The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Hey, stop lookin’ at me like that. I told ya I was “happy” in my marriage. Real happy. I was fuckin’ giddy by the time my 20th anniversary hits me. Come to think of it, it was a week after that blessed day when Kurt goes an’ asks me for my help.

  “What’s the project?” I asks.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Ruth. It’s very complicated.”

  “Try me,” Isays.

  Boy, does he look pissed. He knows he’s gonna have to tell me.

  “I’ve translated this text in medieval German . . .”

  “When’d you learn medieval German?”

  “In graduate school. When do you care? Just shut up and listen, OK?”

  “Y’know,” I says glarin’ at him, “you got a fuckin’ attitude!”

  “What now, Ruth?”

  “Forget it!”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine! Y’know what, yer right I don’t care.”

  “Good. That’ll make this all the easier.”

  “Sure will, ’cause I’m not helpin’ you with nothin’!”

  “For fuck’s sake, Ruth, don’t go and fly off the handle. Jesus, you’re always so emotional. Just listen. This could help us both. And you know we need help.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. I mean, Dr Sherlock.”

  Now he’s givin’ me that frosty stare he’s gotten so good at.

  “All right,” I says. “I’m listenin’.”

  “It’s a ritual for summoning the Devil.”

  “The Devil,” I laugh. Then I look at him. “Oh, for Gawd’s sake, Kurt. The Devil? What are ya, some teenage delinquent?”

  I was nervous. Not hysterical, but spooked. I mean, I didn’t really believe in the Devil or Gawd or any gawds or gawddesses then. What can I say? My family was only half-Jewish. An’ that half was so Reform we was non-practisin’. The other half was classic recoverin’ Catholic. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the time Grandma Renata got all worked up to have me baptised an’ confirmed, I never woulda known enough about the Devil t’be scared of him now. I had to spend a bunch of Sundays goin’ to Mass with my aunts an’ havin’ to sit at their kitchen table for hours afterwards learnin’ all about “my father’s faith”. Then Grandma Renata died an’ they got all distracted. But those Sundays was enough to creep me out for years.

  “Go ahead,” he shouts. “Think I’m crazy. I don’t give a shit. I’m not the one who plays witch with a bunch of frustrated housewives on the weekend while my husband’s out in the real world busting his hump to make something of himself.”

  “Poor baby,” I says but he don’t hear me. He just starts pacin’ back an’ forth.

  “No matter how hard I work, nothing comes of it. No matter how many articles on the quattrocento I publish, no matter how many stupid freshmen humanities courses I teach, I can’t get those assholes to notice me. Ten years. Why can’t they see that I’m this century’s Walter Pater?”

  “Who?” I says. I’m gettin’ scared ’cause now Kurt’s standin’ talkin’ to the wall.

  “My career’s in the toilet unless I get tenure. I can’t transfer. I can’t do a frigging thing. And those old farts just keep passing me over. They’re hellbent on passing me over. Hellbent! So, fine. I’ve tried everything else. Now, I’ll get Hell to help me for once.

  “Here,” an’ alla the sudden he turns back t’me an’ throws a piece of paypuh on the floor. “Get me all these things by this date at this time . . . or else.” Then he storms off an’ I hear his door slam shut.

  I got him what he wanted. Yeah, I was afraid. I told ya before I was very different from how I am now. But mostly, I was curious. I knew there was no way he could pull this off. But maybe it would calm him down. An’ I’d never been in his sacred space since the day we moved in.

  The list was pretty simple. A lot of plants an’ spices with names you’d imagine for summonin’ the Devil: hellebore, devil’s dung, poison parsley, dragon’s blood, toad flax, ghost flower, hag’s tapers, bad man’s plaything, clove root, puke-weed, naughty man’s cherries, witches broom. I ground up a bunch of ’em for a powda an’ the rest I boiled down into this oil that fuckin’ reeks. It took a week t’get that smell outta my kitchen.

  By a few minutes before the witchin’ hour, I’m ready. I’m sittin’ at the kitchen table tappin’ my nails so fast it sounds like machine guns are goin’ off. Finally, the clock says it’s midnight. Midnight, Saturday night. The Devil’s open for business. Don’t that explain a helluva lot, I thinks.

