The Devil Likes to Sing. Thomas J. Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ I sat there at my computer, filing through the “suggestions” people had sent me via my website for Friday. After about the fourth “101” book, I told my agent the ideas had flown the coop. At his suggestion, my website invited “Good Thoughts about Good Days.” Not only had I become a hack; basically, I had turned into a plagiaristic hack who simply tweaked the least bad of the ideas that came in on my webpage. Of course, that meant I had to sit down and read through the material. Hell might have been hotter, but I was pretty sure it would at least have been more interesting. Maybe that’s when I became aware of the devil’s presence enough that I could see him. Or hear him, as it were.

      I had my receiver tuned in to WFMT, the fine arts station in Chicago and required listening, especially if you were trying to overcome your hillbilly image and fit in with the UC intelligentsia. Turned out to be a lost cause for me, but I ended up actually liking much of what the station had to offer—Celtic music on occasion, symphonic and chamber music, some of the talk shows. But not opera. I hate opera. Those sopranos make me feel like I’m taking a beating at the hands of a spear-toting, horned-helmeted Viking woman.

      Sunday, of all days. I loved listening to St. Paul Sundays. I had just heard the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra finish up a nice baroque piece. The host announced that Sir Neville Marriner and the St. Martin-in-the-Fields orchestra were next. I loved ol’ Neville. So I relaxed in my seat, waiting for some soothing music to carry me away from my troubles.

      But then, singing started.

      Zwangvolle Plage!

      Müh’ ohne Zweck!

      Two lines were enough for me to realize an opera had started. I grabbed my remote and turned in my chair to switch the receiver to another station. And there he sat, next to my stereo. Singing. The devil himself.

      2

      “What the hell . . .” I started.

      “No need to be rude, my dear Timothy.” A smile flashed across his face, “I may call you ‘Timothy,’ mightn’t I?”

      “Uh, well, sure,” I stumbled over the words.

      Somehow, I knew. I knew it was him. Like an appointment you’ve made but forgotten until the person shows up on your doorstep. Surprised but not surprised. Or better, taken aback before realizing that, yes, he’s supposed to be here.

      He sat there in a black pinstripe suit, a rich red shirt, and a gray tie. He wore black patent leather shoes. Very sharp. He looked as if he had stepped off the cover of the defunct George magazine—a JFK Jr. look-a-like, though his eyebrows were a bit thinner, his nose a little more narrow. Still, those observations came later. All I knew at the moment was that Jr. had come back to life and was sitting in my living room, singing opera. But I knew it wasn’t little JFK.

      “People always know,” the devil said, an avuncular air about him, as if taking the gosh darn naive nephew under his wing to explain a few things about the world. “Who I am, that is. You do know who I am, don’t you, my young Timothy?”

      “Yes, yes, I think I do know,” I replied.

      “Who, then?” he playfully asked.

      I took a long look at him. He must have noticed that my eyes rested on the top of his forehead. A guffaw escaped him.

      “Oh, come on, Timothy,” the devil laughed, enjoying himself. “Don’t be so cliched.” Then the smile slid down into a frown, and he shook his head at me, chastising my lack of sophistication.

      Okay, so I was looking for little horns.

      “Come on, say it. Look me in the eye and tell me who you think I am.”

      And I did. I never did it again, not until the end of our time together. But I looked him straight in the eye, long and hard. At first, it was like falling into a deep well, but the further I fell in, the more I realized, in the distance, fires burned; not like bonfires, but like suns ablaze.

      And then I was out. I mostly avoided looking too long into his eyes after that, except for once.

      “You’re the devil,” I finally said.

      A sigh blew past his lips. “Such a name for one as I,” he said. “Though I knew you were going to say that, especially after I saw you looking for horns.” He again took on his avuncular air. “You did study Augustine, didn’t you, Timothy? And yet, still so literal minded.”

      “What would you like to be called?” I asked.

      “Lucifer,” the devil pronounced. “Call me Lucifer.”

      I tried to do as he asked, but in my mind I always thought of him as the devil, pure and simple. And, what the heck, that’s how he sometimes referred to himself, his early protests to the contrary.

      I tried to one-up him with what little I knew of biblical scholarship. “Lucifer’s a misnomer, you know,” I started, taking on my most authoritative voice. “Isaiah 14:12 refers to a Babylonian king, not to the devil. ‘Lucifer’ comes from Saint Jerome’s translation of the Bible, the Vulgate, and literally refers to Venus, the ‘day star.’ The term itself has been dropped in most English translations of the Bible since the King James Version. And . . .”

      Zwangvolle Plage!

       Müh’ ohne Zweck!

      The devil could be like that sometimes, just interrupt you when you’re talking. And usually by singing; very loudly.

      I stopped parading my scant bit of scholarship and started listening again.

      “Good,” the devil said. “Do you have any idea how pedantic you sound when you try to explain things? And it runs through all your writing, except for gift books, which is practically like not writing at all.” This time the sly smile that slithered across his face had an edge to it.

      “Jerome had it right, at least in his heart, seeing the hidden metaphor, the secret meaning,” the devil explained. “Man, I remember those days. Going round and round with him about how to translate this word, how to translate that word. And I even remember . . .”

      “Wait a minute,” it was my turn to butt in. “You’re telling me you knew St. Jerome?”

      “Knew him? Loved the guy!” the devil declared. “Now Jerome, he had an air about him, a no-nonsense approach that I appreciate. A hard man, he could be, in the service of his god.

      “Yes, he did right; ‘day star’ for me. The voice of light, the soul of fire. Forget your small-time exegetes; keep with the greats, kid, and learn from them. They’re the ones who go for insight, for truth; scholarship, that’s for weenies who are too afraid to look reality in the face. I am Lucifer.”

      He seemed proud to say the word.

      “You helped translate the Vulgate?” I asked, incredulity punching the words. Jerome had translated the Bible into Latin, and it stood, unchallenged, as the Western church’s Bible for over a thousand years. It was the basis for all medieval and Renaissance religious art.

      “Why surprised?” the devil asked. “I’ve known most of the great theologians. Helped them, best I could. Strengthened them. Toughened their minds. Theology’s no child’s game, you know.”

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