hope,” he said, “that I did not alarm you too much this morning.” And not giving me time to reply, he went on: “Did you know that every year hundreds of thousands of people throughout the world die because of this terrible disease? Naturally, this occurs in areas far removed from civilization: in certain villages in Africa or Asia, too far from a hospital that could ensure timely treatment. These poor people are destined for an atrocious end, atrocious for themselves and for their family members, who can do very little to alleviate their suffering.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I threw out a question:
“And did you have the chance to witness one of these patients on his death bed?”
“It’s a sight that I would not wish anyone to see.”
For a moment the priest lowered his eyes, as if regretting what had slipped out of his mouth. He surely thought that he had to justify such a statement: “Rabies, which the fox is recognized as the main carrier of, arouses an atavistic fear in us, since it not only leads to a horrible death, but is able to bring out from human nature what we have always tried to conceal: the irrepressible viciousness that lies hidden in all of us. What’s more, the fox’s cry is chilling enough to make the most courageous person’s skin crawl. All this fuels popular superstition, which often associates the fox with the devil. And it’s truly a pity that such a charming little creature is forced to bear such a grim reputation.”
At that point the priest stopped short, as if realizing too late that he had been impolite to me: though I might seem like little more than a boy in his eyes, his having addressed me so abruptly did not fall within the rules of good manners. He tried to make up for it then: he got up from his seat, came over to me, and after the proper introductions he asked permission to sit at my table. I gladly agreed, and was able to observe him more closely. It was difficult to attribute an age to him; his face seemed pallid, his expression brooding, and his short, reddish hair still bore the indentation mark left by the ecclesiastical saturn …
“Are you here for the conference?” he asked.
With that question he made things easier for me, giving me the opportunity to brag a little.
“I’m a consultant for a publishing house,” I said. “I’m here hoping to find a text to publish in our new series. In fact, I have to say that when I listened to your talk today I found it very interesting. Your literary references: Goethe, Mann, Hoffmann, symbolist painting … At times though I had the impression that the things you left unsaid were more numerous than those you did say. It seemed to me that you were speaking about the devil as if he were a real existent being.”
“In fact that is the case. Only I couldn’t say it openly to an audience of psychoanalysts. I would likely have been subjected to analysis right then and there.” He acknowledged the weakness of his joke with a faint smile.
“Do you mean you’ve met him?”
“Of course,” the priest replied with great seriousness.
“Are you an exorcist by any chance?”
“Nothing of the kind. I’m talking about the devil-made-man, flesh and blood like me and you.”
“How can that be? I mean, a devil registered in the census, complete with name and surname, driver’s license and health-care card.”
The priest frowned.
“The one does not exclude the other. In fact for all intents and purposes he is a man: he is born of a father and a mother, almost always pious, decent people who accept the burden of such an offspring as expiation. Others, however, can’t tolerate it and manage to get rid of the devil when he is still in swaddling clothes. That’s why many of them are foundlings, children abandoned by their parents, not out of economic necessity, but for having manifested their malevolent nature from the very first days of their lives. And ultimately they are adopted by childless couples longing to have a baby. The devil thus exploits his parasitic position, and most of the time he causes his parents’ deaths, whether by a simulated accident or a broken heart, so he can inherit their possessions and dedicate himself to his own mission. A devil’s career, however, is not always crowned with success. Very often these subjects, whom we might rightly call poor devils, have a short life, and most times they end up behind bars where there are few opportunities to exercise their evil arts. On the other hand, many are born into legitimate, aristocratic families, who suspect nothing of their scions’ peculiar natures, often justifying and even encouraging their unseemly behavior, as if it were a mark of power. And these individuals procreate actual diabolical genealogies. We don’t know how many of them there are roaming around the world. Probably many more than we think.”
“And how can they be recognized?”
“There are signs that presage an evil nature. Recurrent signs that not everyone is able to recognize, however.”
“For example?”
“They are behaviors that are manifested from early childhood, such as a tendency toward excessive lying, or gratuitous cruelty toward animals. Of course, all children lie to avoid punishment, or because they live in an imaginary world, just as everyone has a legitimate curiosity to find out how a living creature is made inside, but when dissection becomes a habitual practice and its purpose is solely to inflict pain, in that case the child requires vigilance. Anyway, that’s the most obvious sign, but there are dozens of others that develop later on, which there’s no need to speak of. One says it all: the ability to make your thoughts turn against you.”
Father Cornelius seemed to search my face to study the effect of his statement. Reading a trace of skepticism there, he continued:
“First the Church, and later romantic literature, gave the devil prominence: they portrayed him in various ways, they gave him a face, a character, they provided him with a job, a mission, they clothed him in all kinds of attire, to the degree of making him visible, alive. In short, they humanized him.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. I felt like I was listening to the ravings of a madman. In any case, I played along.
“So the devil was created in our image and likeness?”
“Precisely. There is nothing in the world that was not first conceived of by a mind, even before it existed. You write, I suppose …”
Taken by surprise, as if writing were a sin to be ashamed of, I felt myself redden: “Is it obvious by looking at me?”
“It’s not hard to see,” Father Cornelius replied with a smile, “and besides, last night I heard the clacking of a typewriter.”
It was true: the night before, right after supper, I had gone up to my room to make a clean copy of some notes scrawled in pencil in a notebook. I had typed a few lines on my old portable, but then, thinking it was too noisy for that quiet place, I had put it back in its case. But the fact that my secret passion was written on my face didn’t sit too well with me.
“I’m trying at least, with no appreciable results,” I replied, with some embarrassment.
“You are still young and have every possibility ahead of you. But be careful about the choices you make.”
“What do you mean?”
“Literature is the greatest of the arts,” the priest continued, “but it is also a dangerous endeavor.”
“In
