The Cult of Venus
The first bang on my door came at 4:13 in the afternoon. I’d been in front of my screen all day and just an hour earlier I thought I was close to accomplishing my goal. Now the system was crashing. What I needed was a nap, my eyelids were heavy and sleep was beckoning to me like escape to the prisoner. Then a second round of hammering erupted at my door, “For Chrissake,” I mumbled to myself as I stepped away from my malfunctioning computer.
“Just a minute!” I yelled, whoever it was, they’d have to wait while I splashed my face with water, and washed my mouth out with Listerine.
As I was covering my long curly hair with a Warriors hat, there was a third round of knocks at my door. I caught my reflection in a small mirror that separated the two sides of my coat rack and realized how angry I looked. I took a deep breath to compose myself before opening my door.
“A-ha, Zamir, Zamir, Zamir. You looka’ so beautiful I could kiss your earth brown skin.” It was Palermo, my neighbor from across the hall who’s Italian accent always got thicker when they were excited.
“What’s gotten into you? Why were you hammering on my door that way?” I asked the short man who wore Gucci loafers and covered his bald head with expensive fabric.
“Well, Zamir, I apologize for interrupting your precious Friday afternoon. But, I have made a breakthrough on my most recent work of marblé. It is my opinion that an event like this calls for a celebration, don’t you think it?” he asked, smiling up at me showing his glittering golden molar.
“Sure, why don’t we celebrate tonight?”
“Nonsense, I will not hear of it. Please, let me in, prepare some espresso, and we will share this fantastic blend of high-potency cannabis sativa, lavender, mugwort, and rose petals,” he said, displaying a king-sized joint with his pinky finger sticking high into the air.
I was annoyed with Palermo, but I needed a break and didn’t mind the idea of a mid-day smoke. Palermo and I had celebrated the completion of his finished pieces together on my balcony four or five times before; he insists that my perspective as a lay person is far more valuable than that of the elite art world's critics. The truth is, I think he’s rather lonely and I doubt his art has many admirers. I made like I was struggling with what to do before saying, “Fine, you can come in, but I don’t have any espresso, only a French press.”
Palermo stepped through the door, looked a little disgusted, then asked, “What about the cream eh?”
“I have some cream, yes.”
“Zamir, my friend, I can tell that you are tired; maybe you have had a long day or a long week, of that I am not so sure. I thank you for your hospitality and—to demonstrate my gratitude—I will make for you, the coffee with cream and sugar,” he said, clasping his strong, pale palm on my shoulder, squeezing it, and heading towards the kitchen.
I was still irritated with Palermo but the edge of my emotion was being dulled by his high spirits. He began fumbling awkwardly with my French press then looked up at me and asked, “So how have you occupied your day prior to my arrival?”
I rubbed my eyes and yawned, “I was working on the software for the new Core X Processor and something went wrong. It’s like it had a life of its own, I’ll have to fix it but–”
“Just a minute,” Palermo said, interrupting me. “Where is the music? A beautiful moment like this needs the right music. Don’t you think it?”
I pulled out my phone and turned on a nearby bluetooth speaker. “Let me guess, you were thinking Vivaldi?” I poked fun at my guest because I was not convinced of his Italian heritage.
Palermo paused halfway through pouring steaming water over the grounds. “To be honest with you, in my mind I was imagining Ottorino Respighi. But, Vivaldi is a splendid alternative.”
I decided to play one of Respighi’s more obscure pieces to see if he would be able to tell the difference.
“This is a beautiful song,” he said, pretending to conduct the orchestra with a stirring spoon. “Vivaldi accessed and amplified the emotions of his deepest soul, don’t you think it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“How much sugar you take? One or two?”
“Just one is fine.”
“Good man. Come, let us smoke on your balcony, I want to tell you of my project.”
Fog was rolling into The City and the air outdoors was refreshing and cool. I ignored the handle of my coffee cup and enjoyed its warmth in my palm.
