The Mighty Angel

Chapter 10. The River of Tranquility

I WAS NOT BOTHERED by Christopher Columbus the Explorer’s self-deception. I was not even bothered by his peremptory tone, that was tiresome in its dogmatism; I was inexpressibly bothered by the fact that certain of his arguments were irrefutable.

“There is no philosophy of drinking,” he would repeat, “there’s only the technique of drinking. There does, however, exist,” he would say, raising a finger in an unconsciously schoolmaster-like fashion, “there does, however, exist a philosophy of poor state of mind. In general, the meaning of human existence can be reduced to a never-ending struggle to improve one’s state of mind. This may for example involve ideology, religion, technological advances, or material goods; it may also involve drinking, or, to be precise, a competent application of the technique of drinking. In other words, life is a matter of adjusting one’s poor state of mind by means of the right technique of drinking. It can go wrong. When a person’s state of mind deteriorates to the point where no technique of drinking can help, or when the technique of drinking grows sloppy and instead of improving one’s state of mind it worsens it, then indeed problems can occur. I myself do not have such problems,” he would add emphatically, replacing his eyeglasses on his nose, reaching for his French translation of the New Testament, and seemingly beginning to read.

He was irritatingly, incontrovertibly, and terrifyingly right. When matters (I find it hard to use the casual term “technique of drinking” at this juncture), when matters, then, grow sloppy, the ever darker and ever deeper waters of the river on whose banks you are seeking solace will sooner or later start to yield up cadaverous limbs.

But for the moment the waters would be clear, they would flow like breathing; I had left the alco ward, behind me I had a twenty-minute cab ride and four stabilizing doubles, at my side I had an open bottle, the bright river of tranquility would be following its discreet course, I was in good shape, the technique of drinking invariably promotes a good state of mind, in any case there was no hysteria, no rapid movements, no drinking straight out of the bottle. I would drink methodically from a glass, in small, precisely measured, single-shot sips, and equally methodically I would be working. I would fill the bathtub with hot water, pour in an over-generous quantity of Omo-Color washing powder, and get ready to do my laundry. My washing machine had stopped working even before the fall of communism and the failure of both my marriages.