A Farce To Be Reckoned With Read online

  "I have done my part,' Hermes said. He waved his hand to dispel the clouds of smoke that had attended his arrival. He was dressed as before, but this time he earned under his arm a small, richly made wooden box.

  "What have you got there?" Westfall asked.

  Just then came the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. A muffled voice from outside cried, "Will somebody please get the door?" Westfall went and opened it. Two large workmen came in, lugging between them the body of a beautiful young woman, unconscious, and pale as death.

  "Where do you want her?" asked the workman carrying the end with the head and shoulders.

  "Just put her down on the couch over there. Gently!"

  Hermes paid both workmen and saw them to the door. He said to Westfall, "I have given her into your power. Now you have her body. But I advise you not to fool around with it "without the lady's permission."

  "Where is she?" Westfall asked. "Her consciousness, I O " mean:

  "You mean her soul," Hermes said. "It is right here in this box." He put the box down on one of Westfall's tables. "Open it when you please, and her soul will fly out and reanimate her body. But watch your step.

  The lady is more than a little angry, not taking kindly to being conjured when she was trying to do something else."

  "Her soul is really in the box?" Westfall asked. He lifted the small brown silver-inlaid container and shook it. From deep within he heard a shriek and a muffled curse.

  "You're on your own now," Hermes said.

  "But what am I supposed to do?"

  "That's for you to find out."

  Westfall picked up the box and shook it gentry. He said, "Miss Ylith? Are you in there?"

  "You bet I'm here, you unspeakable piglike thing," Ylith said. "Open this lid so I can get out and get at you."

  Westfall turned pale and squeezed the lid down tightly with both hands. "Oh, dear." He looked at Hermes.

  Hermes shrugged.

  "She's angry."

  "You're telling me?" Hermes said.

  "But what am I to do with her?"

  "You wanted her," Hermes pointed out. "I thought you'd have that part figured out."

  "Well, not exactly."

  "I'd advise you to try to come to some understanding with her. You're going to have to do that."

  "Maybe I'll just put the box away for a while," said Westfall.

  "That would be a mistake."

  "Why?"

  "Unless Pandora's box is watched all of the time, what is within is able to get out."

  "That's not fair!"

  "I've played fair with you, Westfall. You should know these things always have a trick to them. Good luck."

  He began to make a gesture to conjure himself out of there.

  "Remember," Westfall said, "I still have the talisman. I can call you up when I wish!"

  "I wouldn't advise trying it," Hermes said, and vanished.

  Westfall waited until Hermes' smoke had faded away. Then he turned to the box. "Miss Ylith?"

  "What is it?"

  "Could we have a talk, you and I?"

  "Open this box and let me out. I'll give you talk."

  Westfall shuddered at the sound of rage in her voice. "Maybe we should wait a little while," he said. "I need to think this out." Ignoring her curses, he walked to the other end of the chamber and settled down to think. But he didn't take his eyes off the box.

  Westfall kept the box on his nightstand. He did have to sleep occasionally, but he wakened himself periodically to make sure Ylith was still in there; he had become concerned that she would get out on her own. He began to dream that she was about to open the box, or that it had opened during the night.

  Sometimes he woke up screaming.

  "Listen, miss," he said, "what say we forget all about this? I'll let you go and you leave me alone. Is that okay?"

  "No," Ylith said.

  "Why? What do you want?"

  "Indemnity," Ylith said. "You can't expect things to happen as easily as that, Westfall."

  "What will you do if I let you out?"

  "I don't honestly know."

  "You won't kill me, though, will you?"

  "I might. I just might."

  It was a standoff.

  Chapter 8

  Pietro Aretino was somewhat surprised to find a red- haired demon at his door that day in Venice in

  1524. But not too surprised. Aretino made it a point never to be put out of countenance by anything.

  He was a big man, his own red hair receding from his high brow. Thirty-two years old that month, he had spent all his adult life as a poet and playwright. His verses, which combined the utmost scurrility with an exquisite sense of rhyme, were recited and sung from one corner of Europe to the other.

