LUCIFEROUS

Bad as he is, the Devil may be abus’d,

Be falsly charg’d, and causelesly accus’d,

When Men, unwilling to be blam’d alone,

Shift off these Crimes on Him which are their Own.

Daniel Defoe, “The History of the Devil”

Last week Nick and I were having our monthly lunch. We’d chewed over such questions as whether thought was illusion or reality, pain and pleasure were actual or notional, predestination was inevitable or conditional. Then, over dessert, Nick said:

“Are you afraid of death?”

Not one to provide a simple answer when a complicated one is available, especially an answer with a question built in, I replied:

“That depends on what you mean by death. Can you elaborate?”

Old Nick’s no fool.

“Let’s make it simple. Are you afraid of being dead, i.e., the condition that prevails after one has died?”

Not wanting to be cornered, I attempted a demur.

“No condition can prevail after one has died,” I said, “because one no longer exists.” It was meant to be a “gotcha” moment.

“Stop messing with me, human. You know what I mean.”

Of course I knew perfectly well what he meant. I might try a few more verbal feints to put off the moment of truth, put off finding out where Nick was taking this, but only at the risk of pissing him off so seriously that he would, for the first time in the nearly forty years we’d been having these lunches, decline to pick up the check. We’d had quite a bit to drink; the tab was sure to be substantial. Better him, well-recompensed by an eon’s worth of the wages of sin, than perennially cash-short me.

I bit my tongue and kept silent.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, at the same time signaling the waiter to bring the check. “I offer you a death free of suffering, a painless death, a death unfettered by the horrors that so often lead up to the final moment. I offer you a death free of dying, so to speak, a death without dread, disease, violence, angst. A serene death.”

Devoutly to be wished, I muttered under my breath.

Nick chuckled. “I know Hamlet, and Hamlet you’re not,” he said. “And, of course, the Dane might have turned the deal down, misery-lover that he is. But what about you?”

“Any conditions?” I asked. I’m newer at this game than Nick, but not that new. After all, I’ve read dozens of versions of the Faust legend, from St. Theophilus and Cenodoxus right up to “Damn Yankees.”

“Just one,” he replied.

The “a-ha” moment had arrived. I consumed the rest of my angel-food cake slowly, to buy a bit of time. Probably I didn’t want to know the condition, but like Nick, who dependably plays his part with a charming pretense of maleficence, I play mine with steadfast neediness.

“Which is?” I asked.

His eyes took on that seething-furnace glow that I’ve come to know all too well.

“That the moment you accept the offer, you die.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Oh, one other thing. Like so many offers these days, this one comes with an expiration date.”

“Which is when?” A slight tremor had worked its way into my voice.

“A week from midnight tonight.”

Ouch! But it was too late to stop playing the game.

“Eastern time?”

“Central,” he said with an impish chuckle. He knows how much trouble I have calculating time zone differences.

Attempting a tone of nonchalance, I rose from the table and said:

“Thanks for lunch. And thanks for the offer. Call me in a week and if I’m interested I’ll let you know.” As I left he was paying the check, but not without first engaging the waiter in an animated conversation that appeared to be fascinating the young man. From the Latin fascinum, to bewitch, I recalled.

Not Nick’s first offer – he’s made a few others since we met, none of which I’ve taken up – but if I fail to accept this one it’s possibly his last. That’s one thing to consider. Another is whether not accepting would mean the end of our lunches, i.e., no more offers and no more free meals. An unpromising outlook. Of course, on a bad day, of which I have more than good ones, accepting the offer might be quite attractive – no future full of the paralyzing dread, not to speak of the actuality, of worsening old age, infirmity, impotence, incontinence, senility, and death itself. Perhaps after that, Nick and I could meet for lunch more often, although at a restaurant in a different realm. Or is the “soul” thing still part of these deals?

So much to consider, so little time. The offer expires at midnight tonight – Central time, of course, meaning in about fifteen minutes. I’m wondering what kind of a day I had today – I need to have a good handle on that before deciding whether to accept or reject the offer. I guess it was sort of a not-bad day, but not the greatest. The question is, if I knew that from now on they were all going to be like today – not bad, not good – would I accept Nick’s offer? And if I did accept, what would my future be, if anything? I forgot to ask him that.

I wonder if it’s too late? The phone’s ringing. And kind of glowing, seething-furnace style, the way it does when Nick decides to call.

Washington, D.C

July 4, 1999