Summary
In the chiaroscuro glow of an unnamed city that might be Vienna or a fever-dream of New York, a nameless Everygirl—voice like liquid starlight—steps from the tram onto rain-slick cobbles, clutching a dog-eared score of “La Traviata.” She believes her talent is covenant enough; the cosmos, however, has already countersigned a darker lien. Satan, bored with the tepid miseries of war profiteers and philandering bankers, descends not as horned cliche but as a sleek impresario in a dove-grey coat, his breath smelling faintly of burnt sugar and last night’s absinthe. He threads through gaslit alleys, materializing at every audition, every boarding-house corridor, every mirror’s edge, until the boundary between stalker and stage manager dissolves. His bargain is never spoken aloud—only notated in the margins of her vocal exercises: a trill for a teardrop, a high B-natural for a childhood memory. With each aria she perfects, a petal of innocence drifts offstage; by the time she headlines a crumbling opera house whose velvet seats are haunted by moth-eaten dandies, her soul is down to its final tremolo. The climax is not a contract signed in blood but a duet—her voice entwined with his silence—broadcast to a midnight audience of one sleeping janitor and a chandelier thick with dead sparrows. When the curtain falls, she receives roses whose stems are barbed wire; Satan, already in the wings, pockets the thorns as souvenirs and vanishes into the next city where another soprano is warming up.
Satan decides to ruin the innocence of ambitious Everygirl, who has a beautiful voice and wishes to pursue a career singing in opera. He thus assumes human form and follows her in order to make sure that she accepts his terms.