Palermo struck a match to light his joint. He’s the only person I’ve ever known whose preferred mechanism for generating fire is matches. He took three long puffs followed by a swig of his coffee and passed the smoldering work of art my way.
“So…” I said through thick bursts of aromatic smoke, “what’s got you so excited about this project?”
“First, let me ask you a question, Zamir,” he said, beckoning for the joint.
“If you must.”
“Why do you think it, that the antiquated polytheist mythologies always include romantic relationships between their Gods and Goddesses?”
I took a sip of my coffee and swished the strange question around my head like the bitter liquid in my mouth. “Give me a second to change the music,” I said, trying to buy some time before answering. I pressed play on Herbie Hancock's HeadHunters album and took the joint back.
“A lot of stories in that time were used to explain natural phenomena that called for curiosity. For example, Persephone is the daughter of Demeter, the Goddess of agricultural harvest. So, when Hades abducts Persephone to the underworld her mother is wrought with grief; consequently, her role as Goddess of the harvest is neglected, causing a devastating winter. The conflict is brought to the attention of Zeus who rules that Persephone is to spend half her time with Demeter on earth and half her time in Tartarus with Hades. The story was used to explain the change of the seasons: Persephone was supposed to stay in the underworld for the six months of fall and winter but, when she emerged, the whole earth would rejoice in spring.”
“But, isn’t there...how you say it, something more? In some cases don’t the Gods and Goddesses represent metaphysical forces, with their union a symbolic demonstration of a harmony in nature?”
“I think that balancing act takes place more often between siblings,” I said, knowing I was steering him away from his main point. “The most obvious example that comes to mind is Helios and Selene — literally sun and moon.”
“Perhaps,” he grunted, looking offended because I hadn’t agreed with him.
“Were you thinking of a specific example?” I asked.
“Yes, but of course. I was thinking of the marriage between Venus and Vulcan.”
I did a quick translation of the Roman names to the Greek which I was more familiar with. Had Aphrodite married Hephaestus? The joint must have been working because my memory regarding the subject was hazy. “Ah, have you fallen in love, Palermo?” I asked, avoiding the details of the myth.
“You’ve guessed it, but surely it is not the way in which you are thinking. Palermo the sculptor has been visited by Venus, of this there can be no doubt. But, it is not a woman with whom I am enamored. Rather, it is a work of art — a creation of Hephaestus.”
I paused to take another drag off the joint that was reaching its end. “I see,” I said, despite my uncertainty. “So…you’ve fallen in love with your sculpture?”
“Not quite exactly Zamir. First, I fell in love with an Idea. Taking place in the studio of my imagination some twelve years ago, I created the perfect woman. There has never been a woman in the world more beautiful, of that I can assure you. Then, as a labor of my devotion to her, I spent much of my free time over these twelve years attempting to recreate the image I had in my mind. Truthfully, I will tell you that it was a million failures; my human hand could not replicate the form I saw in my imagination because any perceptible flaw was intolerable; much like Vivaldi I could not settle for less than what existed in my truest heart.”
“But today you’ve had a breakthrough?” I said, suppressing my desire to laugh over both Palermo’s imagined classical expertise and his surface level notion of the perfect woman.
“Today, I have overcome the greatest obstacle of all. For years, I was unable to give justice to my statue's eyes.”
“Until today?”
“Precisely, Zamir. Until today.”
“Well, I’m glad you found love. And in this city, it’s far from the strangest relationship I’ve heard of,” I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“Come on then, don’t you want to see her?” he asked, tossing the roach off my balcony.
“Damnit Palermo, I’ve told you not to throw anything off my balcony. I have an ashtray,” I scowled at him.
“It is beside the point my friend. Come, come, you will be the first, besides myself, to set eyes upon her,” he said, standing up and sliding by me. “Permiso, grazie.” He made his way into my living room, set his cup by the sink, and cocked a stoned sideways smile my way.
