’Herr Mozart,’ the stranger said, ’I apologize for troubling you at this
time of the night. I will tell you straight away why I have come. I want
to ask you to compose a requiem for our great friend, who will, in a
few days time, pass his beautiful soul over to the cranes.’
’I apologize if I am too curious,’ Mozart said, ’but who is this
’great friend’ of ours?’
’Phoenix,’ the stranger replied, ’the one who is always reborn and
the only living Phoenician.’
For a moment Mozart was absorbed in his thoughts, trying to
recall who that could be.
’If you would allow me,’ the stranger said, ’I can remind you of
who Phoenix is.’
’Certainly,’ the composer muttered.
’If I am not mistaken, you are a Freemason,’ the stranger began.
’And you must surely remember the day when you, in the Great Lodge
of Salzburg, entered this holy order. You remember that you were
then Hiram, the great master from Tyre, who had built Solomon’s
temple. And you were certainly proud of being in the role of the great
mason from Phoenicia, at least for a little while.

’I don’t doubt, either, that you know that the first ’great master’ and
teacher of all Freemasons was the Phoenician god Baal, the oldest of
all gods.
’When he saw how diligently the Phoenicians worked and how
bravely they sailed the seas, Baal’s gentle heart swelled and a tear
dropped out of his eye. From this tear Byblos was created, the first
town ever to be built.
’When the grateful Phoenicians built a temple on the other side
of Lebanon and gave it the name Baalbek – the temple of god’s tear
– Baal’s gentle heart swelled up again and he decided to give them
an extraordinary gift. ’The first child to be born in Byblos,’ he said,
’shall always be reborn!’ As you may have guessed, it was our friend
Phoenix, the only living Phoenician.’
’How exciting!’ Mozart said and smiled innocently. ’I apologize if
I am curious again,’ he added, ’but, who are you?’
’That’s a very interesting question,’ the stranger replied, ’but a
very complex one as well. I am, if you don’t mind – a satyr.
’I was born in Phoenicia,’ he went on, ’before the Flood, which, by
the way, never happened. I am the illegitimate son of Alleluia, the one
who brings the light, and his mistress Astarta, the beauty with a tear
in her bosom. When I was born they named me Baalzebub, which in
Phoenician means ’the lord of the shades’, and some malicious folks
changed it later into Beelzebub, ’the lord of the frogs’.
’Although my parents were of exceptional stature and beauty, the
great shining eye trifled with me in a very awkward manner. As you
can see, I have horns. My right eye is black and the other one green. And
on my left leg, which is shorter than the right, I have a hoof.
’I left Phoenicia a long time ago and for some centuries drifted
over Europe. A few years ago I started working for the great alchem-
ist from Weimar, Goethe. He is writing a play about a certain doctor
Faust, who allegedly sold his soul to the devil.
’As I said, I met Goethe in a tavern in Heidelberg while I was gam-
bling with some crooks. When he saw me, he said that I reminded him
irresistibly of Mephistopheles, the devil from his story. He offered to
employ me as an advisor and I had no reason not to accept. My job
entails visiting him from time to time and talking to him, so that he
could describe this enchanter as convincingly as possible.’
’If I understood you well,’ the composer said, ’you are in fact –
the devil.’
’Well…’ the satyr replied. ’Goethe maintains that I am part of the
dark force that always wishes to do evil, but always does good. Wheth-
er this is true or not, you can judge for your- self.
’But let us start from the beginning. One day some bedouins ar-
rived in the deserts south of Phoenicia, bringing with them an absurd
story about a promised land and the chosen people. The Phoenicians
named them ’Judeans’, which simply meant the bedouins from the
south. It was in the primitive minds of these nomads that the story of
the devil emerged for the first time. And its heroes were, believe or not,
our friend Phoenix and I!
’Being unable to comprehend the story about Phoenix – the one
who is always reborn – the Judeans began saying that he was not a man
but Satan, ’the one who deceives’ or, if you like, a liar and a cheat.
’Nevertheless, I liked this ridiculous story very much. As I was al-
ready a little bored with the role of a satyr and secretly always wanted
to be Phoenix’s shadow, I seized this unique opportunity with both
hands. And so I became Satan, a liar and a cheat, the angel of evil and
the prince of darkness.
’Centuries passed and I wandered through Phoenicia, frightening
bedouins and amusing the Phoenicians. Then I became bored with
that as well. So, I went to Greece and asked Hephaestos, the god of fire
and blacksmiths, to employ me, but he refused, saying that he himself
was ugly and lame and that he had had enough of his own shadow.