  I grab the Tupperware with the incense an’ the jar of oil an’ walk through the livin’ room an’ down the hall to the den. I knock on the door. It’s real warm. What the fuck is he doin’ in there? I asks myself. Then I hear all this fumblin’ an’ the door opens just a crack an’ I see the forehead of my no-goodnik husband, all pasty white with his thinnin’ hair plastered to it. Then his little bird-like eyes. He’s all squintin’ an’ shit like I’ve shined a flashlight in his face. But all the light’s comin’ from the den. He musta bought every fuckin’ black candle in the tristate area.

  “What?” he barks.

  I almost sound off. Then I check myself. I wanna see more. So, I says, real polite, “Here. It’s all the shit ya wanted for callin’ the Devil.”

  “Oh,” he says an’ opens the door wider. I push the Tupperware into his hands an’ try to wedge my fat ass into the room. Kurt stumbles an’ the door flies back. But I just stand in the doorway. Not ’cause he’s put a curse on me or some-thin’. It’s the smell. Gawd, it’s like a moldy gym bag someone took a crap in. He musta painted the winduh shut when he painted all the glass black. I look aroun’ an’ there’s books stacked in piles everywheres – on the desk, on the TV, on the couch, on the Lazy-Boy – an’ paypuhs an’ boxes of paypuhs stacked on top of ’em an’ pohstuhs an’ cut-out pitchuhs of all these paintin’s of fat women. That fuckin’ schlub. An’ then there’s all these candles. I never seen such a fire hazard. I can’t believe the house ain’t burnin’ down right that gawddamned minute. I’m gettin’ ready to blow an’ let him know just what I think of this toilet when I look at the floor.

  I almost bust a gut laughin’. But, by some miracle, I keep a straight face. He’s used like a hundred cans of Morton Salt to make this complicated circle in the carpet. There’s a pentagram – big surprise, huh? –an’ some real crazy symbols I never seen before.

  “Give me the oil,” he screams now that he’s back on his feet. He’s shakin’ an’ flappin’ his arms over his head. Gawd, he’s even thinnuh than when I first met him.

  “Sure. Here. Take it.” I hand him the jar. Thank Gawd I put a lid on it or he woulda spilled it all over the carpet. He’s twitchin’ somethin’ awful. Like he’s got the DTs.

  “Leave,” he says in this creepy high voice. “Leave now. And don’t open this door no matter what happens. Heed my warning, woman, or be damned.”

  “OK, ya fuckin’ freak,” an’ I pull the door shut so hard the frame rattles. I decide to go upstairs an’ pack before the place catches fire.

  I guess somewheres in the middle of packin’ I fell asleep. Outta nowheres, from far off, like in a dream, I hear this awful classical music blarin’ away. An’ it keeps comin’ closuh an’ closuh. Then it hits me. It’s not in the dream. It’s like that moment in yer sleep when ya figure out the noise is comin’ from yer alarm clock an’ ya wake up. The same here.

  Shit, Kurt, I think. I roll over. It’s friggin’ five in the mornin’. The music’s even louder now that I’m awake. “Gawddamn it, Kurt,” I shout at the top of my lungs. But it sounds like I’m whisperin’. I sit there waitin’ for the sirens. Someone musta called the cops by now. Nothin’. Just this music that sounds like some kinda demonic John Philip Sousa march.

  “Fine, at least the house’s not on fire, ya bastard,” I scream. An’ I stomp, skyclad, all the way downstairs to his door. I think I’m gonna have a seizure ’cause the hallway light’s all wonky an’ flickerin’ on an’ off real fast. I yell for him to turn
the fuckin’ music off. I yell for him to come out. To go to hell. I’m coverin’ my ears an’ I’m still goin’ deaf here between all the brass an’ timpani an’ me screamin’. Then I decide to bang down the door. I try an’ nearly burn my hand off.

  “Kurt Faust, what the fuck are ya doin’ in there?”

  Alla the sudden, silence. But now it was too quiet. Somethin’ really bad musta happened, I thinks. An’ when the gawddamned strobe light ovahead lets me, I start seein’ these little wisps of smoke comin’ out from unda the door. An’ I smell more of that awful reekin’ gym bag. “Christ, Kurt, ya set the house on fire!”

  I guess the “C-word” set somebody off ’cause the music comes back. Not so loud, but you can still hear it thuddin’ away from anywheres in the house. An’ it goes on for two weeks like that. That damned music an’ little clouds of smelly smoke. A full freakin’ fortnight as Shakespeare would say. Come midnight Saturday I start gettin’ worried. I’m thinkin’, maybe that smell’s from a dead body? What if it’s Kurt’s dead body? How’m I gonna explain that to the cops?

