Satan's Diary

Prelude

I work three days a week in a coffee shop on the corner of Bancroft and College in Berkeley, California. The university is just across the street, and most of the traffic that comes through Caffè Strada on Monday mornings consists of bleary-eyed students in pajama pants and baggy Cal sweatshirts. They always pay in crumpled up ones and fives, or they empty a mix of change onto the counter and expect the cashier to work out whether they have enough money for a grande or a venti.

They lead an easy life, the students: class at noon, an afternoon studying in the café, dinner with friends at seven, and then maybe Frisbee on the intramural field or a movie. Sure, midterms roll around every three weeks or so to disrupt the gentle cadence of their days, but in all my time on Earth, I have never seen so content, so indulged, and so happy a lot as college students. I have chosen to live among them because they are creatures of extremes: extreme intelligence and extreme idleness. They are among the most highly educated creatures on Earth, yet their intellect is busily occupied planning their next outfits for an Eighties-themed party, sneaking into football games, and slipping kegs past resident directors.

Indeed, college students are seriously underemployed. Seventy-five percent of a student’s time is spent on a lawn somewhere with a book for a pillow. But what astounds me is how much students can accomplish with the remaining twenty-five percent of their time. Groundbreaking discoveries in biology, chemistry, and physics come out of those lazy little bastards. Whole mathematical theories are disproved and reformulated. The deconstruction and assessment of Aristotle, Hemingway, and Tolstoy can be completed in a single all-nighter.

This brainpower should be harnessed, funneled into a giant think tank in the middle of Silicon Valley. College students could be the solution to the energy crisis. They could resolve the conflict in the Middle East. They could colonize the moon.

But students carefully maintain the reputation of good-for-nothing loafers whose brain cells and bank accounts are being blown on reality television and Bacardi. That way nobody will ever suspect them of genius, and they will never be asked to do anything more than rehash an old Jane Austen novel. Never was there a more arrogant, conceited, and shameless bunch of humans in all of history. I work at the epicenter of student life: the café. So it is that I serve an average of eighty lattes, fifty cappuccinos, and thirty espressos a day to the untapped talent of the universe.

God never intended for humans to be so complex. He was looking for something simple and dependable he could cling to when he was lonely. He thought if he made humans mortal, they would never venture far from him for fear of death. Mortality was a weakness that God hoped would bind humans to him forever. But mortality created in humans certain tendencies unknown to immortal creatures like me. The urge to reproduce—this was completely unintentional on the part of God. Wanderlust—totally unexpected.

Now, God has abandoned this race of mortals. But they have not abandoned him. They have filled the space of thousands of years with all sorts of stories about who he is and what he has done. Most of what humans think about God is fictitious. Or at most, it is a watered-down version of the truth. But one thing they do have right is that God is their maker. They may praise him for that reason alone, but if they knew more about him, they might find him less worthy of their devotion.

Mortals think they need God. That just isn’t true. Humans need double lattes more than they need God. In fact, humans were created because God needed them. God was seriously depressed. He and I had suffered a pretty grim falling out, and he was looking for someone to fill his bed. So, out of this desperate state of loneliness, Adam was formed. Man was a rebound. Yet humans continue to flock to churches, synagogues, and temples to offer up thanks for the gift God gave them: life.

God is my maker, too. But I don’t feel I owe him anything. You won’t find me in a church on Sundays. I go to the Berkeley Marina on Sundays and fly my kite. Some people there recognize me and say hello when they pass. I am known now as Todd Rivet. I like the name, the way it sounds. I like to fly kites.

I taught Benjamin Franklin to fly a kite on Milk Street in Boston in 1714.

The technology of kites has come a long way since then. I fly a Chinese dragon kite with an eighty-meter tail. Some kids at the marina know me as the Dragon Guy. It’s not the first time I’ve been called that. I have had many names: Satan, Beelzebub, Dragon, Serpent, and the Devil. Many call me the Prince of Darkness. Darkness, is it? They used to call me Lucifer, light-bringer.

Yellow wood sorrel and daisies crawl over the sides of the hills of the Berkeley Marina. There are sometimes hundreds of kites in the sky. On the best days, the sky is an explosion of color. San Francisco stands enveloped in an ethereal mist of blue-gray fog. There are the looming towers of the financial district; the low squat, tin warehouses on the wharf; and the long wooden piers. The Bay Bridge carries I-80 past the shipyard cranes, over the bay, and into the city. Alcatraz floats between the Berkeley Pier and the Golden Gate Bridge. Today, the bridge stands vermilion against a white and pink sunset.

I pull up a blade of sour grass, and my teeth pick at the stem until it bleeds clear, sweet gel. Today, I have not brought my kite. Instead, I have Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I am on page 137. The edges of the pages I have read are smudged and worn. The rest remains unmarred. Each page will have its turn.

