The Devil and the Red Ribbon

by Theo Rion

  “I don’t know,” she said and turned back to the stove. “I think Mr. Fenririr doesn’t like gossip about his house. But you could talk about it with him.”

  “I’d like to not communicate with Mr. Fenririr anymore,” said Kurt as he continued to watch Edna’s reaction.

  “Well, that is your right,” Edna said calmly and dispassionately. Kurt wanted to say something else, but the doorbell rang. It was his first patient in quite a long time.

  “What a pity, but I don’t have time for breakfast,” Kurt smiled. “Work won’t wait.”

  And he departed.

  Kurt met the patient and walked him into his study. Kurt’s thoughts were surprisingly clear, and his soul was calm. The young man, in contrast, looked confused and distraught. He sat on the couch and looked down at the floor. Kurt studied him a moment. The young man didn’t start to speak, as if fear were impeding him.

  “Mr. Clements,” Kurt spoke to him. “How can I help you?”

  The young man flinched and blushed, but the next second timidity again prevailed, and, looking down, he muttered:

  “I’m very shy, Mr. Rhein. And…it’s very inconvenient.”

  “You would like to become more confident?”

  “Yes!” He finally looked up at Kurt. “I want to exude confidence. Do you understand? To be confident.”

  “Tell me about the last time your shyness hindered you?” Kurt asked.

  He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but his practice had ceased to be particularly interesting. The people that came to him with problems, most quite typical, didn’t amuse him anymore. And if earlier such a lack of interest wasn’t felt so acutely because of the low intensity of any of his own emotions, after all this history with John, Kurt had learned how intensely he could feel, and how wide his range of sensitivity and emotions was. Of course, now he wanted more. He wanted more complicated cases, a challenge where he could show all his skills. He wanted to feel the tension from work and, after deciding the riddle, get the deserved satisfaction. The only decent mystery to him now was John, but Kurt listened to the young man with half an ear. He was more occupied by suspicions about Edna. Kurt had had them before, but now he felt them much more sharply.

  The young man had finished speaking. Kurt reluctantly left his thoughts and again focused on the patient. Kurt usually didn’t do this. He didn’t choose short cuts; he always studied the history of the patient, worked through the problem and then proposed several options. It was important that the patient was involved in the work.

  But there was also a short way. It worked like a painkiller: it was fast but had short duration and didn’t eliminate the causes. At least it was a thought that hypnosis worked that way. But Kurt was a capable hypnotist, and after meeting with McGlow, he had discovered new facets of this facility.

  The appeal of hypnosis was the non-interference of the patient in the work of the psychologist. A psychologist had a great responsibility in choosing the wording and intonation. That was why Kurt preferred longer, but more solid ways of working. Only now Kurt didn’t want to devote so much time to this young man slumped on the couch.

  “Well, Mr. Clements,” he said. “Now we’ll have a short session of hypnosis. It will help to identify some of the causes of your shyness. Those reasons, which you yourself can’t guess. Believe me, everything will be all right.”

  Kurt knew Clements would not mind. Kurt walked over to him and put his hand on his forehead. After making a few manipulations, Kurt plunged Clements into a hypnotic sleep, and instilled in him some settings. The remaining time Kurt devoted to his personal reflections on how he could check his guesses about Edna.

  The young man left Kurt’s office elated, and Kurt again was alone with his thoughts.

  Kurt went back to the kitchen, where he found Edna. It was necessary to note, this time she was tenser. Kurt also scowled as much as possible. She immediately noticed this striking change, because only an hour ago Kurt was friendly and good-natured.

  “I’m going to have dinner at Ellington’s,” he said absently and looked at Edna. It seemed to him he even saw John standing behind her. “And then I need to visit Archie Tains, the friend of mine, in the hospital.”

  Kurt did as he had said to Edna. He had dinner and then went to the hospital to see Archie. Archie was still unconscious, but as a psychologist, he often wondered if those in a coma could hear and process the sounds around them. Kurt spent an hour reading to him from one of his favorites, Moby Dick.

