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Fittingly, London is the last stop on her Eziraphael book tour. Natasha always liked coming to London during her doctoral research--she feels less out of place here as a black woman "from the States" than she does in the rest of the UK. The bizarre fact that she is now a person who goes on international book tours and is introduced to expectant crowds as Doctor Johnson has finally started to sink in, but she's exhausted and maybe even a little delirious by this point in the tour. This evening, London feels like a dreamscape. An omnipresent mist hangs portentously.
But the Foyles Bookstore staff have publicized her talk well on social media, and someone even put flyers up all around the neighborhood, so there's a good crowd for the audience. Their faces blur as Natasha steps up to the mic.
"According to queer historian Jim Downs," she begins, "'we should not simply assume that all historical actors are, in fact, heterosexual,' and queer histories can be uncovered by decoding the adjectives, modifiers, and phrases used to describe non-heterosexual desire in each particular historical context. My research for this book began with the realization that references to the angel Eziraphael were one of those coded phrases, so I traced this thread of queer religious devotion to wherever I could find it."
Two middle-aged men stumble in, late, clearly trying and failing to be inconspicuous. They sit down together in the back row, a redheaded rocker type wearing sunglasses indoors and a plump blond dressed immaculately like an old professor. Natasha notices absently that their shoulders are a safely platonic distance apart.
She continues, "For most of this talk, I'm going to walk you through some of the instances where the angel Eziraphael shows up in the historical record." She pauses for a breath. "Okay. There's a brief mention of him in the medieval Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, where he's said to have helped keep the peace after King Arthur's death, and counseled King Cynric of Wessex on how to resist demonic temptation. However, mostly he's a more modern figure, which is interesting.
"Because--I'm sure many of you know this already, but I have to say it anyway--homosexuality, or gayness, or queerness as an identity is a relatively modern concept in the West. Homophobia is too. Medieval Britons were more likely to think of someone as perhaps engaging in homosexual acts, and they seem to have been mostly fine with it until the Church started to forbid sodomy in the late medieval period. And then in 1533, King Henry the Eighth made homosexual acts punishable by death. So, if Eziraphael has come to be known--in today's language--as the 'guardian angel of sad queers,' then it makes sense for him to have shown up more regularly in the past once that became a recognizable historical category."
Natasha is really glad that she's given this talk enough times to be able to do it on autopilot, because those two funny-looking men in the back just made the most absurdly astonished faces. The redhead's jaw drops, and the blond professorial type covers his mouth while his eyes go wide.
She presses on, "The debatably homosexual sixteenth-century playwright Christopher Marlowe used Eziraphael as a character in one of his plays. The angel appears to a monarch and counsels him to avoid temptations of the flesh with the man he is attracted to, because it conflicts with the selfless duty of a king. In one of Shakespeare's letters, he mentions 'the gifts of Eziraphael' as having helped him keep the money flowing in, but there's nothing else to connect that reference with queerness. It appears to have been the name he used to refer to a particularly generous patron, and there are no further clues to that patron's identity. In 1705, Eziraphael supposedly appeared to Julie d'Aubigny, the famous French opera singer, after the death of her lover Marie Louise Thérèse de Senneterre. Explaining why she retired to a convent, of all places, she wrote that the angel had given her peace and consolation in her grief."
Natasha's attention keeps wandering passively to the two men in the back, because they're having what are easily the most entertaining reactions in the audience. "A common element of many of these historical references is that they tend to describe Eziraphael's 'gifts' as peace, or forbearance, or strength in the face of temptation, or some material advantage that allows a person to move past temptation. Of course, the temptation that he helps people resist often takes the form of illicit romance."
The redhead swivels in his chair to look at his companion, and raises his eyebrows significantly. An embarrassed flush is beginning to show on the other man's cheeks.
"This shows up particularly well against the backdrop of an increase in sodomy prosecutions at the start of the nineteenth century in Britain. In 1810, some men charged with attempted sodomy described in their legal testimony how the angel Eziraphael had convinced them not to engage in these acts, to resist the demonic temptation of carnal knowledge. Bizarrely, even though it might have smacked rather too strongly of Catholic Popery for British religious sensibilities, this gambit seems to have helped their case. They were cleared of the charges."
The blond one smiles smugly.
"At some point in the nineteenth century, Eziraphael begins to be associated more specifically with resisting the temptations of one particular demonic figure. In Oscar Wilde's deathbed conversion, he is reported to have seen a vision of the angel, telling him that," she emphasizes, "illicit 'fraternization' with a demon or with Wilde's male lovers was against the will of Heaven and he must repent."
The blond professor type looks absolutely mortified all of a sudden. Natasha has no clue why they're reacting so strongly to her talk, but she's glad they're in the last row where they can't distract anyone besides her. The redhead slings an arm over the blond one's shoulders, and squeezes tightly. She thinks they're cute.
