Joburg. It’s the hottest day of the year so far. The air’s as suffocating as a fat man’s hand pressed full against the face.
Joubert Park, that inner-city cesspool, is littered with sun-beaten unfortunates, as if they were dumped there from a height, perhaps from the belly of a great big army transport helicopter through swung-open doors, mixed in with a mess of pigeons and booze bottles and fetid food wrapped in greasy newspaper.
Some have landed on benches, some on grass, some on the paved pathways, some are over the edge of the fountain.
I’m guessing that the only standing figure, far off at the end of the paved path, is the one I’m meeting. Tall. Trenchcoated. Fedora worn high and skew, presumably on account of the horns. I walk up to him, not unnervously.
”Satan?” I ask.
”Jesus, man,” he whispers, leaning in, looking side to side. ”Let’s avoid freaking anybody out here.”
”Sorry. Nice goatee.”
Idiot!
”Let’s sit. Let’s talk.”
”I’ll find us a bench. Get thee behind me, Satan.”
Of course, all the benches are taken by the horizontal homeless so Satan sits on top of one who, face downward, grumbles and stirs only slightly in his liquored stupor. Not wanting to cause a fuss, I make myself comfortable on the bum’s bum and get my notepad ready.
”Thanks for the interview, Satan.”
”It’s weird. I don’t really hear from journalists much.”
”Actually, I’m not a journalist. I’m a columnist.”
”What’s the difference?”
”Well, columnists are primarily interested in self-promotion.”
”That would explain why you guys are always pulling the sexy face in your mugshots.”
He laughs. Like a girl. It’s kinda cute. He takes a swig from a hip flask.
”I’m just tired of it,” he says.
”Tired of what?” I ask.
”Being blamed for stuff. It’s always ‘Oooh! Oooh! The devil made me do it!’ Well, I ain’t done nothin’.”
”That’s quite a claim, Satan.”
”Please, call me Bub. Now, listen. Don’t you think it’s time you guys started taking some responsibility? Truth is, technically, I don’t even exist. I just thought, if you guys are going to keep obsessing about fictional characters, one of us should set the record straight. And better the devil you know.”
”Can we talk about this Deon Maas thing? So he wrote this piece in Rapport suggesting that Satanism is as legitimate as any religion.”
”Well, he has a point, doesn’t he?”
”You would say that.”
”Look, it’s neither here nor there to me. I have no interest in being worshipped.”
”Not into human sacrifices?”
”Nope.”
”Animal sacrifices?”
”Nope.”
”Not even a kitty cat?”
”Dude, that’s old school.”
He passes me the flask. Clearly, he’s loosening up.
”So what evildoing do you actually do?”
”I’m into performance these days.”
”Performance?”
”Ever heard Stairway to Heaven … backward?”
”No. But I’ve heard Il Divo forward.”
”Aah! Some of my finest work.”
”But what about the scary stuff,” I ask. ”Fire and brimstone. Demon armies.”
”Dear God, man. You don’t get it, do you? You want your quotable quote? You want to know what evil is?”
He snaps the flask away and stands to go. There’s a wild flurry of wings as every pigeon flees skyward.
”Evil is people letting a world of misery perpetuate while they distract themselves with email petitions to get newspaper columnists fired and fight over whose imaginary friend is more powerful. WWJD (What would Jesus do), baby?”
The pigeons land. The bum beneath me shifts. Satan pulls his hat low over his eyes.
”How’d you get my number, by the way?”
”Tim du Plessis at Rapport passed it on. From when he sold you his soul.”
He flashes a smile best described as devilish and clip-clops away on cloven hooves.