Good Omens

“Oh, yes. The American diplomat,” said the angel. “Rather showy, one feels. As if Armageddon was some sort of cinematographic show that you wish to sell in as many countries as possible.”

“Every country,” said Crowley. “The Earth and all the kingdoms thereof.”

Aziraphale tossed the last scrap of bread at the ducks, who went off to pester the Bulgarian naval attaché and a furtive-looking man in a Cambridge tie, and carefully disposed of the paper bag in a wastepaper bin.

He turned and faced Crowley.

“We’ll win, of course,” he said.

“You don’t want that,” said the demon.

“Why not, pray?”

“Listen,” said Crowley desperately, “how many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean.”

Aziraphale looked taken aback.

“Well, I should think—” he began.

“Two,” said Crowley. “Elgar and Liszt. That’s all. We’ve got the rest. Beethoven, Brahms, all the Bachs, Mozart, the lot. Can you imagine eternity with Elgar?”

Aziraphale shut his eyes. “All too easily,” he groaned.

“That’s it, then,” said Crowley, with a gleam of triumph. He knew Aziraphale’s weak spot all right. “No more compact discs. No more Albert Hall. No more Proms. No more Glyndbourne. Just celestial harmonies all day long.”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No Daily Telegraph crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No”—Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale’s barrel of interests—“Regency silver snuffboxes … ”

“But after we win life will be better!” croaked the angel.

“But it won’t be as interesting. Look, you know I’m right. You’d be as happy with a harp as I’d be with a pitchfork.”

“You know we don’t play harps.”

“And we don’t use pitchforks. I was being rhetorical.”

They stared at one another.

Aziraphale spread his elegantly manicured hands.

“My people are more than happy for it to happen, you know. It’s what it’s all about, you see. The great final test. Flaming swords, the Four Horsemen, seas of blood, the whole tedious business.” He shrugged.

“And then Game Over, Insert Coin?” said Crowley.

“Sometimes I find your methods of expression a little difficult to follow.”

“I like the seas as they are. It doesn’t have to happen. You don’t have to test everything to destruction just to see if you made it right.”

Aziraphale shrugged again.

“That’s ineffable wisdom for you, I’m afraid.” The angel shuddered, and pulled his coat around him. Gray clouds were piling up over the city.

“Let’s go somewhere warm,” he said.

“You’re asking me?” said Crowley glumly.

They walked in somber silence for a while.