Tiredness became Satan, his features softened, his cheeks sagged, his posture relaxed, less stark and threatening, and the insanity residing in his eyes departed for a short vacation. He wondered which of the fourteen was best at healing inanition, who the rejuvenator was. Not Blaise.
“Forgive me for bringing this up,” Blaise said, a quiver in his voice, “and please inform me if I am being inappropriate, please. I wish to say that I admire your commitment, and, of course, his. I can see many connections between you and Jacob, but I am trying to understand what—or maybe which one of them—keeps you two inseparable.”
“Inseparable?” Satan said. “You mean like your Armenian saying, Two butts in the same pants?”
“No, I would never speak that phrase.” Blaise blushed streaks of crimson, coralline floating atop a sea of green ascetic robes. “I could not. It’s not Armenian. I’m sure it’s Lebanese, delightful people, but methinks a bit uncouth.”
He looked to be in his late forties, with a riotous white beard, sharp nose, anxious eyes, and a wisp of hair hanging down on his forehead. No rings graced his fingers, no jewelry adorned his person, no cross, no crosier, he held only his two plain white candles, which he laid on his lap. His halo was barely perceptible, a mere shimmer in the air, an old threadbare nimbus. Like Pantaleon, Blaise was a physician, and like Denis, a bishop, but unlike the flamboyant flamer and the pompous dandy, he was pathologically shy, finding the company of others painful, if not the company of beasts. A Eurasian lynx lounged before the sylvan saint, her belly warming his bare feet. Her presence suggested that poor Behemoth might not come out of the closet for a while. On Blaise’s right lay a sizable hound with a wide Cerberean mouth, and on his left sat a wild boar on its hind legs.
Satan’s stomach rumbled. He worshipped pancetta.
“I meant only that you have been with the poet longer than any of us,” Blaise said. “We all care for him, but your devotion is exemplary, as well as inspiring. I wish to discover why you have remained with him, why you returned after so long. If the question is too personal, please feel free to ignore it, for I do not place a higher value on my curiosity than on your peace of mind.”
Satan decided to tell the truth.
“I find him thoroughly entertaining, perhaps my chief delight,” he said. “He is most certainly difficult at times, dull even, but for the most part, our relationship survives because he amuses me. In spite of his vinegary outlook these days, or maybe because of it, he rejuvenates my jaded heart.”
“And I am sure he values your commitment,” Blaise said.
“I doubt it.”
“He must,” Blaise said, sounding muffled as he bent to scratch between his lynx’s ears. “It may not seem so to you, but I’m sure he finds you as amusing as you find him.” Blaise’s white hair was shaved in a Roman tonsure, and when sunbeams struck his bowed head, it looked like a sunny-side-up egg. “I’m envious, for I miss him. I wish he would call me back.”
“Why do you like him?” Satan asked.
“That’s easy,” Blaise said. “Because he’s likable. He loves his beasts and they love him right back. Who else could have fallen in love with Behemoth? Such a delightful troublemaker, Satan’s spawn.” The palm of his hand quickly covered his mouth; his cheeks turned a deeper coral. “Oh my, I apologize. I meant it endearingly.”
“And I took it as such. I am proud to claim Behemoth.”
Blaise looked toward the closet, shut his eyes for a moment. “It’s time to come out, my dear boy.”
Behemoth jumped out, landing on the hardwood floor delicately. He looked around, sauntered past the wild boar, hesitated momentarily in front of the lynx, then leaped into the saint’s lap. He circled twice, shoved both candles off with his paw. One fell on the floor, the other on the lynx, who seemed perplexed. Behemoth settled in and began to chew on a rear toenail.
“Such a beautiful boy,” Blaise said to the purring cat.
“So you love Jacob because he loves animals?”
“No, but that was how it started,” Blaise said, “the first impression, so to speak. There are a number of monsters who loved beasts, and I don’t return that love, I couldn’t.”
“Adolf loved animals,” Satan said.
“Worse,” Blaise said, “the pope’s pet from Assisi does as well. Francis surrounds himself with cute animals.”
“Don’t mention him, please. Francis needs a fisting.”
Blaise grinned. “No, it wasn’t only about Jacob’s love for beasts. You remember what Catherine Deneuve said about that fascist Brigitte Bardot, that it was easy to love animals, much harder to love people. Well, Jacob loved both, in spite of what he thinks. He was the one that held that group of friends together.”
“You think so?” Satan said. “That’s comical because he believes the opposite. He thinks that they only tolerated him, that he was the seventh wheel!”
“But he was the one Greg loved best. He’d have had nothing to do with the rest of them if not for Jacob. Pinto considered him his doppelgänger. Does he think any of the others would have befriended Lou if not for him?”
“Enlighten him,” Satan said.
“Lou was the pretty one, definitely not the smart one. He once told the poet that he had never read a single book in his life, not one, People magazine was where it was at for him. Where was he from? I can’t remember. Maybe Omaha or Lubbock or Midland. He wasn’t the masculine one either. The others could camp it up, but if need be, they could all pass for normal, or almost normal, as was the case with Jacob, who learned to put on the mask at an early age. Not Lou, he was a hairdresser after all, dedicated to his profession. He made all of them uncomfortable except for Jacob, and Lou loved him for that, adored him. I remember one evening when none of the seven were remotely sober, every conversation ending up lost in a maze as they lay about the room, draped over the couches, splayed on the rug. They decided to play the What Superpower Would You Want game. Doc wanted to be irresistible so he could seduce anybody. Greg wanted flight, Jim, mind control. Of all things, Jacob wanted speed-reading, the ability to read every book ever written within his lifetime. His was not the strangest, though. Lou wanted to be able to stop time like Professor X, not to become famous, rich, or powerful, but because he saw so many horrible hairdos while riding the bus and he always fantasized that he could stop time, give the offending party a quick trim or coup de peigne, and return to his seat without anyone being the wiser. The other five groaned loudly, what a boring superpower, and wondered aloud whether that was his life’s ambition. It was. Jacob, on the other hand, considered Lou’s desire both wonderful and laudable. He loved the idea of someone using superpowers to help others look better.”
“You know,” Satan said, “he hasn’t had a good haircut since Lou died.”
“That hair, my lord!”