by Tosca Lee
I looked away. It was not a memory I wanted to recall, the weeks of drinking, the mad sobbing on my kitchen floor. A retaliatory one-night stand. Or two.
“But I’m not here to judge you. I’m only making a point.”
I retreated into my cup, realizing I had forgotten the bread pudding. It was cold now, a sodden, lopsided heap.
“Lucifer is a creature of method. Since his first failed attempt to raise his throne and then that business of Job, he had grown allergic to failure. Even in the garden of the first man and woman, he devoted long years to observing the humans, studying behaviors, weighing their tendencies, watching them like exotic creatures in their habitat. He is the master of risk reduction. Never impulsive, his plans ferment a long time in the darkness of his heart. The Great Inventor meditates at length on his craft, always the innovator. It is the reason he so rarely fails.
“Now at last was a venture worthy of him. It set him on edge so that he craved it to the exclusion of everything else. He was insanely preoccupied, shut up like a scientist in his laboratory, a beast pacing behind the arena gate.”
I thought I might know something about that kind of preoccupation. “And what was that challenge?”
“The spirit of the Almighty. God himself in the clay body of a man. Elohim come to earth.”
I felt my forehead wrinkle. “So you really mean it when you say he was God. Literally God and man.” I was aware of my dubious tone. I had always placed Jesus in the echelon reserved for Gandhi, Buddha, Martin Luther King Jr. But they were all mortal men.
The look on the demon’s face perplexed me. His lips were parted, turned up in just the hint of a smile. I felt he was somehow waiting on me, poised to see what I might say next.
Nikki, our waitress, stepped in, breaking the taut wire between us. I looked away as she refreshed my cup, cleaned up the coffee spilled from our toast. I was glad for the reprieve, unsure what had just happened between us.
When she left, he sat forward again, steepled his fingers. “Clay, what I tell you, I need you to hear. If you can’t believe it, then consider it a part of the story, and I’ll be content with that. I would be very content with that, in fact.” His smile was a quirk on just one side of his mouth.
Of course. It only matters that it is part of the story.
“Right now you need to know that this God-man was too big a prize for Lucifer. Too tempting, shall we say.” He laughed, and the dimple on his cheek squinted. I waited out the laughter as I had on other occasions. When it suddenly and disconcertingly stopped, he considered his hands, turning them over this way and that, as though he had not taken the time to examine them until now. “To thwart the son is to thwart the will of Elohim. This was too precious a goal for Lucifer to stand idly by. Too vital to Lucifer’s state of mind. It was to be the summation of his life’s work.”
“You’re saying he meant to tempt God.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that impossible?”
“Not entirely.” He looked and sounded, to all appearances, like the young scholar. He might have been a seminary student, ruddy cheeked and idealistic. “The clay body was the crux of it. No man, no soul in a clay body has ever been immune to temptation. In fact, every clay person since the first one had succumbed to temptation at some time or another, had experienced moral failure by El’s standards at some point in his or her life. But here, suddenly, was the unfathomable combination: the perfection of El in a fallible mud body. Perfection and weakness fused together.”
“Do you ever see anything redeeming in humans?”
He seemed on the verge of saying something then rerouted his response at the last instant. “It’s the nature of the vessel, Clay: cracked. Something that, once ruined, should have been thrown from the potter’s wheel to the refuse pile long ago. And what better way to prove it than to humiliate El with his own failure as one of them? He had chosen to become one of you. He chose the terms. If he wanted to fight with one hand tied behind his back, well then . . .” He shrugged.
“When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“He was as much flesh as he was El. But he was still El. And though Lucifer was practically foaming at the mouth, he chose his moment carefully. He waited until the God-man was fasting in the desert. Until he was hungry. There Lucifer exploited his hunger like a general attacking the weakest defense of the enemy. He questioned his identity. If you are the Son of God, he said. He is an expert rhetorician, experienced and so suggestive. Why not turn these stones into bread?
