"Dante—"
"What? Who's there?"
"It's me. Don't be afraid."
"You! Who are you?"
"Just call me 'Sid.'"
"Sid? Where am I? What language is this we're speaking?"
"As for the 'where,' I can't really say. We're speaking English."
"English? But this sounds like no English I've ever heard. I never even learned English."
"That doesn't matter. Here we can speak any language we like. Lei preferirebbe parlare italiano?"
"No—wait a minute! This is all very strange. I was in my study. I had just written something when I heard your voice. What manner of sorcery is this?"
"No sorcery. I promise you I'm not the Devil come to spoil your greatest literary masterpiece."
"You said your name was—"
"Sid. Short for 'Siddhartha.'"
"Is that your surname? Are you a Guelph or a Ghibelline? I must say you don't even look Italian."
"I'm not, and I'm neither a Guelph nor a Ghibelline. They say I belonged to the Shakyas, but I'm not a member of any party or tribe. In the sixth century they call me 'Siddhartha Gautama.'"
"The sixth century? But this is the fourteenth century! You must be the Devil! Retro me, Satanas!"
"No, no, no. Please calm down and just listen. First of all, I most assuredly am not Satan. And secondly, time doesn't even exist. Calendars and clocks—past, present, and future—are just human inventions."
"Bah! First you refuse to tell me where we are, and now you're telling me there's no time. You'll not deceive me, Lucifer! "Satanas transfigurat se in angelum lucis!"
"Of course I won't deceive you, since I'm not Lucifer or Satan or any other sort of devil."
"I don't believe you."
"Good. A little doubt is a good thing. It keeps you from making some potentially fatal mistakes."
"I must be dreaming! Just moments ago in my mind's eye I beheld Paradise and the very face of God. Then suddenly there was your voice, and now—"
"Are you dreaming or waking? Are the two so very different?"
"Again you're trying to confuse me! Yes, I'm dreaming, and this is a very bad dream I hope I'll never remember."
"You won't remember because it's not actually happening. Not a second has passed since our conversation began, and there's nothing to record. You might have a little headache, but not to worry.
"How can you expect me to believe this conversation never occurred? It's happening even as we speak."
"Because we're nowhere and nowhen, my friend. Do you see any landmarks you might remember? A bell tower, perhaps? The sun or the moon?"
"No—nothing! What have you done? Concealed them behind some infernal white wall? Cast a spell on me so that I'm aware of nothing but that fiendish glowing face of yours with its mocking half-smile?"
"I've done nothing to trick you—and would you rather I glowered and gnashed my teeth like a demon?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Dante, listen to me. Paradise isn't what you or anyone else can possibly imagine. It's not some lovely walled garden where flowers never fade and no one ever dies. You can't put Heaven into words any more than Giotto can paint it on walls, because it's not a thing. It's no thing. No-thingness."
"It was all real enough to me! There were the Three Circles; the Four Stars not seen before except by the first people; the Gate of Hell. There were the prayers—and especially the eyes—of my beloved Beatrice—"
"Symbols all of what no language or art can capture. Names and signs can do no more than point to this, which isn't any thing put together by thought."
"But 'this,' as you call it, is no more than emptiness! You, Siddhartha Gautama—or whatever your name is—are all that's left. See, I can touch you, I can take hold of you and—"
"Ah, but you really can't, can you? You see, I'm not 'this' either. Just let go of me and look."
"But if I let go of you, what's left?"
"Not a thing. Nothing. Try it."
"But wait! Where did you go? Where am I going?"
"Away," answered a voice. "Away."
When he opened his eyes, the poet found himself slouched over his desk. Beneath his arms was a page of parchment with "Paradiso 34" writ large in a familiar hand across the top margin.
"What could I have been thinking?" he said aloud, sprinkling the words with some powdered pumice and scraping away the still wet ink.
NB: The illustration above is a montage based on the following images:
