and I felt we were moving away from the point somewhat. I had to steer the conversation clumsily back to what I wanted to hear. "Look... can't you tell me anything?" I pleaded. "What will become of me? Will I be happy? When and where will I die?"

He bristled. "I'm not Mystic Meg."

"I know. But is there really nothing you can tell me?"

He chewed on this, and on his olive stone, and then said quickly: "where are you heading?"

I took this literally; besides, my mouth obeyed Him faster than my brain. "Valencia, to the Hotel Calidad. Tomorrow I'm taking the first train to Madrid."

"Oh, Calidad, you say? That sure is a grand little motel. Well, it's getting late now, so I suggest you stay on in Valencia for a second night."

"There is..." I felt the weight of destiny upon me: "some task that I might perform?"

"Yes, My child. In the vicinity of the Hotel Calidad, on the corner opposite, is a restaurant, the Buena Vista. I know the owner well, Guido Cavalcantes. A decent human being, although I will say nought of his religious beliefs, of course. You must speak with Guido."

"Y-yes?" I stammered.

"Tell him his friend in Torreblanca sent you. He'll give you the best seat in the house, and chances are you won't have to pay. Certainly you won't have to tip."

There was a pause. Even the Gaggia held its breath.

"Is that all?"

"No. I have saved the most important till last. Try the lobster."

Flopping back in my chair, I put my hand to my head. Unheeding, my companion slurped his way through his drink. I was, to be honest, unimpressed. I'd met God, and what was he? A raconteur, a comedian and a restaurant critic. And, frankly, a bit smug. God had turned out to be an American Ned Sherrin.

He gave his shrug-smile as I thought this, and my heart fell through the floor. Uh-oh. Oh, no, I thought. I wished I could follow my heart down there, through a crack in the ground, as he said:

"I heard that, you know. Not that I mind. I do understand, really I do. But look at it My way. Well, as best you can. I can either appear to you all trumpets blazing, surrounded by an angelic host, and dispensing justice and benedictions this way and that, and you'll be overawed and frankly poor company in the cocktail hour-" (thirty-one) "-or I can appear as another human being and risk my discourse attracting human flaws. Speaking of flaws," he said, suddenly changing tack, "you're not happy with your job but you stick with it because you think it's all you're good at."

I was stunned, and my mouth flopped goldfishedly. He had swung brutally round to the point, at any rate. And he was spot on.

"It's fairly clear. I have no, well, I suppose you'd call it magic bullet, for what's wrong with you. I think you just need rest and thought. I may be a healer," He acknowledged in a soft voice, "but there are no quick fixes. Although there may be such a thing as a free lunch, of course. If I've given you dominion over them you might as well try them with that marvellous sauce Guido does."

Then, just as quickly, He was back to discussing Himself, or at least the body and mind He was wearing. "Consider yourself damn lucky that the presence of Me that you perceive before you is only guilty of the minor fault of smugness—not even a sin, when you come to think of it. If you told a real middle-aged American going to seed that he was actually Yahweh, and he believed you from one side of his soul to the other, then a sense of self-importance is frankly the best reaction you can hope for. Megalomania is more likely."

"I suppose."

"Imagine that, My child. A megalomaniac, who also happens to be right. You certainly wouldn't want to be having a drink with me. And besides, it wouldn't be fair on the waiters."

I nodded, still digesting what He'd said. It was a little thing but the source it had come from.... Should I take the time off, I wondered? Stay the extra day, see the sights in a quieter city than bloody-Madrid-again. Meanwhile, He was still talking.

"If the Christians are correct, and note," He interjected, "I say 'if', then you see Me every day. You see Me in the tiniest child and the whiniest idiot. So enough of being judgemental, because there's only one of us at this table that has that remit, OK?"

I sighed. "OK. That's it, then? Chit-chat, gags, career and restaurant advice, and then a mild ticking off?"

"It's a good restaurant, trust Me. Quit complaining."

"I'm not. Really, I'm not. But... is there really nothing else you can tell me?" There was a heated conversation going on by the bar at this moment. A customer had just entered, looking scruffy, and began firing rapid romance language at one of the waiters. I wondered if my companion would intervene, if an argument broke out.

"What, should I get my crystal ball out?" By now I noticed He did suddenly have a snifter of brandy, and I wondered if He was going to light a cigar. That, at any rate, would solve a minor ethical matter for me. But, as it were, no cigar.

"No, just... I need something."

He smiled. I smiled. I realized that neither of us was as angry as I worried we both were, was sure I was. The situation again squeezed out the bad feelings, precluded the tantrums I wanted to throw. And I had no fear of His wrath, although it's hard to say why. Of course, I still didn't want to offend this person, whoever He really was: whatever His ontology, He'd probably say.

