He was hovering high over London! – Haha, they couldn't touch him now, the devils rushing upon him in that Pandemonium! – He looked down upon the city and saw the English. The trouble with the English was that they were English: damn cold fish! – Living underwater most of the year, in days the colour of night! – Well: he was here now, the great Transformer, and this time there'd be some changes made – the laws of nature are the laws of its transformation, and he was the very person to utilize the same! – Yes, indeed: this time, clarity.

He would show them – yes! – his power. – These powerless English! – Did they not think their history would return to haunt them? – ‘he native is an oppressed person whose permanent dream is to become the persecutor’ (Fanon). English women no longer bound him; the conspiracy stood exposed! – Then away with all fogs. He would make this land anew. He was the Archangel, Gibreel. – And I'm back!

The face of the adversary hung before him once again, sharpening, clarifying. Moony with a sardonic curl to the lips: but the name still eluded... tcha, like tea? Shah, a king? Or like a (royal? tea?) dance: Shatchacha. – Nearly there. – And the nature of the adversary: self-hating, constructing a false ego, auto-destructive. Fanon again: ‘In this way the individual’ – the Fanonian native – ‘accepts the disintegration ordained by God, bows down before the settler and his lot, and by a kind of interior re-stabilization acquires a stony calm.’ – I'll give him stony calm! – Native and settler, that old dispute, continuing now upon these soggy streets, with reversed categories. – It occurred to him now that he was forever joined to the adversary, their arms locked around one another's bodies, mouth to mouth, head to tail, as when they fell to earth: when they settled. – As things begin so they continue. – Yes, he was coming closer. – Chichi? Sasa? – My other, my love...

...No! – He floated over parkland and cried out, frightening the birds.—No more of these England-induced ambiguities, these Biblical – Satanic confusions! – Clarity, clarity, at all costs clarity! – This Shaitan was no fallen angel. – Forget those son-of-the-morning fictions; this was no good boy gone bad, but pure evil. Truth was, he wasn't an angel at all! – ‘He was of the djinn, so he transgressed.’ – Quran 18:50, there it was as plain as the day. – How much more straightforward this version was! How much more practical, down-to-earth, comprehensible! – Iblis/Shaitan standing for the darkness, Gibreel for the light.—Out, out with these sentimentalities: joining, locking together, love. Seek and destroy: that was all.

...O most slippery, most devilish of cities! – In which such stark, imperative oppositions were drowned beneath an endless drizzle of greys. – How right he'd been, for instance, to banish those Satanico-Biblical doubts of his, – those concerning God's unwillingness to permit dissent among his lieutenants, – for as Iblis/Shaitan was no angel, so there had been no angelic dissidents for the Divinity to repress; – and those concerning forbidden fruit, and God's supposed denial of moral choice to his creations; – for nowhere in the entire Recitation was that Tree called (as the Bible had it) the root of the knowledge of good and evil. It was simply a different Tree! Shaitan, tempting the Edenic couple, called it only ‘the Tree of Immortality’ – and as he was a liar, so the truth (discovered by inversion) was that the banned fruit (apples were not specified) hung upon the Death-Tree, no less, the slayer of men's souls. – What remained now of that morality-fearing God? Where was He to be found? – Only down below, in English hearts. – Which he, Gibreel, had come to transform.

Abracadabra!

Hocus Pocus!

But where should he begin? – Well, then, the trouble with the English was their:

Their:

In a word, Gibreel solemnly pronounced, their weather.

Gibreel Farishta floating on his cloud formed the opinion that the moral fuzziness of the English was meteorologically induced. ‘When the day is not warmer than the night,’ he reasoned, ‘when the light is not brighter than the dark, when the land is not drier than the sea, then clearly a people will lose the power to make distinctions, and commence to see everything – from political parties to sexual partners to religious beliefs – as much-the-same, nothing-to-choose, give-or-take. What folly! For truth is extreme, it is 50 and not thus, it is him and not her; a partisan matter, not a spectator sport. It is, in brief, heated. City,’ he cried, and his voice rolled over the metropolis like thunder, ‘I am going to tropicalize you.’

Gibreel enumerated the benefits of the proposed metamorphosis of London into a tropical city: increased moral definition, institution of a national siesta, development of vivid and expansive patterns of behaviour among the populace, higher-quality popular music, new birds in the trees (macaws, peacocks, cockatoos), new trees under the birds (coco-palms, tamarind, banyans with hanging beards). Improved street-life, outrageously coloured flowers (magenta, vermilion, neon-green), spider-monkeys in the oaks. A new mass market for domestic air-conditioning units, ceiling fans, anti-mosquito coils and sprays. A coir and copra industry. Increased appeal of London as a centre for conferences, etc.; better cricketers; higher emphasis on ball-control among professional footballers, the traditional and soulless English commitment to ‘high workrate’ having been rendered obsolete by the heat. Religious fervour, political ferment, renewal of interest in the intelligentsia. No more British reserve; hot-water bottles to be banished forever, replaced in the foetid nights by the making of slow and odorous love. Emergence of new social values: friends to commence dropping in on one another without making appointments, closure of old folks’ homes, emphasis on the extended family. Spicier food; the use of water as well as paper in English toilets; the joy of running fully dressed through the first rains of the monsoon.

Disadvantages: cholera, typhoid, legionnaires’ disease, cockroaches, dust, noise, a culture of excess.

Standing upon the horizon, spreading his arms to fill the sky, Gibreel cried: ‘Let it be.’

Three things happened, fast.

The first was that, as the unimaginably colossal, elemental forces of the transformational process rushed out of his body (for was he not their embodiment?), he was temporarily overcome by a warm, spinning heaviness, a soporific churning (not at all unpleasant) that made him close, just for an instant, his eyes.

The second was that the moment his eyes were shut the horned and goaty features of Mr. Saladin Chamcha appeared, on the screen of his mind, as sharp and well-defined as could be; accompanied, as if it were sub-titled there, by the adversary's name.

And the third thing was that Gibreel Farishta opened his eyes to find himself collapsed, once again, on Alleluia Cone's doorstep, begging her forgiveness, weeping O God, it happened, it really happened again.

She put him to bed; he found himself escaping into sleep, diving headlong into it, away from Proper London and towards Jahma, because the real terror had crossed the broken boundary wall, and stalked his waking hours.

‘A homing instinct: one crazy heading for another, Alicja said when her daughter phoned with the news. ‘You must be putting out a signal, some sort of bleeping thing.’ As usual, she hid her concern beneath wisecracks. Finally she came out with it: This time be sensible, Alleluia, okay? This time the asylum.’