I read very carefully. I read a sentence, and then reread that sentence until I have understood every word the way the author intends it to be understood. Then I fuse the sentences together into paragraphs and reread the paragraphs. I am never hasty. I have a very long time to go on reading books. I am in no hurry to be finished with anything. Kundera is very intentional. His words lay over other words, which lay over other worlds, and I must swim many leagues before I fully grasp his meaning. And then I must swim all the way back carrying those meanings, and they are heavy, so I take multiple trips.

How many times have you forgotten something important you have read? Kundera would not want you to forget.

I turn the page and if I feel a disconnect between the first word at the top of 138 and the last word at the bottom of 137, I go back and reread page 137.

Kundera speaks of the soul, that elusive essence of self. Humans hold onto the soul like a comfort blanket. Humans are hopelessly romantic in that way. They believe that when they die, they go on as I do and take some place in the hierarchy of angels. A silly fantasy. What differentiates man from Imorti is his soul; man’s soul is a mere reflection of existence, and when man’s body dies, it will be like a shadow passing into a cave. The reflection will be gone and all that will remain is dust.

Chapter 1

When I was born, it was like waking from the sluggish unconsciousness of drunken sleep. There was a stirring in the hills of Eden. The physical universe bent and stretched. The sky ripped apart, and I fell out. I lay a long time in the moss-covered bank of the River Fluvius. I was on my side, curled in the fetal position. My toes were in the stream. My face was in the mud. I had fallen between two large river rocks and the whole of my body lay like a rag doll in the sediment.

I was born complete. I had the muscles to stand, jump, walk, and run. But I had never learned to do these things, so I stumbled along the ground for a while, unable to comprehend the limitations of my strength. It took me a while to stand and then to take my first step. I was also fully capable of language. My first words were, “What’s all this?” Not prophetic, I grant you that, but imagine waking very suddenly to find yourself alive for the first time and picture being surrounded by a garden full of all God’s creatures. If you were to speak, you might as well say, “What’s all this?”

The mud on my body looked like war paint. My hair was wavy and fell around my ears. I combed the tangles out with my fingers. I could move in small steps, and I turned myself in a circle. I acknowledged my body with a nod. Yes, it was all there. I was aware that I had been made of the clay of the earth and the air of the sky. I knew I was one of God’s angels. I even knew that I was an attempt at perfection. And, oh, how close I came to perfection—you would marvel.

I also knew the man sitting on the fallen trunk of a birch staring at me was God. He was attractive, weathered, with a leathery sort of skin. His hair was salt-and-peppery, his face etched with smile lines. God had never been young. He had come into being just as he was now, the figure of a forty-something-year-old man.

“Better than I expected,” God said, acknowledging me with a nod. He motioned for me to turn in a circle, and so I did. “Yes,” he said finally. “You will do just fine.”

He got up and there was a rustling in the trees, as if his very movement summoned the winds. He had been sitting on an elaborate quilt, stitched with fine golden thread, a patchwork of silk and satin and lace. He brought the quilt to my shoulders and wrapped it around my naked body. I held it close under my chin.

I could see my reflection in the water, could see my sculpted calves and handsome face, could see how the quilt complimented my features. I shivered.

“I am quite satisfied,” God said, looking me over one last time. “Come with me.”

I nodded my acquiescence but said nothing. I felt that if I spoke, I would cease to be perfect; that by speaking, I would reveal some defect or flaw.

God delivered long, self-aggrandizing monologues as he led me through the gardens. He spoke to me of Heaven and of his many creations. He spoke of angels and mortal creatures. He told me that of all his inventions, I was his finest, his most beloved.

“You are an angel and immortal,” God said. “And all the animals in Eden bow to you wherever you go. That is the Law of Heaven.”

There was a narrow trail that wound along the bank of the River Fluvius. We followed it until we came to an ornate wooden bridge that carried us over the river, up a hill, and onto a sweeping lawn.

That was where I first met another angel, like me—Michael. He was bent over on the ground, white robes furled beneath his knees. He had in his right hand a pair of scissors and in his left a short measuring stick. He held the measuring stick against each blade of grass and then, as if he had done it a million times before, he quickly snipped the blade at some predetermined length.

“I am very particular about my lawns,” God explained, nodding at the ruler in Michael’s hand.

I would later learn that Michael’s patience was eternal. He was God’s experiment in subservience.

I, however, was quite the opposite, made of an entirely different fabric.

When Michael saw us coming, he wiped the scissors on his robes and stood. He acknowledged God with a nod.

“Michael is the gardener of Eden,” God explained. “He waters the lawns, keeps the plants in order, and takes care of the animals.”

Michael inspected me. “A new one, eh? What’s his name?”

“He is called Lucifer,” God said.