  Aretino 'was able to live well on the expensive presents that kings, noblemen, and prelates were forever forcing upon him to induce him to desist from attacking and mocking them. "Pray take this gold salver, good Aretino, and be so kind as to disinclude me in your latest broadside."

  "Good evening to you, sir," Aretino said, keeping a respectful tone until he knew whom he was insulting.

  "Have you some business with me? For I think I have not seen your race.

  "We have not met before this," Azzie said. "Yet it seems to me that I know the Divine Aretino through the luscious sagacity of his verses, in which a sound moral point is never far behind the laughter."

  "It is good of you to say so, sir," said Aretino. "But many hold that there is no moral content whatsoever to my lines."

  "They are deceived," Azzie said. "To scoff at the pretensions of mankind, as you unerringly do, dear master, TS to point up the excellencies of that which the churchmen are usually all too willing to dismiss."

  "You speak out boldly, sir, in favor of those deeds that men consider evil."

  "Yet men perform the Seven Deadly Sins with an alacrity they do not display in their high-minded quests for the good. Even Sloth is entered into with a greater alacrity than accompanies the pursuits of piety."

  "Sir," said Aretino, "your viewpoint is my viewpoint. But let us not remain here on the doorstep, gossiping like a pair of old crones. Come into my house, and let me pour you a glass of a fine wine I recently brought back from Tuscany."

  Aretino led Azzie inside. His house, or rather his palazzo, was small though luxurious. The floors were carpeted with thick-piled rugs sent by the Doge himself; tall waxen tapers burned in bronze candelabra, and the flames sent streaks of light down the cream-colored walls.

  Aretino led the way to a low-ceilinged sitting room decorated with rugs and wall hangings. A charcoal brazier took oil the wintry chill that still hung in the air. He gestured to Azzie to make himself comfortable and poured him a glass of sparkling red wine from the crystal decanter that stood on a little inlaid table nearby.

  "Now then, sir," said Aretino, after they had toasted each other's health, "tell me how I may be of service to you.

  "Say rather," said Azzie, "that I wish to be of service to you, since you are the preeminent poet and satirist in Europe and I am but a simple patron of the arts who wishes to set forth an artistic enterprise."

  "What exactly did you have in mind, sir?" Aretino asked.

  "I would like to produce a play."

  "What an excellent idea!" cried Aretino. "I have several that might suit your purposes very nicely. Allow me to fetch the manuscripts."

  Azzie held up a hand. "Although I have no doubt as to the supreme perfection of everything you have written, my dear Aretino, something already written will not do. I would like to be involved in a new enterprise, a piece that would make use of a particular conception of mine."

  "Of course," Aretino said, for he was familiar with men who wished to produce works of art, coming up themselves with the conception but leaving the dull work of the actual writing to someone else. "And what, sir, do you propose for the theme?"

  "These are the usual sorts of moral propositions," Aretino said. "Do you wish to confute
them?"

  "Indeed I do," Azzie said. "Even though they are the very stuff of everyday folk wisdom, some of us know that matters do not always come out this way. My play would prove the contrary to what is generally maintained by the mumble-mouthed do-gooders. In my play, the Seven Deadly Sins will be shown as the true path to a fine life, or in any event, as no impediment to it. In brief, my dear Aretino, I wish to produce an immorality play."

  "What a noble conception!" cried Aretino. "Oh, I applaud you, sir, for your great notion that single-handedly attempts to oppose the centuries of mealymouthed propaganda with which men have tried to convince themselves to do the conventional thing no matter how they opposed it. But let me point out, sir, that it will be difficult to mount such a production without bringing down upon our heads the hypocritical wrath of Church and State. And besides, where will we find a cast? Or a stage that isn't claimed by the Church?"

  "In the play I want to produce," said Azzie, "I do not contemplate such a formal procedure as actors, stage, and audience. The play will unfold naturally; we will give our actors a general sense of the situation, and let them work out the lines and action for themselves, in a free-form and unpremeditated manner."