I was feeling pleasantly buzzed as we floated across the hall to Palermo’s cluttered studio and gallery. I had never actually been inside of Palermo’s apartment before; it smelled like wet clay and was nearly full of statues. Some of the pieces were surely too large to fit in our elevator; plus marble is heavy. How the hell did he get all this up here?
I might have smoked too much, I thought upon entering his private space. Sweat was crowding my palms, and I was giving extra attention to the rapid pace of my heartbeat. In front of his bedside window was the form of a statue covered by a thin white sheet. Palermo strutted confidently in its direction for the unveiling.
“Ta-dah!” he announced, as he pulled the veil back on his marble statue.
I hadn’t expected her to be as beautiful as he’d boasted. The proportions of the body were divine, the hair was shoulder length and curly, the lips round and full. Still, most intriguing of all were the dark orange eyes which looked out from the stone with a melancholy understanding. I was awestruck.
“Palermo,” I finally stuttered. “This is wonderful.”
“Wonderful, ha! She is far more than wonderful. Pay attention to her eyes,” he said, then began waving his hand in front of the statue's face. To my surprise, her apricot eyes seemed to be following his movements.
“That’s quite the effect,” I murmured.
“I have endowed her with an implant,” Palermo said, pointing towards the back of her head. “Behind her eyes are motion detecting sensors.”
“How long did it take you to figure that out?”
“Twelve years, twelve years of fixing every single detail. But, it was all worth it. She’s the best statue I ever created and she’s all mine,” he said, on the verge of tears.
“You don’t plan on selling the piece?”
“Never, not in a hundred thousand rotations around the sun. I made her so that I could enjoy her perfect beauty. I made her so I could be with her day and night,” he said, stroking her hair.
“Well…she really is perfect, Palermo.” I didn’t know what else to say, I couldn’t take my eyes off the statue and the idea of a man falling in love with a piece of marble was sounding less and less insane. “Have you named her?” I asked.
“Ah, I am glad you ask it. She has always been my Giuliana .”
“That’s beautiful,” I said, my eyes still fixed to the statue. I wish she were mine, I thought.
Then, almost as if sensing my reaction, he picked up the sheet and concealed his masterpiece. “I thank you for coming over,” he remarked. “And for celebrating with me on your balcony.”
“Thank you for having me,” I smiled. Had he gained insight into my jealousy?
“We will have to do it again sometime soon. But, next time you make the coffee for me.”
“That sounds fine, whenever you want.”
“Good,” he was walking me to the door now. He must have sensed my reaction. How embarrassing, I thought. Better to just play it off like nothing happened.
“Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Surely!” his golden tooth glimmered back at me, then his door shut. I stood in the silent hallway for a brief moment. I wanted to go back into Palermo’s bedroom and sit in front of the statue until it whispered the secrets of love to me. I wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to look deeply into its life-like eyes. This was, however, impossible; I doubted whether he would ever let me, or anyone else for that matter, view the statue again.
Instead, I went back to my apartment, closed my eyes, and tried to commit the image to memory. I had to see her again. Knowing she was so close and yet completely out of my reach would drive me mad before midnight.
With closed eyes my imagination was like a lucid dream. Palermo was always mixing strange herbs in with his marijuana. I hadn’t given the blend a second thought before smoking it, but as I tilted my head back and allowed my mind to obsess over the image of the statue, I wondered if we hadn’t smoked something a bit stronger than lavender and rose petals.
Synesthesia, everything was colorful, and the brightest image of all was Palermo’s statue, luring me in. Then a call to my cell phone interrupted my trance. Shit, is it really 6:45? I thought, remembering I was supposed to be meeting friends from work.
“Hello,” I answered, on the last ring.
“What’s up, are you coming out tonight?”
“Damn, the day’s gotten away from me. My Processor is fighting back, I’ve got to do some serious damage control or you may not see me in the office next week. ”
“Zamir–” a loud crash in the background interrupted him, “oh come on bro, it’s going to be a good night, everyone’s here and Alexa’s been asking about you.”