It was strange hearing my name for the first time. Lucifer. I said it slowly under my breath.

“Good name,” Michael said, smiling at me. “Lucifer. It means light-bringer.”

“Yes,” said God. “Lucifer is my greatest creation. He is to walk freely in my garden. He is also welcome to go anywhere else he pleases. He may come to my house if he likes, or he may walk upon Earth. There is no place in all of the universe forbidden to him.”

Michael nodded easily. “Then you’ll need a key,” he said. “Stop by tomorrow and I’ll get you set up.”

“Now, Lucifer,” God said. “I have given you all of Heaven to explore, and Earth if you like. You may pick the fruit from my trees, and you may swim in the lakes at your leisure. Tear up whole rows of asphodel if it suits your fancy. They will always be replanted. You may inconvenience Michael at your will. He is very patient and will not interfere with your fun. He has been ordered to obey your every wish for eternity.”

Here God withdrew a notebook from his satchel. He handed it to me.

“I give this to you as the first of many gifts,” he said. “The pages are blank.”

I took the notebook in my hands. The leather binding was soft, worn, yielding. The pages were rough and yellow.

“Fill them however you like,” God said. “As I have made you a very curious angel, I am sure you will want to study the animals and how they work. They are very complicated, and I have lost track of all the kinds I have made, but I’m sure you will keep them straight, for you are very clever.”

I held the notebook to my chest.

He continued, “You are the closest I have ever come to perfection, Lucifer. And you are to walk freely among my kingdom for all your days. I give you everything in this garden and everything on Earth.”

Here God paused, whether to give weight to what he would say next, or because he was still trying to think of how to arrange his words, I do not know.

“I have only one request of you,” he said.

I blinked and held my breath.

“What is your request?” I asked, when God said nothing more and I could bear the silence no longer.

“That you spend all your nights with me in my house.”

It was a curious request, but one I could not refuse with so many riches laid out before me.

“It is done,” I said. “From now until eternity.”

So it was that I came to know God so well.

God’s house was built on a tall hill with a thousand steps winding their way up to a gaping threshold. The house was constructed of white marble with four rectangular walls and a pitched roof supported by tall, fluted columns. Inside were two rooms. The first, a large chamber, was lit with a hundred flickering torches mounted on the walls. A fire burned in a stone pit in the center of the room, and at the far back sat an elegant marble slab upon which God had created the universe and everything in it. There was a smaller, private room beyond where God slept—where I slept—and a large, round bed with a downy mattress, silk sheets, and a tall white canopy.

God lived alone, but there were many who came and went throughout the day, angels who brought fresh fruit from the orchards or vegetables from the gardens. There were others who came to make the bed or sweep the floors, to tend the fire and scrub the white marble walls. They said little to God or to me, and when they were finished with whatever task they had come to perform, they went away without a word.

All afternoon, we feasted on grapes and pears, apples and cheese; and in the evening, God taught me a game played with the knucklebones of a sheep. I practiced throwing and catching the knucklebones on the back of my hand. I learned how to toss them so that they would have the highest chances of falling in favorable patterns, and before the evening was out, I was besting God two to one.

We played late into the night, and when the fire was low, I climbed into his bed and buried myself under the covers. God did not join me that night. He stayed awake at his bench, no doubt dreaming up new creations and molding them out of clay and fire. I fell asleep to the gentle drum of his fingers on the marble tabletop and the hiss and crackle of the dying embers in the earthen pit.

When I awoke, the daylight was shining brightly through the open windows. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, stretched out like a cat in the sun, and kicked the covers away. I found the table laden with goat cheese and milk and sweet tangerines, and I ate eagerly, not waiting for permission.

God was nowhere to be found. So, when I finished, I set out in search of Michael, who was to give me the key to all the Kingdoms of Heaven. The garden was a paradise, and I was easily amused by the squirmy, crawly things in the ground, and the cawing, flapping things in the sky, and the swinging, jumping things in the trees. I carried with me the notebook God had given me, and when I was inspired by some new creature, I sketched its portrait in gray charcoal, paying close attention to how many toes or fingers it had, the shape of its body and face, the texture of its skin or fur, and all the other little things that set it apart from the other creatures.

I was following the pronged footsteps of one such creature when I stumbled upon Michael. He was bent over a patch of brown earth with a small shovel and was tilling the soil.

“Aha,” he said when he saw me. “There you are. I want to show you something.”

He laid the shovel down and wiped his hands on his knees. I followed him down a narrow trail to a small wooden shack. When we stepped through the door, I was surprised to find that not only did Michael keep his gardening tools inside, but he lived there, too. There was a small hammock slung across the back wall, a rocking chair fashioned out of gnarled oak, a tin basin for washing, and a long wooden workbench with a smooth flat surface and dozens of little drawers for holding things.