“But the man was steadfast. There was a purpose to the fasting, and he wouldn’t be tempted to eat. He wouldn’t yield to the dictates of his human flesh.”
I thought of all the times I had been nearly incapacitated by low blood sugar. By plain hunger. By pain, by sleeplessness.
“So Lucifer appealed to his pride, taking him up to the top of the temple in Jerusalem. If you are the Son of God, he said, throw yourself down. It was ingenious.”
“Why is that ingenious? Wasn’t he essentially telling him to take a flying leap? To die?”
Lucian smirked. “I never thought of it that way. But no. The temple was the one place people expected to see the Messiah. And the Host would never have let him die from a physical fall; it was guaranteed in Scripture, and Lucifer knew it. You could argue that he was doing the God-man a favor—at least this way people would know who he was. And I heard Lucifer’s thought: Let them see him then. Let him throw himself down and prove who he is.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. His ego held no sway over him. Rather surprising for a man who went about saying he was God. By now Lucifer was showing signs of strain. So like a gambler on the last hand of the night, he held back nothing. He drew the God-man to a mountain and cast a mighty vision, a menagerie of nations, against the sky—Babylon and Persia, the government of Rome and commerce of the Mediterranean. Spices and olives and wine, fleets of ships, the jealous pride of kings and queens and emperors.”
As he was talking, the tabletop shimmered, emitting more light than the reflected lamps of our corner nook. Between the abandoned bowl of bread pudding and his coffee cup, I saw the sun, setting in a dark gold disk. As it melted into the horizon, it became the wheat fields of Egypt. Then the stalks of wheat were not wheat at all but a field of people. A nation of people. Lucian’s voice wafted toward me in what could have been the voice of a singer: the mighty millions of the land of Han, flowing with silk, roads pulsing with trade. The roads swept beneath me, beneath the surface of the polish, of my bird’s-eye view, miles at a time until they became a sprawl of cities and I recognized pyramids—Egypt. No, not Egypt. These were the stepped ziggurats of an undiscovered west. Teotihuacan, city of gods, came the voice. I saw the gold masks, the priests in their robes, arms raised to the sun.
A coffee cup sailed over the image. Lucian had pushed it across the table toward me.
“Treasures of the East and fertile lands yet undiscovered, rich in commodities of a future age. Lands of people pagan and unconquered, of client kings and vassals and dominions to come. Like diamonds against black velvet, he showcased the world and all that might belong to the God-man so splendidly that those of us who had walked the streets and corridors and dwelt in the inner chambers of those places blinked and staggered at the sight of their collective glory. It was the mosaic of all of Eden’s wealth. And Lucifer offered it all to the God-man if he would do one thing: fall down and worship. Just one, simple, singular act.” He looked up at me. “It would have been so easy. I knew from experience.”
“What good would that have done Lucifer?”
He shook his head. “It was the thing he had always craved and often won—except from the one from whom it would mean something. And now El stood a hand’s reach away in the body of a man, with a man’s cravings and a human’s proclivities. We hardly dared breathe. For a moment it was as though I stood again in that ancient rock garden, the sand of the desert as hot under my feet as th
e rocks of that place had been. And I watched from below with spirit eyes as Lucifer, arrayed with Legion and surrounded by Host, aspired to the godhood he craved, his beautiful eyes as covetous as they had been that first day an eternity ago when he cast his ambition like grappling hooks up into heaven.”
His gaze wandered. He seemed to be looking at something in the direction of the bar. But when I tried to discern what it was, I saw only a cluster of random business travelers, a few stray reception-goers bored with whatever was going on upstairs, a man and woman talking together. He seemed more and more distracted of late, and it was starting to concern me.
I looked from him back to the bar and considered the reception-goers more closely. They were two women, possibly sisters; both looked half Asian, one with curly, highlighted hair. She sat at the bar while the other leaned against it, turned in our direction. The seated one gazed sidelong in what I thought was my direction until I realized that no, she was looking at Lucian. Figures.