  "But how would you have your play prove its moral unless you foreplan the outcome?"

  "I have a few thoughts on that," Azzie said, "which I will share with you when we are in agreement on the project. Let me just say that the machinery of worldly cause and effect is something I can manipulate to good advantage to get the results I desire."

  "It would take a supernatural being to make such a statement," said Aretino.

  "Listen to me closely," Azzie said.

  "I listen," said Aretino, somewhat taken aback by Azzie's suddenly commanding manner.

  "I am Azzie Elbub, a demon of noble lineage, at your service, Aretino," Azzie said, making a negligent gesture with one hand, at the end of which blue sparks of lightning flashed.

  Aretino's eyes opened wide. "Black magic!"

  "I avail myself of these infernal stage effects," said Azzie, "so that you might know at once with whom you are dealing."

  Drawing his fingers together, Azzie produced a large emerald, then another, and another. He turned out six of them and lay them side to side on the little table where the wine stood. Then he made a pass over them, and the emeralds shuddered and collapsed into a single large stone, the largest emerald the world had ever known.

  "Amazing!" said Aretino.

  "Amazing!" said Aretino again. "Can such a trick be taught?"

  "Only to another demon." said Azzie. "But there is a lot I can do for you, Aretino. Come into this enterprise with me and not only will you be paid beyond your wildest dreams, but also you will receive a tenfold increase in your already sizable fame because you will be the author of a play that will set forth a new legend upon this old Earth. With a little luck, it will presage the beginning of an age of candor such as the hypocritical old globe has not yet seen."

  Azzie's eyes flashed fire as he spoke—he wasn't one to stint his effects when trying to make a point.

  Aretino stumbled back at this display. He tripped over a footstool and would have fallen heavily had not Azzie reached out a long lean arm covered in fine red hair and restored the surprised poet to his balance.

  "I can't tell you how flattered I am," Aretino said, "that you would come to me for this supreme production. I am entirely in accord with your wishes, my dear Lord Azzie, but the matter isn't quite so simple. I would not give you less than the best. Give me a week's time, my lord, in which I may consider the matter, and meditate, and consult the ancient stories and legends I have heard. The entire basis for this play of yours, however it is mounted, must be a story. It is the search for that story to which I'll devote myself. Shall we say until next week at this same time?"

  "That is most excellently said," Azzie said. "I am glad you are not jumping into this matter lightly. Yes, take a week."

  With that, Azzie made a gesture and vanished.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 1

  When a demon leaves Earth in order to go to the Realm of Darkness, profound forces are involved, discernible only to senses that can detect what for most humans is undetectable. That evening, not long after his talk with Aretino, Azzie gazed upward at the starry sky. He snapped his fingers — he had recently procured a new finger-snapping spell, and now .was a good chance to try it out. The spell kicked in and flung him into the air, and soon he was traveling rapidly through space, his passage brighter than a falling star.

  Azzie roared through the transparent separation that forms the covering of the Heavenly sphere of the heavens, picking up mass as he went in accordance with the law of speeding objects that governs even devils in their flight. The stars seemed to nod and wink at his passage. The wind that howled between the worlds sent a chill through him, and Ur-frost formed on his nose and eyebrows. He felt the savage chill of those desolate spaces, but he didn't slow down. He was in the devil's own hurry. Once Azzie got an idea, he was unstoppable.

  In order to get a great event like an immorality play written and staged, he needed money. He had to pay the human actors, and it cost plenty to purchase the special effects — those fortuitous miracles that would occur to cheer his actors on their way to undeserved good fortune. Azzie had remembered that he hadn't been paid his bonus for the Bad Deed of the Year award which he had received for his part in the Faust affair.

  At last his speed was sufficient for the great shift that propels a being from one realm of existence into another. Suddenly Azzie was no longer traveling through the sphere of mundane objects and energies made up of atoms and their constituent member particles. He had passed through the invisible and impalpable separation that divides ordinary objects like mumesons and tachyons from the finer particles of the Spiritual Realm.