"I understand. Something to remember Me by. Well, now." He closed His eyes and put his drink in front of Him. He waved his hands around it theatrically. Putting one hand over the top of the bowl He puffed smoke under it, waited, and then slid His hand away to reveal cool vapours hovering over golden Spanish brandy. The restaurant seemed to have become slightly louder, and the waiter by the bar was calling something out now. But my companion was calm, and said portentously: "I see... indecision. A long journey is ahead of you, many miles and revelations. I also see... many clamouring for your attention."

"Señor?"

The waiter had appeared by my shoulder, and coughed. I turned at the noise, half in surprise and half in annoyance. "Can't this wait?" I was about to cobble together in Spanish. But he said quickly "Es taxi para ti, afuera." Outside, waiting for me.

I looked at the waiter, and then back at Him. He gave his shrug-smile, and it was as infuriating, and as beautiful, as it had been all conversation. "My doing, My child. I sorted it all out few minutes ago. Time's up. Sorry to break it to you like this, but I'm not so good at good-byes. I've never really had the chance to practice. Give my best to Guido."

The next thing I knew I was out in the street again, with a suspiciously spotless cab ticking over by the kerb, its engine running sweet as honey. The full force of the encounter began to strike against me. It was like someone tapping against a gong, each knock less gentle than the last, until it took all my strength to take the few steps to the open door, climb in next to my luggage which had appeared almost as miraculously as the car, and stop my knees from knocking together.

As I was in the final throes of the pantomime of shock, the driver turned round and gave me a beatific smile, before ramming the gas pedal down and causing the taxi to launch itself in the direction of the main road. Yes, I reflected: these were driving habits that a thirty-odd martini drinker would approve of.

I hadn't said goodbye, I don't think, although given whom I'd been talking to then there probably wasn't much point. Part of me, a tiny part, still didn't believe what had just happened, still less in the identity of my companion. He could've been just a charlatan, loaded up with enough charm, personal details, and colour from the Valencian travel guides to woo a hot, befuddled semi-tourist who felt abandoned in a piece of nastiness like Torrenostra.

He could have, and I admit that the voice of that sceptic was in me somewhere, but it was cowed by a great calmness that had begun to well up from somewhere deeper down than those doubts. Far away from intellect and rationalization, the knowledge of who He really was stretched, in His words, from one side of my soul to the other.

I decided that the very least I could do for Him was to spend another day out here in the east. You can't get a better recommendation for a restaurant than I had been given, I thought. No, wait. I won't do it for Him, I decided. Well, I will, but mostly I'll do it for me. For me. And a moment later I had dozed off on the back seat.

What happened in Madrid the next day I leave to the historians to recount. Certainly I was glad to still be in Valencia, as the whole world tuned in to watch the events unfold in the capital. I remember waking up at nine—late for me—to hear someone shouting in the street outside, padre, padre! Whether a cry of anguish for a parent they knew had been on one of those trains, or a request for a priest, I couldn't tell.

I tried to weigh it up in my mind. My life had been saved. I had been held back and kept out of danger. And who had I been saved by? How could I be expected to deal with that knowledge? Would I have to live the rest of my life with the mark of Cain upon me, blessing as much as curse? This might be some signal, that along with my disenchantment with the world of property consultancy, I had some higher calling that would also lead me away from commerce and economics to some sort of purer....

A few days later I had calmed down, not least because I was back in the cooler climate of London: cooler sun, cooler temperaments, cooler head. Yes, He'd kept me out of Madrid. But even if I had caught my train that morning, I wouldn't have been anywhere near the explosions. My train would have continued idling an hour out of the city, the handbrake on or whatever train drivers do; I would have been stuck with my fellow passengers, all of us glum at the delay and oblivious to its cause. So my life could hardly have been saved that day. Moreover, He'd said Himself that He stuck to the little changes, dabbling here and there. If anything had been done to me or through me then it couldn't have been important.

So what had been the reason? Caprice? Friendship? A deistic whim? Or a subtlety I couldn't see, or that wasn't yet to be seen? Why hadn't he saved someone else? Or all of them? What did it mean?

Eventually I just gave up. It was too big, yet it was possible that it was too small at the same time, and that defeated me completely. But I do spend a lot of my days praying now, although it's not clear whether I'm praying to a grey-haired old man in the sky or a white-suited fiftysomething in a bar in Torrenostra. I didn't used to believe, but I believe now; I believe very strongly indeed. I just don't know what in.