I, Lucifer: Finally, the Other Side of the Story

and I know it doesn’t. The Mortals are free, Lucifer. What they’ve done they’ve done from within themselves. You think you’ve spoken volumes to them. You imagine the transcript of your temptations would fill libraries the size of galaxies – and so they would. But not one word of them has reached the Mortals. Your words, my dearest Lucifer, have fallen on deaf ears.’

‘In which case you’ve got to take your hat off to what they’ve achieved, really.’

‘Please, old friend, believe me. I know this causes you pain. But your time is running out. I begged Heaven to release me so that I could help you.’

‘Help me what?’

‘Make the right decision.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Take the offer of forgiveness.’

I lit another cigarette, chuckling. ‘Raphael, Raphael, my dear, silly Raphael. And have you forfeited your wings to run such a fruitless errand?’

‘Somebody had to warn you.’

‘Well, I’ll consider myself warned.’

‘Nelchael will find no scribe’s soul in Limbo, Lucifer.’

Now that, I’ll admit, did bring me up sharp a bit. But I’m good for nought if not dissemblance. I inhaled, deeply, and blew a couple of muscular smoke-rings. The first light was above the horizon, now. Somewhere nearby someone was leading a horse over the cobbles. I heard a man cough, hawk up phlegm, spit, clear his throat, walk on.

‘I see you’re surprised,’ Raphael said.

‘You do do you? Well you may also have noticed that I’m –’ tipping the last of the ouzo down my tingling gullet – ‘in need of a refreshed glass. Rather good, this ridiculous drink. Those Greeks, eh? Bumming, syllogisms, cracking good yarns . . . Be a good fellow now and pour me another. You have, after all, just given me some distressing news.’

Can’t say how I felt, really. (The writer’s condition, for ever and ever, amen . . .) Certainly there was some deflation. Not the it’s-been-nothing-to-do-with-you nonsense – but . . . Well. You hope, you know? I mean you sort of know you’re dreaming, but still, you hope . . .

‘And what did you think you were going to do with Gunn’s soul if he found it?’ he asked, having returned from the cool interior accompanied by the tinkling of freshly iced drinks.

I did laugh, then, with the honest generosity of the unmasked rascal. ‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Get it into Hell, somehow. Back-door it into Heaven. You think you can’t grease the odd palm up there? You live in a dream world, Raffs. In any case it would have left a body vacant. I’m sure even you can see the appeal. The luxury second home and so on? It’s not bad down here, is it? Eh? I mean you’ve a shadow or two around your eyes, Mr Theo Calamari Mandros, if you don’t mind my saying so. Doesn’t look like you’ve spent your sojourn illuminating manuscripts and saving spires.’

He exhaled, heavily. ‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.’

‘I have.’

‘You seriously thought you could do any of that without Him knowing?’

‘Not really, no. But look at it from my point of view. I mean you’ve got to try these things, you know? There is such a thing as morale building, when all’s said and done. You know, the boys Downstairs would have loved it. I was thinking timeshare, you see?’

‘I doubt, my dear, you intended to share your treasure with anyone.’

‘Oh you old cynic.’

‘Lucifer please. Will you listen to me?’

‘I am listening. I just wish you’d say something sensible.’

‘Do you know what Judgement Day means?’

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. Pressed my thumb and forefinger either side of the top of my nose in the manner of those anticipating a headache. ‘Would you mind awfully if I took a brief nap?’ I said.

He put his face in his long-fingered hands. ‘What a waste,’ he said, as if to an invisible third party.

‘Look Raffles I know this is all horribly important and all the rest of it but if I don’t get just a little sleep now I’ll be absolutely useless tomorrow. I had thought we might go paragliding.’

For a few charged moments he just looked at me. The sun was well and truly up, now, and I did unequivocally want to get out of it. His face was filled with sadness and longing. It made me feel quite unwell.

He did that man-visibly-containing-his-emotion jaw-twitch thing, then said, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

It was dark when I woke. Dreams of fire, flashbacks to the first, empty conflagrations of Hell. I’d mumbled myself awake in a sweat. I was lying in the recovery position and had drooled on the pillow. There was an open volume on the bed beside me with a hand-written note of dreadful handwriting:

Dear L,

Thought I’d let you sleep. I have to go to Spetses to see one of my managers. Be back this evening around nine. Help yourself to whatever you need. My clothes should fit you. I know you were upset last night, but I want you to know how good it is to see you again after so long. Please don’t do anything rash, there is still much to be said.

R.

I felt terrible. The ouzo had landed its rowdy militia in my skull, and a lively bivouac they were making of it. Of course the book wasn’t random. Rilke’s Duino Elegies. Somehow I knew this was the sort of twattish human behaviour the incarnate Raphael would go in for. Notes, Greek islands, poetry. Course, you know me. Had to go and read the blessed thing:

Preise dem Engel die Welt –

Oh, sorry. I mean:

Praise this World to the Angel: not some world transcendental, unsayable; you cannot impress him with what is sublimely experienced . . . In this cosmos you are but recent and he feels with more feeling . . . so, show him something straightforward. Some simple thing fashioned by one generation after another; some object of ours – something accustomed to living under our eyes and our hands. Tell him things. He will stand in amazement

With a curse I threw the volume at the wall. A moment arrived – you’ve had a few of these yourself I dare say – in which every detail of my current situation clung to every other in a great, suddenly perceived bogey of unbearable consciousness and I just couldn’t stand it a moment longer. With a retch and a groan I tore myself there and then from Gunn’s sleep-crumpled body with every intention of quitting this absurd nightmare once and for all to return to the familiar – if fiery – precincts of Hell, where at least things made painful sense.

I had known, even in the heat of my irritated moment, that it was going to hurt. I had known that I was going to be surprised by the pain of my spirit undressed of its borrowed flesh. I had, I thought, prepared myself to grin (or grimace) and bear it.

But – by the sizzling knob-hole of Batarjal! – I wasn’t prepared for what hit me. Could it really have been this bad? Could I really have been existing in so furious a forge of rage and pain all those fucking years? It defied belief. It hit me then for the first time with a terrible clarity just how long it was going to take me to get used to the pain again. And my spirit writhed upon the face of the waters.

It was no good. I wasn’t ready. I’d need longer to prepare. Warm up with some physical pain in Gunn’s apparatus, maybe. A stroll over hot coals. Amateur dentistry. Self-electrocution. An acid bath. Something to get me back into shape. Either way incorporeity over the Aegean right then was out of the question. Imagine returning to the basement crew in that state! Christ I’d be laughed out. I could just imagine what fucking Astaroth would make of it.

Raphael found me in the open air cinema. Schindler’s List. Not that I paid much attention to the sounds or images. It was just that I needed the darkness and the silent presence of other flesh and blood. He came in near the end, Mr Mandros, Theo, patron of the museum and provider of Greek victuals. Some