“This time there was no violence. Clay, listen to me! Our time is short.”
My attention snapped back. “I’m listening.” As though I could do anything else! I was fairly certain that whatever he said would return to me later, regardless of how closely I listened.
“This time there was no violence.” He ran his hands nervously through his hair. “This time he would take heaven by word, by simple trade, offering the world in exchange for that proclamation of divinity.”
“Was he offering that much, really? I mean, considering that El made it?”
“It was the sum of Lucifer’s wealth, his kingdom, his all. He was jealously possessive of everything within it. Would he sacrifice it so readily for the sake of one dangerous temptation posed to God himself as he stood hungry in the desert, strained by human flesh? Yes. Yes, I knew he would. And it would be Lucifer’s best and greatest moment. You have to know that wealth meant nothing in comparison to that—to this victory.” He glanced over his shoulder.
Something is wrong.
“What were all the kingdoms in the world against the triumph of proving El’s so-called son a fraud, a mortal as hopelessly weak in his clay trappings as the rest of them?” he said, his voice trailing over his shoulder.
“What is it?” I said finally, exasperated.
He blinked at me. “I’m fine. Listen now, this is important. There was something more than that, though. I realized it as I stood there, with Lucifer as close to the human act of sweating as a cherub can be. I didn’t know it at the time, but Lucifer had seen in this man some great vision, some latent danger.” He shifted in his chair, glanced at his watch. “And though he never said it, I saw in that moment that he was desperate.”
I had never seen Lucian quite like this, and I was becoming nervous by proxy. I was worried he would leave too soon. And I needed this—every word he spoke. For the completion of my manuscript. For myself.
But his state unnerved me for other reasons: What could possibly make a demon uneasy? I glanced at the bar. The two women were gone.
Lucian pushed the coffee mug away, checked his pocket for something—the phone number of the waitress. As though sensing just that thing, Nikki appeared, all curves and cheekbones and lips. She set the check down on a tiny tray, and Lucian pulled a large bill from his pocket, telling her with a hasty smile to keep the change.
When she left, he said, “The man, weak, thirsty, hungry, buffeted by wind on that summit, refused Lucifer. He sent him away with the authority of El himself. And the kingdoms in the visions painted in the sky shattered like a great glass window, sprinkling shards onto the far horizons as the man collapsed to the desert floor.”
He stood, rifling his fingers through his curly hair, seeming to look for the nearest exit.
It wasn’t nearly enough! I leaped up. “And then? Then what?” I hated myself.
“Lucifer wasn’t finished.” He stepped around the chair.
He strode out, not even noticing Nikki when she tried to wave at him.
22
The produce section of the co-op was filled with alien life forms: bell peppers, carrots, tomatoes. I could not remember the last time I had cooked anything from scratch. The concept seemed like a forgotten ritual, mysterious and Zen.
My eating habits of late had been abysmal. Often I forgot about food altogether. Coffee got me through the morning and early afternoon. At home after work, I ate leftovers from takeout the night before. Late into the evening, I emerged ravenous from a stack of reading or, more likely, from shaping my expanding account of the demon memoirs. And then I called and ordered enough food for a late-night binge before falling into a coma on my sofa.
I logged a workweek’s worth of hours on the Internet and in the online Bible, researching demon fiction, demon encounters, and novels about angels for the marketing section of my proposal. I even researched accounts of angelic and demonic visitations. But I found nothing like my own experience. I wondered if all such accounts might be lurking in bookstores, already sheathed in fiction.
Sometimes I thought of Aubrey, though not by the hour or even the day as before. The most random things triggered my memory: A pillow beneath my sheets might remind me of her recumbent body, the sway of a woman’s wide-legged slacks recalled her favorite gabardine pants. Looking at the bell peppers, I remembered how she used to stuff them with rice and meat; it had been one of my favorite dishes. I picked up a large pepper, turned it over in my hand, and then put it back.