’For a while I roamed the Greek islands and then I had the incred-
ible luck to meet Dionysus, the god of wine and musicians. He gave me
the job of advisor for drunkenness and debauchery, and I can say that
it was the happiest time I spent under the sun. And then the Christians
arrived.
’The long forgotten story of Satan was resurfaced and, not wasting
a moment, I went back to Phoenicia. So, I became the devil again, and
my fame spread through the world at the speed of lightning.
’But, as we talk about the Christians, I must tell you something else.
It is about him, who, through no fault of his own, laid the foundations
of the biggest delusion in the history of the world – the Aramaean
from Nazareth.
’One day a young man on a donkey arrived in Jerusalem. ’I am a
shepherd,’ he said, ’tell me where my flock is!’ But the Romans arrested
him on the charges of preaching a new faith and condemned him to
death. Soon after they crucified him and that is the end of the story.
’Later on, however, some suspicious characters appeared, claiming
that the Aramaean had been their teacher and that he was crucified to
redeem the sins of all people. And that his last words allegedly were,
’My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?’
’Since I have the divine gift to travel through time and in order to
find out what really had happened, I decided to go back to that shiny
morning. And here is what I saw and afterwards wrote down as well:
’Oh heavenly eye, the great spring shining upon my face for the last
time!’ the Aramaean cried out. ’You are the witness that I, the son of
the shepherds from the Aramaic fields, guardian of winds and player
on the flame, am dying – not knowing why. Sunshine, sunshine, why
are you forsaking me?’
He closed his eyes and a flock of young cranes flew out of his heart.
And I, who know the secrets of earth and the secrets of heaven,
guardian of poets and young cranes, have owls from Lebanon and
crabs from the Orontes for witnesses , that all I wrote down, really had
happened – in the year 666 after Orpheus’s death.’
’This manuscript, titled The Gospel According to Satyr, exists even
today and can be found in the library of Baalbek.’
The satyr fell silent and Mozart blinked his eyes and whispered,
’This is really exciting!’
’A few centuries later,’ the satyr went on, ’the prophet from Mecca
arrived and gave me the name Eblis, which is Baal-isa or Baal’s apostle.
And here is what he said about me.
’When Allah created the first man all the angels allegedly fell down
in adoration before him, except me. When Allah asked me why I too
was not paying reverence to the one he had made with his own hands, I
answered, ’I am better than him. You have created him from mud and
I was made from fire!’ Then Allah banished me from heaven and now
I drift through the world deceiving people. And you know, of course,
that this is all utter nonsense.’
Mozart blinked his eyes again.
’But before I leave,’ the satyr said, ’I want to tell you one more thing.
A hundred years after your death, a man will be born who will describe
me in a brilliant way – Mikhail Bulgakov or Baal-gakov, that is, ’the
smiling tear’.’
’But how can you know,’ Mozart interrupted him, ’what is going to
happen in a hundred years time?’
’Well…’ the satyr said. ’You certainly know that time is round.
More precisely, it has the shape of an infinite circle. As I have been
enclosed in this magic circle for centuries, over time I have developed
a perfect sense for space. And as your fingers glide so easily from one
key to another, so I, too, fly with ease through centuries.
’So, what is going to happen? When you die, your soul will go to
Baalbek and spend one century there. Then the cranes will take it to
the north and in 1891, in Russia, our new friend Bulgakov will be born.
So, he will have your soul and, remembering our encounter, he will
transform it in a brilliant way into an exciting story.’
’But, satyr,’ Mozart said, ’we are now in November 1791. Does it
mean that my time has run out?’
’Unfortunately yes, my friend. But you have quite enough time to
write the requiem.’ ’But I am only 35 years old,’ Mozart whispered.
’My friend…’ the satyr said. ’I have already told you that time is only
an illusion. It does not matter at all how long you have lived, but what
you have done. And you played your role in the universe brilliantly.’
He stood up and out of his right, black eye, dropped a tear. ’So, my
friend, goodbye…’ he said and as silently as he had come, he vanished
into the night.
One month later, a little after midnight on December 5th 1791,
Mozart interrupted his work on the requiem for a while and lay down
to have a rest. And only a few minutes later there was a joyful cry of
cranes over the roofs.
’Oh satyr, satyr…’ murmured the composer, smiling, and one crane
flew down onto his shoulder. ’Let’s go, maestro,’ the crane whispered
and dropped a tear, and then they all flew to Baalbek together.
And one hundred years later, as I said, the great Phoenician writer
Mikhail Bulgakov was born, who, in his novel The Master and Marga-
rita, gave his version of the story of the famous satyr from Phoenicia.