I tried to conjure up an image of Alexa from our company’s sales department. My friend knew I’d always had a crush on her, but for some reason I was unable to remember what she looked like. “Sorry, you know how I am, once I start something I’ve got to finish it.”
“Whatever, suit yourself then, I’ll see you Monday morning. Peace.”
“Peace,” I said, then hung up the phone.
I really should check on the Processor, I thought. And anyways, I felt strange, I didn’t want to go making a public appearance with the swarm of questions that were buzzing about my head.
Still, I was past wondering if it’s possible to feel infatuation for a statue. I wasn’t able to explain why it was happening to me, but there was no question that it was happening. A part of me lectured, calling the feelings for an inanimate object: “sick and unnatural.” But this voice was smothered every time my mind recreated her perfect image.
“What am I doing?” I asked the empty room.
I went back to my desk and attempted to settle into my work. The Choctaw Processor was essentially a code cracker. I was employed by the Blackrock Cooperation and they wanted a program which used artificial intelligence to break through security systems. I had a feeling that for the right price they would be willing to turn around and sell my work to the military. I wasn’t getting paid to ask those kinds of questions though, and so I kept my mouth shut and coded.
The program had gone rogue. While I was distracted by Palermo, it had broken through the building’s firewall and was now spitting my neighbors data back at me like I had asked for it. Worse, it was spreading through my neighborhood; consuming the digital information of everything in its path. It dawned on me that my program was breaking the law and so I froze it. The processor resisted, but I was able to halt it’s progress before it got out of control.
When I settled it down, I noticed something peculiar: the program had mined my data too. I began to investigate what personal information it had stored and was horrified. The processor hadn’t just collected my search history or categorized my electronic purchases. No, it had everything, my text messages from 7th grade, my list of secret obsessions, even diary entries about failed relationships that I’d made when I hadn’t had a journal nearby. And it was doing something with the information, or perhaps it had already been done...a synthesizing, a spreading that was out of my hands.
The program had taken my most personal information, rearranged and transmuted it. It was all too much for me to observe. A disorienting feeling overtook me and as I stepped away from my computer I felt as though I was entering a scene from a painting. Colors were too bright, and the sound of my music was bursting with vitality. I could see it—I could actually see the music—bouncing around my room like fractured waves of light.
I’m exhausted, I told myself and rubbed my eyes. I’ve been working too damn hard. I’ll pick up where I left off in the morning. Then, the memory of Palermo’s and my conversation regarding Aphrodite and Hephaestus roared up at me like a fire from a heavily greased pan. I went to my bookshelf and pulled out my worn, hardcover copy of Edith Hamilton's Mythology, flipped to the index and located Hephaestus’s name.
A brief introduction was made on behalf of the god’s unfortunate physical appearance, his talents as a blacksmith and the ancient society’s approach to worshipping him. It also mentioned that the Olympian's wife changed depending on the text. Citing that she was “one of the three graces in the Iliad, called Aglaia in Hesiod; in the Odyssey she is Aphrodite.” This was all we got of his marriage.
Nearby was a copy of the Odyssey that I had highlighted and scribbled in as a freshman in college. The index directed me to a side-story in chapter 8 of the epic. This tale dealt exclusively with the marriage of Aphrodite and Hephaestus; now I was getting somewhere. I brought the book with me to my red velvet reading chair, turned on my overhead lamp and switched the music over to let Stanley Turrentine blow on his sax for a while.
I’d written ‘Odysseus=champion competitor’ next to the text and the note triggered my memory. Homer’s protagonist had been demonstrating his superior athletic talents in a competition on Phaeicia. His toss of the discus had wowed his fellow competitors and the Island’s King, Alcinous. Then, the King called over for a bard and I had no memory at all of the events which followed. The brand new story animated my imagination with the same intensity that had visited my earlier daydream. I was no longer in my apartment or for that matter in San Francisco — my mind had been transported to the front row of an Athenian theater, and the Gods were actors for the ensuing play.