If the committee accepted my manuscript as Lucian seemed certain they would, would she find out that I had published? But of course: Sheila would tell her. Would Aubrey read it? And would she see herself in it, even though I had changed her name along with my own? Would she put the book down in disgust that I had not spared her but had included candid glimpses of our life, delusions and dysfunction, of my myriad emotions toward her, or would she simply consider it part of the story and not recognize herself at all?
Aubrey, you are so stupid! The flare of my anger took me by surprise. To do what you’ve done to a writer, knowing he has the power to crow it to the world!
But even as I thought that, I had to wonder: If the book were received even moderately well—well enough for me to make some appearances, to take an interview (perhaps in the Bristol Lounge), to travel to a few cities on a short tour—would she think of me in a new light? Would she wonder how I was and want to talk? And would Richard, fully assimilated into the culture of Aubreyland, become a little less interesting to her in the light of my new, self-propelled life? And if any of these came to pass, what would I do?
The thought of her returning to a discarded husband, so like Lucifer returning to his ruined Eden, infuriated me. I vowed right then that I would never throw open the door to her, that even if she left Richard, I would not be easily won back, that if we were ever to reconcile, it would be with grave changes on her part and fewer compromises on mine.
I found myself staring into the glass of a freezer full of organic beef and free-range chickens. My solitary form peered back. There was something forbearing in the tilt of that head, as if patiently waiting for what I must inevitably realize: that this thing I longed for was impossible. Aubrey would never change, and I could never be transparent with her again. I could never tell her about all that had happened in these weeks and months, my encounters with Lucian. And not just Aubrey; I could not tell anyone. I, who prided myself on my principles and on my honesty—and who prized honesty more than ever after Aubrey’s betrayal—could never be completely honest with anyone again.
A figure in a fleece pullover appeared behind me in the freezer window. He was broad across the shoulders, a little rough looking, some two days’ worth of stubble encroaching on his brown goatee. His hair curled out from beneath his skullcap, the curls girlishly at odds with his stark masculinity. “You don’t have time to cook.”
“A man can dream.” But he was right. I wasn’t going to thaw and cook organic beef, buffalo, or formerly happy free-ranging chickens.
“Come on. You can get salmon in the café and something else to go. You don’t have time for this.”
“You want me to have more time?” I spun to face him. “Then you read the sophomoric thrillers, the Lovely Bones copycats, the Sex and the City rip-offs and Joyce Carol Oates wannabes in the pile on my desk. That would give me more time.” I waved the empty green grocery basket, both relieved and angry to see him. There had been nothing on my calendar to prepare me for his appearance. Could I not be allowed even this semblance of a mundane life, a moment to mourn the closing of my chapter with Aubrey?
Apparently not.
Our little table in the co-op café reminded me of the brown, two-person one I had willingly shared with a gorgeous redheaded demon at the bookstore. I stabbed into the pink flesh of wild salmon, speared limp stalks of broccolini.
Lucian leaned into the curved back of his chair, stretched his legs out to the side of our table, and silently watched me.
You’d better start talking, I wanted to say, because I told Helen I’d get as much of the manuscript as I had to her before I left for vacation.
But I ate in sullen silence, having given up altogether on trying to complete a synopsis. The story wasn’t finished, I told Helen, and I had no idea yet how it would end. “I just don’t know where my characters are going to take me right now.” It was one of those writer’s claims I had always treated with derision, always contending that writers were in control of their characters, even if only subconsciously. I still believed this, though I had come to wonder if there were indeed other writers in my position, influenced by forces they could neither publicly own nor predict.
At any rate, Helen thought whatever I had might be enough for them to make a decision. They would look at it after the offices reopened in January, while I was sunburning on the beaches of Cabo during the day and holed up with my laptop at night.