"Because we're in Britain, many of you may have heard of the World War One poets Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon." She recites, "'What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?'" and the audience nods sadly in recognition. "After Owen's early death, Sassoon grieved extensively, and one of his poems describes the angel Eziraphael's lamentations for the demon Crowley in his long absence."
As she continues, she sees the redhead wince, while the blond man flushes a brighter shade of pink. The redhead takes his companion's hand and kisses it tenderly, hesitating and checking for consent as if he's doing this for the first time.
Natasha, charmed, presses on, "That poem is a unique use of the Eziraphael trope, and one of few mentions of the demon by name.
"In the last few decades, as the queer community has become more vocal and empowered, people have openly venerated or at least referenced Eziraphael more, particularly in Britain and France. In 2002, the Vatican explicitly banned the veneration of what I've seen called 'rogue angels,' but that doesn't seem to have stopped anyone, considering that the Vatican isn't exactly fond of gay people either. One of my big arguments in the book is that veneration of Eziraphael is a way for historians to put queer people back into the history of Christianity. It's one way of showing that there's a place for faith in the gay community, and there has been for a long time, even if the Catholic Church doesn't want to talk about it.
"But," she pauses for effect, "I've saved my favorite Eziraphael appearance for last. In New Orleans voodoo, and only New Orleans voodoo--not Haitian vodou, or Jamaican obeah, or Cuban santería, or any of the other syncretic African religions that developed as a result of plantation slavery--Eziraphael is venerated as a loa, or minor deity. He is not to be confused with Ezili, the loa of love and beauty, although she's honored in similar ways. If you want to find love, or retain a sweetheart, you make offerings of sweet foods and fancy perfumes to Ezili. But if you're heartbroken from a lost lover, particularly a lover of the same gender, you pray to Eziraphael. If you need help coping with being in love with someone you can't have, you offer fancy foods and pretty things to Eziraphael, and hope that he will gift you in return.
"That is where I came across the name in the first place, and it's what got me started on this whole project. Nineteenth-century writers, and Zora Neale Hurston in the early twentieth century, wrote about these devotions, using coded language. One explanation for their origins is that veneration of Eziraphael came over to Louisiana with the French settlers. However, the practice only appears within the enslaved and free black communities." At this point in the talk, Natasha always feels like she's confessing her historiographical sins. "There's a miracle story, but it's too elusive to hold up as evidence. I hoped that with more research, I would be able to pin down a more verifiable New Orleans origin, but I haven't been able to--and sometimes, that's the hardest lesson for a historian to learn."
The audience members nod in concert as she closes out her talk. In the back of the room, that professorial type beams brightly at her. His sunglasses-wearing companion smirks, as self-satisfied as a cat.
After her talk comes the inevitable question-and-answer period. The two men in the back stay and listen, although they don't volunteer any questions.
The moderator starts her off with a softball: how did her book project come about? "This project was my doctoral dissertation, but over the course of researching it, I realized that these stories seemed to mean a lot to other folks. So I turned it into a book for a wider audience, and I'm really lucky to have been able to share it with so many people."
When a young woman asks her what her next project is, Natasha responds thoughtfully, "I'm starting on a smaller research project on the demonic figure who's associated with Eziraphael. He's called Crawley or Crowley, usually. I'd seen some references to him as the Serpent of Eden, and the Tempter of Christ. One idea that I'm working through is how he might symbolize the meaning of temptation in queer history and theory."
In the back of the room, the redhead nods exaggeratedly, while the blond one turns to smile at him. Natasha wrenches her attention away from them, and moves on to the next question.
Afterwards, the bookshop staff let Natasha catch her breath before the signing. She steps out the side door into the misty London darkness, and freezes immediately. The two men from the audience are somewhere nearby, their low voices audible through the stillness and the fog.
She hears, "I have to hand it to you, though, the New Orleans voodoo thing is extremely cool."
The other one responds even more quietly, "Upstairs didn't think so, though, and not just because of the miracles. We weren't supposed to mess around with slavery in the Americas... ineffable plan and all that."
Natasha has no idea what this means, or what "upstairs" is code for here, but she does possess the preternatural research intuition that is common to all good historians. Her spidey senses are tingling.
There's a pause. Then, "Oh, angel, I really do adore you, and your unauthorized sense of right and wrong. I hope you understand that."
"I do, my dearest, I do understand now. And the feeling is mutual."
"Obviously."
This is uncomfortably intimate, and far, far too sweet. Natasha's current post-doc fellowship didn't come with dental insurance, so she suppresses her curiosity and ducks back inside. Besides, it's time to sign some books.
The signing is often the best part, because of all the personal thanks and insights that people pipe up with when they hand their copy over. Tonight, an older woman in the signing line tells her a story of how she had made an Eziraphael banner for the first UK Gay and Lesbian Pride march in 1970. "I embroidered a flaming sword and everything."