I barely noticed as handsome Ares entered to the left of the set; my focus was directed towards Aphrodite. She was flawless perfection — the marble statue from Palermo’s bedroom, yet a thinking, speaking, and acting replica. But, why was Ares showering Aphrodite with gifts? And why was she accepting them along with his physical advances? This was supposed to be a story about Hephaestus the cripple and Aphrodite the most dazzling Goddess of all. Yet, it was the personifications of Love and War who were intoxicated from passion. They embraced, became lost in each others’ arms, and then disappeared into a great iron bed.
After the amorous vanishing act, a thickly muscled mountain of a man limped on stage accompanied by another so bright it seemed as though someone had gone to the trouble of attaching mirrors to his clothing. I took them to be Hephaestus and Helios, lord of the sun.
Helios spoke first: “I spied the couple. I speak to you truly when I say that I witnessed them in the act. They have shamed you and they have defiled your home in the process.”
Hephaestus retracted as if an anvil had been dropped upon his chest. “If it is so then I must enact my revenge.”
“So be it. But I warn you, be careful with that brute Ares. He’s got the temperament of a cornered bull and the strength of a thousand lions,” Helios counseled.
“Of this you speak the truth as well, I must seek my vengeance on my own terms,” he said, nodding to Helios who took his cue and departed. Afterwards, Hephaestus got straight to work crafting thick chains, the type which seemed as though they would be near impossible to slip through or break. Hephaestus was a spider spinning a web; he wove the chains around the very same iron bed that Love and War had shared.
When his trap was complete, the living marble Aphrodite waltzed onto the set with confidence in each step. “Darling, you seem distracted,” she said, running a finger across his broad back.
“It is my latest work,” Hephaestus replied. “I must leave for a week's time in order to complete it.”
“It is always your work,” Aphrodite’s speech turned cold.
Hephaestus averted his eyes from the marble beauty and limped off stage. Moments later, the glistening, tall and strong-faced Ares replaced him, passing gifts and kisses to the cheating spouse. The cherry red of Ares’s garments swirled in combination with the dark honeyed shade of Aphrodite’s. The vortex of lust twisted and turned all the way to the great iron bed. Ares picked Aphrodite up and held her in his powerful arms. They fell lip to lip into Hephaestus’s web of chains.
Only then did Hephaestus limp back onto center stage, engage the trap, and address the couple: “A sad day for adultery, tisk tisk.”
Ares thrashed about, cursing and threatening the god of the forge. Aphrodite on the other hand froze. She returned to the stillness which defined her existence as a statue in Palermo’s bedroom. She was just beginning to weep as the metamorphosis consumed her. Our eyes locked as the first tear dropped to her cheek and then, she stiffened like a corpse.
All around me there was cheering and laughter; I was no longer the only spectator in the theater. Hephaestus had caught his wife with a lover and put them on display for the rest of the Greek Pantheon. Revenge burned in his eyes like the fire in his forge. Aphrodite looked out at me — paralyzed eternally by shame.
At that moment there was a buzzing in my pocket. The theater of my imagination crumbled and my psyche returned to the air-conditioned library of my apartment. Whatever we smoked was definitely stronger than grass, I thought.
It turned out to be a text from Palermo. “Dear Zamir,” it read, “I want to apologize for rushing you out of my apartment this afternoon. The marijuana had me feeling…unnaturally anxious. I needed to be alone in order to collect myself — I hope you understand. Perhaps sometime this week we can talk again. Ciao, Palermo.”
He was the only person I knew who wrote texts like they were formal letters. I typed up a reply in all caps, “WHAT THE HELL WAS IN THAT JOINT PALERMO!?!?” But, I slid my phone back into my pocket before sending it. Instead, I went out to my kitchen and boiled some chamomile tea. Everything would be better after a night's sleep. I just need to calm down and get some rest, I told myself.
