As he entered Cheyne Walk, Saul slowed the car and glanced at the dashboard clock, which read exactly eight o'clock. Streetlights reflected off the rain-soaked cobblestones, and a thin mist rose from the Thames, wrapping the Victorian brick façades as if the city itself breathed mystery.
That was when he saw her.
Meggie appeared dazzling, descending the steps of an elegant house. Her hair was partially tied in a careless bun, a few rebellious strands falling across her face. Black eyeliner framed her eyes, and a subtle gloss shimmered on her lips under the streetlight. A sparkling black handbag hung from her shoulder, and her short, bold pink skirt created a provocative contrast with the noir ensemble of knitwear, tights, and stiletto heels. The wide leather belt with a silver buckle might have seemed excessive on any other woman, but on her, it completed the look with a daring and irresistible harmony. Around her neck, a gold necklace with a single pearl appeared modest at first glance—until the light revealed a subtle, almost hypnotic elegance.
— You look incredibly beautiful — Saul complimented, opening the car door with a courteous gesture as he watched her gracefully slide into the seat.
— Thank you — she replied, casting him an enigmatic glance. — I thought you might be late.
— I thought you didn't like English literature — Saul teased, discreetly inhaling the sensual, delicate fragrance that surrounded her, reminding him of a Florentine sunrise.
— I like Mary Ann Evans... and Oscar Wilde... — she replied ironically, fastening her seatbelt.
— For that miracle I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the world I would not be willing to give in exchange. I would even give my soul! — Saul quoted theatrically.
— The Picture of Dorian Gray... — Meggie recognized with a half-smile. — One of my favorite books.
— I didn't expect that.
— Life is like that, Saul—we are always surprised between gods who do evil and demons who sometimes do good.
He glanced at her sideways, intrigued by the philosophical tone of her reply.
— Do you believe in a pact with the devil?
— In the imagination of novelists, anything is possible.
— That's not what I meant — Saul replied with a faint, skeptical laugh.
Silence settled between them for a few seconds, broken only by the hum of the electric engine and the distant murmur of the city.
— I believe there is evil in this world — he said thoughtfully — and it must have an origin. Since I rarely see gratuitous goodness, it's hard to imagine there is a God behind it. People need to justify their own perversity by saying they were corrupted by someone else. To me, the man who claims to have made a pact with the devil has only made a pact with himself.
— But is there someone behind evil, influencing it? — she asked, her eyes curious.
— Everything is possible.
— But that's not what you believe.
— In a way — Saul replied — I believe more in the existence of the devil because of the proportion of human evil than in God because of the proportion of good.
Meggie crossed her legs slowly, observing him with interest.
— I've never heard it put that way before.
— It's a simple theory — Saul explained. — If the devil influences evil, God should, in theory, influence good. But strangely, He lets man act on his own. So where is this God's work in influencing His followers and fighting His enemies?
— In the end — she murmured — man himself is his own god... and his own devil.
— Perhaps — he said — but I lean more toward Rousseau: man is a product of his environment and shaped by it.
— The same Rousseau who paraphrased Jesus?
— Paraphrased Jesus?
— Summarizing the Nazarene's words: "Tell me who you walk with, and I will tell you who you are."
— That's a much more plausible explanation.
— That's why I prefer philosophy to theology — Meggie replied ironically — to explain what is tangible and inherent to man.
— For your exorcist friend, demons don't exist only in the minds of writers.
— I know a priest's point of view — Saul countered — but I'd be surprised if you truly believed demons were real.
Meggie leaned back in her seat, watching the lights slide across the car windows.
— For the English, Lord Nelson was a hero at Trafalgar. Ask the French, and many will call him a demon. In France, Napoleon was followed like a god, but I bet your great-grandfathers, Saul, saw him as the very incarnation of the devil.
— What does that have to do with religion?
— I believe in gods — she said — but whether they are angels or demons depends on which side of history you are on.
— Looks like someone's been reading another famous Englishman.
— Who this time?
— Aleister Crowley, and his eternal struggle between God and the devil.
— Which one won?
— That was his doubt. He said God won, but the question was: which one was God? So anything can be a god, right?
— I don't agree, Saul. If a criminal justifies his murders by saying, "I did God's will," the lawyer will argue insanity.
— We're off to a great start tonight — Saul laughed, easing the tension.
— Maybe we should change the subject before I start thinking I'm going out with a psychopathic maniac.
— Some people like danger — he replied, looking at her with mischief.
— Speaking of liking things... — she smiled back.
— Do you like blues and jazz? — Saul asked, turning the knob and raising the volume of Cross Road Blues.
— Weren't you the one who wanted to change the subject? Is this a provocation? — Meggie teased.
— Why are you telling me this?
— Have you never paid attention to the lyrics? It's about the pact Robert Johnson made with the devil at the crossroads.
— I made an unpretentious music selection — Saul replied, laughing. — I don't care much about that singer's life, or Dorian Gray, or Lord Nelson or Napoleon Bonaparte... and to be honest, religion bores me.
He pressed the shuffle button, and the next song came on: God Bless the Child, in the melancholic voice of Billie Holiday. They both laughed.
— I swear it's not a provocation — Saul assured.
— Sure... — Meggie replied, raising an eyebrow.
— I see that besides literature and religion, you also like history.
— My father used to say that history is the psychology of the world.
— I'm not a psychologist, but I think the whole world needs to be admitted to an asylum — Saul joked.
— So where's the straitjacket? — the American shot back, playing along.
— I was hoping you'd take it off tonight.
— Maybe... — she replied with a challenging smile.
They had just arrived at the Obeson Ramsay Restaurant, and the golden reflection of the lights on its façade announced the beginning of a night that promised to be far more than just dinner.