  Next day, Sunday mornin’, the music stops again. For good. I know ’cause I can hear my nails – the ones I haven’t bitten off – rappin’ against the outsides of my coffee mug. An’ alla the sudden, this little man appears. He looks sorta weird.

  Oh, yer back to the eye-rollin’, huh? All right already. I know, I know.

  Weirda than all that’s happened so far? Kinda.

  First, he really is little. No talluh than Bubbe Rachel was. We’re talkin’ 4′11″ here. Secondly, he’s dressed all in black: little shoes with silvuh buckles, some kinda panty hose or tights, these silk lookin’ shorts that come to his knees an’ are wrapped tight aroun’ his legs with little bitty bows, an’ this fancy jacket with all these buttons goin’ up the front. But best of all, he’s wearin’ this huge white collar aroun’ his neck. It looks like this cheese wheel made of lace or somethin’. An’, on top of that, there’s his head. It’s kinda shaped like an olive. Y’know, pointy. But not the colour of an olive. Na, it was – what’s the word? oh, yeah – “ruddy.” A little bit of mud mixed with a little bit of red. He’s mostly bald with some white hair an’ a goatee. An’ he’s got these sparkly little green eyes. Like he was a real handful when he was young. Y’know, some sophisticated ladies’ man. Or a really classy faygeleh. I can’t tell for sure.

  I guess I coulda been frightened or startled even. But I was just relieved. The fuckin’ music had stopped. He wasn’t Kurt. An’ he didn’t smell like a gym bag. Not at all. More like lemon verbena. Y’know, like he’d gone an’ splashed Jean Naté all over himself. Like I said, he was classy. An’ he was real polite.

  The first thing he says t’me is “Do you mind if I smoke, madam?”

  “Knock yaself out,” I says.

  Next thing I know, he’s pulled out this long silvuh cigarette holduh, like a silent movie star. Outta thin air, he takes a cigarette. Puts it in the holduh an’ touches it with the tip of his finger. It starts to glow. He comes up to the table, motions with his hand if it’s OK to sit, I motion back “sure,” an’ he sits down an’ smokes.

  When he’s done, I find out he’s this nice little ol’ Greek man named Mr Mephistopheles. An’ then he goes on to tell me he’s my husband’s servant. That’s when I freakin’ plotz.

  That’s Yiddish for “shit a brick”.

  “Yer his what?” I says. An’ I goes an’ hits my fist on the table so hard the coffee sloshes outta my cup. “Tell me this, Mr Mephistopheles, what does my schmo of a husband need with a gawddamned fuckin’ servant when he’s got a gawddamned fuckin’ slave?!”

  “Mrs Faust, have I offended you?” he says as he takes out this big frilly white hanky an’ wipes it once over the table an’ it’s like it’s some magic paypuh towel ’cause the coffee’s all gone.

  “Mrs Faust? What am I? His mutha? Listen, Mr Mephistopheles, ya can either call me Ruth or Yer Majesty but never call me Mrs Faust, ya hear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” An’ the little flirt winks at me while he pockets the hanky.

  After I get us a plate of Stella D’Oro Swiss Fudge Cookies an’ some fresh coffee, he proceeds to tell me that Kurt really went an’ pulled it off. He got the Devil to show up in our house. An’ that, Mr Mephistopheles points out, is very rare. The Devil usually sends him to do all the bargainin’ an’ the paypuhwork. The Devil told him that Kurt was one of the most promising hellbounds he’d met this year outside of George W Bush.

  “So where’s Kurt now? In Hell?” I says all hopeful.

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty. Not for quite some time. The master is in Florence for the next year with his girlfriend.”

  “What?” I screams an’ I drops my cookie into my coffee. “Mastuh? Florence? Girlfriend?”

  “Oh, I am sorry, Your Majesty, but your husband has a lover named Gretchen.” Then he goes an’ puts his hand in the arm of his jacket an’ pulls out a friggin’ polaroid. “This was taken here in the house. In the master’s study,” he says as he hands me the photo.

  I know I’m gonna shit anotha friggin’ brick when I sees the photo but I look at it anyways. There’s Kurt, about to fuckin’ burst with joy. An’ there she is. Gretchen. This blonde shiksa dressed like she’s workin’ Oktobuhfest. Swear to Gawd. Big boobs in this tight blouse an’ dirndl.