The two men are back, standing near the end of the signing line, where they make quite a distinctive pair: short and tweed, tall and black leather. They're holding hands. When it's their turn, the blond one smiles nervously and presents her with a copy to sign. "Thank you for such an informative talk, Dr Johnson," he offers politely. "Are you by any chance in town for another day?"
She starts, "No, I--" then stops and blinks, off-kilter. "Wait, yes, but I fly out tomorrow night."
The redheaded one smirks. "Isn't that a miracle!" He pulls a business card out of thin air, and informs her, "This is the address of another bookshop nearby, and you need to come by and chat with us sometime before you skip town."
"We have some important questions for you," says the blond man, smiling sweetly.
His companion steps slightly closer to Natasha. Bizarrely, it's nearly ten pm and his sunglasses are still on. "And we've got some leads for your next project," he intones significantly. It feels like a threat.
The blond one nods. "We'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well," he tells her, clearly using the imperative form of the verb.
Natasha thinks she ought to be more disconcerted by this, but now they're back to holding hands and it's too cute to overthink. Distantly, she hears herself reply, "Thank you so much! See you there tomorrow!"
The last of the book-signings, and her nighttime walk back to the hotel, pass in a blur.
In the morning, Natasha packs up her stuff, leaves her bag with the concierge, and uses the hotel wifi to plug the address for "A. Z. Fell & Co." into Google Maps. It's easy enough walking distance, right in the heart of Soho, and the city is quiet after the morning rush. The sun is shining. She's never seen London look this cheery, it feels almost patronizing.
There's a gorgeous old black car out in front of the bookshop. Strangely, the engraved sign on the door reads, "Closed, except for Dr Johnson." She rings the bell cautiously. A few seconds later, she spots the shorter blond man from last night coming toward her through the shop.
He opens the door with an expansive gesture. "Come in, come in Doctor Johnson! Welcome to my pride and joy."
She looks around in awe, and takes it in. The shop looks and smells a lot like her favorite rooms of the Bodleian Library in Oxford, especially the medieval part, although these volumes aren't chained to the walls like they are in the Bod. Books--leather-bound, cheap paperbacks, gold-lettered, tattered--are stacked and shelved from floor to ceiling. Dust motes fill the rays of sunlight that cut occasionally through the chaos.
The bookseller lets her feast her eyes for a minute. She scans the titles: lots of religious tracts, lots of British literature, and-- "Is that one of Shakespeare's 'Lost Quartos'?" she exclaims. "How on earth did you get your hands on that??"
He beams at her, beneficently. "We'll have time for that later. Come," and he ushers her to the back of the shop, "have a spot of tea with us first."
The next thing she knows, she's seated on a sofa with a delicate porcelain cup in her hands, as the redheaded man from last night waltzes out of the shadows to join the bookseller. They sit across from her on another sofa, looking for all the world like concerned parents.
"We liked your book," says the blond bookseller, choosing his words carefully. "We appreciated your insights, quite a lot actually," he continues, taking the other man's hand in his, "So we've decided to trust you."
"If you betray us, we can just wipe your memories and then kill you," warns the redhead. Natasha perspires nervously.
The bookseller takes a deep breath. "I'm the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate."
"Also known as the idiot who got himself called 'the guardian angel of sad queers' because he thought he couldn't give into my temptations," adds the redhead with a smirk.
"In all fairness to me," Aziraphale sputters at him, "it was a completely reasonable conclusion." He turns back to face Natasha. "Tempting people is literally his job."
The redhead rolls his eyes. "I'm the demon Anthony J. Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Christ, inventor of selfies, all that good stuff. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
In response to what must be a blank look on her face, Aziraphale continues, "We're immortal beings of Heaven and Hell. Specifically, the ones from your book."
In the background whirring of her brain, things are starting to slot into place, yet Natasha is determined not to lose her cool. "Why should I believe you? I'm a historian. I seek out proof."
Crowley laughs. "That's what I said to Jesus of Nazareth. 'Turn these stones into bread, will you.' He didn't, of course."
Aziraphale exchanges bemused glances with Crowley. "Usually this goes the other way around, trying to pass for human. We've gotten very good at it over the millennia."
Crowley takes off his sunglasses. Natasha stifles her shock at his snakelike eyes with their slitted pupils. He raises an eyebrow at her apparent lack of reaction, and concedes, "These could just be contact lenses."
Her brain comes back online with a metaphorical clatter. "Here's an idea. How about you tell me exactly what happened in New Orleans?"