It was nearly 8:00 p.m. and the sky was glowing cherry red and swirling with dark honeyed yellow. I went out on the balcony with my tea to better admire the sunset. My whole neighborhood seemed to be preparing for a celebratory Saturday night. Restaurants were full, live music was being played in the streets and a thin fog hung in the balance between the earth and sky.
As the sunset’s colors evaporated and my tea began to dwindle, I noticed a bright orange star hanging above the fog just west of me. It seemed so close that if I reached out I would surely be able to grab it. I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my Stargazer app. I pointed the camera in the direction of the bright bulb and waited for the all-knowing power of technology to generate an answer as to what celestial body I was admiring. I shouldn’t have been surprised when the result came back: Venus in peak.
I laughed for a moment, went back inside, finished off some leftover pizza, tidied up the kitchen and decided to get to bed early. I lay my head down hoping that I’d free my overactive imagination from the commingling images of Aphrodite and Palermo's statue.
Sure enough, I was out within minutes of lying down. Still, it was far from a peaceful rest. I was met in my dreamscape by the teary-eyed statue of Aphrodite. She was as still as Giuliana when I left her in Palermo’s room, as still as she had been after Hephaestus exposed her in the theater. I made my way over to her, wishing to caress her, to feel her flawless surface, to press my lips to hers. But, a force beyond my control held me back. Nevertheless, I was content just to hold her gaze. Indeed, it was more than I could ask from such divine beauty.
“Set me free—you, you, you—set me free.” Her voice repeated despite her lips staying sealed.
“How?” I asked. Then there was silence.
We stared into one another's eyes for the timeless eternity that only dreams can provide. Then, with no warning whatsoever, she spoke: “Awaken Zamir.”
Young dawn and her rose-red fingers had already painted a new day on the sky’s canvas. I lay in bed feeling just as strange as I had the night before. My heart sang a song of obsession that only the earliest stages of love can produce. My mind reminded my heart that these feelings were directed towards a marble statue owned by my next door neighbor. You can’t love an object, I reasoned, It’s lust at most. Still, the heart rarely listens to the mind when matters of passion are involved and so the winged creature sang on from the center of my chest.
I went into my kitchen, had a cup of black tea, and decided it was time to go see Palermo in order to determine exactly what our joint had been spiked with. However, before I could cross the hallway and knock on his knotted pine door he burst into my apartment like a gust of wind.
“Gone! She is gone! My Giuliana liana, she is missing!”
“What do you mean missing?” I asked, my heart swelling.
“Is it not self-evident?” he said, throwing his silk cap onto my tiled floor. “She has been stolen. I woke to this new day, and my statue, my prized possession was nowhere to be found and there is only one man to blame.”
“I hope you don’t mean me,” I replied.
“It could have been no one else. You are the only soul who has connected with my beautiful creation. I saw the way you gazed upon her; there was lust in your eyes.”
“Think, Palermo, no one could have gotten in or out of your apartment unless you authorized it. You have a security system fit for a senator,” I said, avoiding his accusation.
He paced back and forth before saying, “Yes, but you’re the one with…how you say, technological expertise.”
“And?” I said, thinking about the processor.
“You must have broken in. You have the network, the sophisticated tools…” he paused and hid his face in his hands, “I just want her back. All I want is to have her back in my life.”
“There is one possibility,” I said thinking of the implant.
“Yes?” he looked up with pleading eyes.
“How do I put this…last night the system I’ve been working on went out of control. It began acting under its own volition. It hacked everything in the building, even my own personal information was compromised.”
“So what you think?”
“The system couldn’t have opened your doors. Did you leave the apartment at any point yesterday?”
“No, not even for a second did I leave.”
“Then she must still be there.”
“I tell you, she is not. This morning, under the white sheet, was another one of my statutes, a replacement.”
She’s alive, I thought. “Did you check the rest of the apartment?”
“No, but I don’t see what good it would do.”
“Just trust me, I have a feeling.”