  I wanna kick over the table or rip up the gawddamned photo or somethin’. But I don’t. I just hand it back to Mr Mephistopheles.

  “So all that music an’ noise was the Mastuh an’ his girlfriend?” I says.

  “I am afraid so, Your Majesty. I do apologize for the loudness. That was my doing. Only inside the Master’s study could one hear Master Wagner’s operas in their titanic glory. I did a little bit of sophisticated necromancy to prevent any words from within being heard without. But, as always, the sin of Pride in my work blinded me. I had not taken into account that cries of pleasure are not always words. So, I had to increase the volume on your side to drown out the Master and the Mistress.”

  “The Mistress,” I says, slumpin’ over my coffee. “Thanks, Mr Mephistopheles, yer a real pal.”

  “I truly am sorry, Your Majesty. While I understand the Master’s desire for power and glory and tenure, I cannot fathom how he could ignore a woman of your calibre.”

  “Me either, bubeleh. So the Devil gave him his tenure?” I asks.

  “Why, yes. Not only does the Master have full tenure now, but he is also the leading light in Renaissance Studies as well as an authentic Renaissance man.”

  ‘Well, fuckin’ A for the Mastuh,” I says. “He’s finally got his stinkin’ tenure.” Thank Gawd, I whispuh all silent to myself. I never have to hear that alter kocker bitch about that again. Maybe I never have to see him either. That perks me up.

  “Hey, Mr Mephistopheles.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Ya wouldn’t get in any trouble if ya showed me the contract, would ya?”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to do so. First, may I ask a question of Your Majesty?”

  “Sure,” I says.

  “Is Your Majesty considering offering her soul to the Devil as well?”

  That stumped me. I hadn’t thought about it. I’d just wanted to see how long before Kurt was roastin’ away.

  “Maybe? How much worse could Hell be than here, huh?”

  “I’m afraid quite a bit much.”

  “Yeah, I figured. But ya still don’t mind showin’ me the deal?”

  The sweet little ol’ man smiles at me. Then he puts his finger to his lips an’ digs aroun’ in the arm of his coat again. He pulls out this little plastic box an’ puts in on the table. The minute he does it swells up into one a those fancy schmancy laptop computuhs. He opens the lid an’ turns the screen t’me so I can read while he goes an’ lights up anotha cigarette for himself.

  A course, it’s all written in fuckin’ lawyer. So, I have to scroll down an’ down t’get to any good stuff. Well, good stuff for Kurt. As I’m r
eadin’ it, all I can think is, “I’m dyin’ here.” Basically, it says as long as Kurt’s alive, he’s got all Hell’s demons at his friggin’ beck an’ call. He can have anythin’, no matter how awful. Tenure. Blondes. World domination. Worst of all, he gets to live t’be a 175. The only good part for me comes after he croaks. That’s when he gets the four-star treatment in Hell – foreva.

  But 138 years – 37 from 175; y’do the math – is nothin’ compared to all eternity. Boy, he really got screwed.

  “What a stupid schlemiel,” I says out loud. “I can’t believe he signed this. Wait. Yes, I can. Jesus, Kurt!”

  Once I say the “J-word”, Mr Mephistopheles starts gettin’ all fidgety in his chair. “Sorry,” I says. “Hell’s friggin’ bells, Kurt! That better?”

  “Quite, Your Majesty. I personally do not have a problem with you-know-who’s name, but He does,” he says, pointin’ at the floor. “It has been written into all of our contracts that we writhe and moan at the merest utterance of Our Lord’s latest Arch-Rival. At the risk of appearing vainglorious before Your Majesty, I must admit that I used to be quite good at it. I would even toss in a round or two of hissing. But, after a thousand or so years, I have grown weary of trembling with fear. Now I merely wriggle.”

  “Ya did fine, bubeleh.”

  He smiles again an’ takes a long drag on his cigarette.

  “Mr Mephistopheles.”

  He nods his head all eager an’ smoke shakes outta the cornuhs of his mouth.

  “I gotta question for ya. Ya really gotta do whatevuh Kurt says till he bites the dust?”

  “Yes. Quite so, Your Majesty.”

  “I’m not talkin’ the typical deal-with-the-Devil stuff like invadin’ Poland or gettin’ an Oscar. I’m talkin’ the really pissant stuff.”