Aziraphale sighs, and looks briefly over at his companion. "It was just after you rescued me in the Bastille, 1794 or so. I went because I'd heard they were doing tasty things with beignets, wanted to try the local variation. But at the big house I stopped in, the young woman making them--Teresa--was so incredibly sad. Teresa was enslaved, because this was Louisiana in the era of plantation slavery. They'd just sold her beloved to a sugar planter, a truly awful one. Her owner had heard that the girl was trying to convince Teresa to run away with her, and that's how he punished her for it." He pauses, remembering. "I frightened the slaveowner into freeing Teresa, but I was never able to find the other girl. People just...disappeared, in that part of the world. Got swallowed up." His words come slowly and with effort. The demon Crowley rubs Aziraphale's back, kneading around the shoulder blades where a pair of wings might begin. The angel takes a deep breath. "So I set Teresa up as proprietor of a nice cafe of her own. Told her staying busy would help with the heartbreak."
"Teresa became a manbo, a priestess." Natasha responds with conviction, "I believe you."
"Doctor Johnson," the angel cautions, "this stays between the three of us. We will help you as much as we can with your work--although it doesn't seems like you need all that much help, you did splendidly on your own. But of course we can't let it get out among the humans what we are, in this day and age."
Natasha laughs. "Yeah, well, I can't just cite 'personal communication with the angel Aziraphale and demon Crowley' in a peer-reviewed article! Your secret's safe with me." She narrows her eyes, thinking. "Actually, if you have any ideas of extant documents in which Crowley appears, that would be a great help."
The angel begins to think out loud. "Book of Matthew, Book of Luke...actually, one of the Infamous Bibles mentions him by name! It's the first bible I ever acquired," he says, jumping up and walking quickly to a stack of extremely old books. "It's what got me interested in collecting books in the first place...ah, here it is!"
She takes the threadbare volume with trepidation, and flips carefully forward to the New Testament. Matthew, Chapter 4, verse 1 reads, Then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil, in the form of the demon Crowley. Across from her, Crowley turns to face the angel, astonished. "Aziraphale, you started collecting because you came across a mention of me by name?"
Natasha looks up, in time to see the angel's eyes widen in realization. "Well, yes, my dear, I suppose I did."
"Angel, I fancied you for six thousand years, and I'm just finding this out now?" His voice rises in exasperation.
Aziraphale's eyes go soft. He smiles, then straightens up perceptibly. "My dear, let's not make a scene in front of our very important guest." They both turn back to look at her, wearing identical expressions of embarrassment. She stifles a laugh. "Clearly, she caught on to this a lot quicker than we did."
They settle in over tea and little cakes for a couple of hours. Aziraphale and Crowley brainstorm, and Natasha takes notes.
"You could check Leonardo's notebooks, the artist, what's his name?"
"Da Vinci."
"Yes. Right. Brilliant chap, gave into temptation very thoroughly. And I'd be in Shadwell's papers somewhere, although that's probably not the sort of angle you're going for."
Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Who's Shadwell?"
They both wince, and answer at the same time, "Don't ask."
Crowley muses. "I don't know how you'd prove this, but any time you see a reference to Original Sin, or the Serpent in the Garden, that's me." She writes that down. "You'll figure it out. You're clever."
"And any time I've ever spoken of a demon with any fondness whatsoever," Aziraphael volunteers, "you can assume it's Crowley."
"Angel! I'm touched!"
"Well, although I am very fond of you, dear, I certainly wouldn't say anything nice about Hastur, or Beelzebub..."
Crowley winces in sympathy. "Fair point."
Occasionally, they ask Natasha questions. Like, "Do they really still worship Aziraphale in New Orleans?"
"Well, the US government repressed a lot of the formal voodoo practices in the nineteen-hundreds, so it's rather limited," she hedges, "but he's definitely still in the pantheon. I'll bring you one of the prayer candles next time."
"Do you hear that, angel? You did good."
Aziraphale nods contentedly.
Eventually, Crowley tells her about his philosophy of temptation. "It's all about free will," he expounds. "Giving people the choice to give in--and when they do, that's the real victory for Hell."
Natasha considers it mournfully. "If only that was in a written record I could cite."
Practically radiating smugness, the demon snaps his fingers, and hands over an authentically seventeenth-century-looking tome. Her eyes go wide.
When her phone chimes with a flight check-in reminder, Natasha looks up from the book. "We do have to let her get home, you know," Aziraphale chides his counterpart. "She can't stay here and stroke our egos forever."
Crowley gestures expansively. "Angel, it's like we're godfathers again. But this one's easier to impress."
"Godfathers! Well, I'll be damned." They grin suggestively at each other.
Natasha rolls her eyes. She's already planning her next research trip, but it might have to wait until they're out of the honeymoon phase.
As she closes the front door a few minutes later, she overhears, "My love, how about a picnic this afternoon?"
"'My lo----,' you can't just say that, all casual," sputters Crowley.
"Yes, I can! I love you. So much that there's a whole book about it. It is written. You can't stop me."