A Devil Comes to Town. Paolo Maurensig

name is Hans,” the priest explained, “and he is the local veterinarian’s assistant. At this time he is assigned to perform a truly distasteful task.”

      “The task of scattering … what? Poisoned bait?”

      Father Cornelius shook his head: “Despite his appearance, Hans is a gentle, sensitive man, who loves animals very much—which makes his task doubly unpleasant: not only must he prepare that disgusting pulp with his own hands, but he must also obtain the raw ingredients.”

      “Which would be?”

      “Fox cubs.”

      “You mean baby foxes?”

      “He catches them in their dens and doesn’t hesitate to cut them into bits and pieces. To that end he always carries a cleaver and a wooden chopping board hanging from his belt. Only the smell of their murdered offspring keeps the rabid foxes away from the villages.”

      Hearing those words I felt my stomach turn, but Father Cornelius didn’t seem to notice it and went on as if nothing had happened.

      “A fox infected with rabies,” he said, “behaves strangely: he doesn’t run away at the sight of a man, but approaches him effusively until he is able to bite him. And so, too, the devil: his first strategy, in fact, is to become friendly with the designated victim. Therefore, the first rule of defense is to not let yourself be deceived by appearances. Nowadays the devil no longer has horns, nor a two-sided cape, he no longer smells of sulfur, he doesn’t frighten us with his façade, but rather he does everything he can to make himself seem helpful and agreeable. He doesn’t have, as one might think, the look of a huckster, nor of an eye-winking panderer, nor that of a jolly good fellow with an inexhaustible repertoire of spicy stories. His appearance is always well-groomed, he wears double-breasted suits, his speech is refined, his tone of voice persuasive. Except for one detail that escapes attention at the moment. Nonetheless it is perceived subliminally and makes him appear ridiculous. It’s like seeing a price tag still attached to the jacket of someone who prides himself on displaying a sophisticated elegance. But too bad for anyone who notices this detail, or rather, too bad if he is discovered to have noticed it, because this will send the devil into a rage, and then that individual will become his target. The devil is extremely touchy, in fact. Being the low man on the totem pole, on the bottom rung of the infernal hierarchy, he is thus even more motivated to get ahead; in other words, he is the prototype of the corporal who aspires to one day become the great general. But like all of us, even the devil has to come to terms with History and its changes. Owing to the progress of science and technology, the ground shifted beneath his feet, and before long he had to accept modernity, or rather, resign himself to not being up to the sudden changes in our century. These days the great stages of the past, with their fascinating sets exalting his figure, no longer exist; the imposing cathedrals are replaced by churches designed by less than mediocre architects, the grand theaters are as unadorned as parish chapels, and the somber castles, when not completely ruined, are invaded by noisy crowds of little brats, accompanied by parents who roam the halls with their Baedekers in hand and noses in the air. Given such a scenario, what’s left to the poor old-school devil? What does he have to do to avoid being outclassed by the new diabolical generations? By this time he is too old to be able to be refashioned—that’s right, because even the devil incarnate is accordingly subjected to earthly laws: he ages, he goes out of style, he loses his shine, he gets sick and finally dies, damned as he was at birth. The scope of his operations has been greatly curtailed, his magic tricks are now outmoded: the world of so-called spiritual power is out of his reach, as is that of financial power, which is now the prerogative of corrupt politics; what’s left to him, therefore, is merely power as an end in itself, that which is exercised in any human congregation where there is competition. It could be the neighborhood bowling league or the most exclusive Rotary club. But all the better if it is a pseudo-intellectual competition. Consequently, the ideal place is a literary society, not only because literature is the last locus of knowledge that still attributes him a certain credibility, but also because it is the place where vainglory, fueled by envy, grows immoderately, where even the most banal thoughts—as long as they are printed in type—are accepted as absolute truth.”

      I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, because an activity dear to me, to which I thought I would devote myself entirely in the future, was under accusation.

      “In your opinion, then, literature is bad?”

      After his unexpected outburst, Father Cornelius composed himself and, having regained his calm, proceeded in a more even tone.