  Just ahead of him were the great grim blue-black walls of Hell City, on which the walls of ancient Babylon had been modeled. Sentinel devils patrolled the high bastions; Azzie waved his pass at them and hurtled on.

  He came in over the dark Satanic suburbs and soon was in the business section of Hell City, where the administrative work was carried out. He passed by the Public Works division; it was of no interest to him just now. The great bureaucratic buildings coalesced around him, he picked the right one, and soon he was hurrying down a corridor filled with other demons, as well as imps in pageboy's uniforms. Here and there were the inevitable kimono-clad succubi who made the lunches of senior officials so pleasant. He came at last to the Accounting Section.

  He was expected to take his place at the end of the long line of petitioners who waited impatiently for someone to hear their cases. They were a down-at-the-heels and seedy bunch. Azzie went right past them to the head of the line, flourishing a gold-edged Bypass Card he had gotten from Asmodeus back when he stood high in that senior devil's favor.

  The clerk in charge of Payments Past Due was an ill- favored Transylvanian imp-goblin with a long nose and breath that was horrific even by Hell's standards. Devoted as he and all his fellows were to doing as little as possible, thus saving their own energy and Hell's money, he claimed that Azzie had not filled in his papers correctly, and in any event, he had filled out the wrong forms. Azzie showed him a Waiver of Correctness signed by Beelzebub himself. It stated that no impediment in the paperwork was to stop or delay the payment of moneys owed to said demon. The imp-goblin was sore pressed by this, but found a last excuse.

  "I do not have the authority to pass on these things. I'm just a wretched little imp-goblin clerk. What you've got to do is go down the hall, take the first door to your right, go up the staircase — "

  Azzie was having none of it. He produced another form, an Instant Action Chit, which stated that no excuses would be tolerated in the paying of this demand, and that any obfuscation on the part of the requisite clerk would be met with Pecuniary Punishment, viz., taking the amount owed out of the clerk's own salary. This was the most drastic form of action anyon
e could take in Hell City, and Azzie had had to steal the form from the special office where they were handed out only to the favored few.

  The form's effect on the imp-goblin was immediate and gratifying. "It's not coming out of my pocket!" the imp- goblin said. "Where's my stamp?" He rummaged around his desk, found it, and stamped Azzie's papers with URGENT! PAY IMMEDIATELY! in letters of fire. "Now just take that down the hall to the Payments window. And then kindly go away. You have quite ruined my day."

  Azzie did so. He vowed to return with nasty new tricks if there was any further trouble. But the clerk at the Payments window, seeing the notation PAY IMMEDIATELY!, initialed it and handed over forthwith and without delay several sacks of gold coins, making up the full amount of what Azzie was owed.

  Chapter 2

  By the time Azzie got back to Venice, six days of Earth- time had passed. The weather had turned mild and glorious, and flowering plants had burst into bloom in the little parks. White and yellow blooms were everywhere, glorious in the mild sunshine. The ladies of Venice promenaded in the fine weather, the men walking along with them, prattling of the affairs of nobles and their ladies. The tide was falling, carrying the garbage and debris of the inhabitants out to sea. The spanking east wind was sweeping out the odorous vapors that made Venice a likely place for European plagues to begin. All in all it was a good time to be alive.

  "Azzie! Upon my word, it is you, isn't it?" said the other.

  It was the angel Babriel, an old acquaintance from bygone adventures. Although they served opposite sides in the great battle of Light and Dark, they had become friends — or if not exactly friends, something closer than acquaintances— over the course of events. They had another connection, too—the love they both bore the beautiful black- haired witch named Ylith.

  Azzie thought that Babriel, who worked nowadays for Michael the Archangel, might be here in Venice to keep an eye on him, and might even be suspecting him — through some previously unheard-of Heavenly art — of the scheme he was attempting to hatch.