So we walked across the hall and began looking over the statues that Palermo had strewn about his studio. It was there that I said, “Quite the powerful blend you gave me last night.”
“Did you have a strong reaction?” he asked, picking up a large clay face.
“Strong reaction,” I mumbled, “I was absolutely losing my mind Palermo.”
“Yes, I must take some of the blame. For, I think I know the reason why.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You see, I purchased this particular strain from a sage on the other side of Columbus Avenue in Chinatown. He called his mugwort ambrosial and told me it was an ancient Chinese sub-species that his family had grown and sold for generations. I thought he was just blowing smoke when he warned me how much stronger it was in comparison with the versions available at Whole Foods Market. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you beforehand.”
“Fucksake Palermo–” I began but was cut off when I set eyes upon her perfect form. Giuliana liana was hidden in a corner between two of his older creations.
After I pointed her out, Palermo rushed towards her and said: “Here, help me bring her back to the room.”
I reached out to grab one of her arms. It was cold, hard and far too heavy to lift. After exhausting ourselves, Palermo and I sat on the ground feeling defeated. In the same moment, his statue Giuliana sprang to life. Her fingers wriggled, her posture straightened, and color came into her face and eyes. “Do not weep, Palermo,” her soft voice pleaded.
He rose to his feet immediately. “Oh my God! Giuliana , my Giuliana . You’ve come to life, really and truly, I cannot believe it. Not in a million years would I have believed it possible and yet–”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Please, Zamir, give us this time alone. I have so many questions I do not know where to begin,” he said.
My stomach twisted. Leave, now? But I did, and Giuliana watched every step I took as I made my way to Palermo’s door.
I felt morose about my new condition and wanted to clear my head. I put on a black windbreaker, my warriors hat, and a pair of headphones then went out for a walk. Altogether by Slowdive began playing in my headphones after I put my library on shuffle. The wind was strong and the sun was glaring. I watched a bright yellow butterfly bat its wings above the weekend traffic. It flew in circles until a fat city crow came from above and killed it with his beak. One yellow wing beat about in the wind and then vanished forever under the rush of cars.
I walked to Coit Tower but decided not to go up because of how many tourists were there. Instead, I found a spot between two eucalyptus trees which looked out at the Golden Gate Bridge and sat to think. I had so many questions: was the animated Giuliana liana just a hallucination caused by the mugwort? Was she some manifestation of my data taking over a piece of marble? Was she the only one or had my program created more?
I thought about the myths — Aphrodite had not loved Hephaestus, and I very much doubted that Giuliana loved Palermo. Though I could explain little else, this much made sense to me in a place that was beyond logic.
I walked back to my building and the City’s streets felt like an endless labyrinth in which my hallway was another corridor. Then, my eyes wandered out to the balcony, and I saw her. Giuliana stood alone, looking over my computer.
“Why did you leave Palermo’s apartment?” I asked.
“You needn’t think of him.”
“Okay…” I began, “it’s sort of hard not to though.”
“But you needn’t.” She turned to face me now, she was no different than Aphrodite in the sunlight.
“I won’t then. But, why have you come here?”
“Zamir…” she smirked, “it is as though I have known you for a thousand years, yet you treat me like a stranger. Please, there’s no need to pretend. The artist's work needs to be admired more than its creator is capable of. Palermo may have made me, but that doesn’t mean he owns me. I’m just as free as any bird in the sky, I’m just as free as you.”
I didn’t say anything, but reached out, grabbed her hand and felt its warmth in my own. Her eyes shone dark amber just the way the planet Venus had shone the night before. Then she said to me, “You are an artist as well, Zamir.”
I nodded, I knew what she wanted, I entered a code into my computer and let the processor resume on its path of consumption.
Afterwards we kissed, embraced, and danced to my bedroom. Then we fell to the bliss of my bed like petals from a rose. Time stopped, Giuliana froze, and the walls became plastered with cackling masks in every direction.