  But Kurt also wanted to check out something. When he went outside and strolled through the hospital garden on the walkway that would eventually lead off the hospital grounds. He spotted a man sitting on a park bench, staring into the duck pond; it was John.

  But it could not be said that this worried Kurt; he had been expecting to see John here after he notified Edna he intended to stop by the hospital to see Archie this afternoon. His suspicions had not been unfounded. Maybe she wasn’t spying, but Edna had mentioned to John about Kurt’s affairs for sure.

  Not wanting to miss this opportunity, Kurt strode up to John. When John noticed him and stood up, Kurt saw the confusion reflected for a second on the other man’s face, but John quickly pulled himself together and turned to give Kurt an indifferent look. But now Kurt saw all too well what lay behind his ambiguous mask.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fenririr,” Kurt greeted John, as if nothing had happened. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “No, I’m fine.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear that this meeting didn’t give John any special pleasure.

  “Glad to hear it. Visiting someone?” Kurt’s voice was extremely polite, maybe even too much. “Oh, sorry, I mean, not visiting. Who are you not visiting this time?”

  John looked at Kurt’s face, seeming to notice the mockery in Kurt’s eyes.

  “Or are you just prone to admiring the hospital gardens? I must admit they’re very beautiful. Do you mind if I keep you company?”

  John nodded indefinitely, and they walked together along the garden path to the exit. Passing the pond, Kurt stopped and went to the edge of the water. John also came up, and their faces were reflected in the water. They were a bit distorted by ripples on the water surface, but still, their reflections were clearly visible.

  “You know, Mr. Fenririr, I was always interested in reflections as a child. I was even convinced a reflection was the second me living somewhere beyond. Funny, isn’t it?”

  But John didn’t answer.

  “And then I realized that not only the mirror reflects people. Water and portraits, for example, and other people reflect us even better. Although I suppose not everyone likes to look at his own reflection.”

  They were silent again.

  “You know, I’ve wanted to ask…” Kurt spoke again. “…when I was at your house, I was surprised to see you have no mirrors. Such a rich house, such luxury and not a single mirror in a gilt frame! There was no mirror at all! Even a small one. Unexpectedly—”

  “I have too many mirrors…” John grinned. “…to hang them in the house.” He calmly got up and walked toward the exit without waiting for Kurt.

  * * * *

  That night, Kurt woke up to knocking on the door. He opened his eyes and peered into the darkness. He could hear the sound of rain in the street. The knocking at the door was repeated. Kurt jumped out of bed, put on a robe and went downstairs.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Kurt?” There was a muffled voice. “It’s me…John.”

  Kurt even flinched and looked incredulously at the door.

  “What do you want, Mr. Fenririr? It’s very late!”

  “Let me in, Kurt, please.”

  Kurt hesitated. He hadn’t expected this.

  “Kurt, I beg you.”

  Kurt breathed with anger, but opened the door. In the darkness, he didn’t realize what was wrong. But when John stepped over the threshold and was in the lit hallway, Kurt saw that he was covered in blood. There we
re bruises on his face, and bleeding wounds were visible through rips in his torn clothes.

  “Oh God, John! What happened to you?” And, after thinking for a second, he added, “Did you kill someone?”

  John coughed and breathed hoarsely. He stood hunched over, covering his wounds.

  “Come on.” Kurt grabbed his arm and led John into his study.

  “Take off your clothes and sit on the couch. I’ll be right back.” Kurt went into the bathroom to get water and towels. On the way back he was still thinking; maybe he should call the police? But he decided to wait a little while.

  He didn’t know what to think. His new-found balance was off-kilter again.

  He found John sitting on the couch, blood dripping on the floor from his hand. Kurt wet the towel and handed it to John.

  “Won’t you help me?” John looked at him.

  “You need a doctor!”

  “Aren’t you a doctor?”

  “Stop clowning around, Mr. Fenririr, you know what kind of doctor I am.”

  “Yeah,” John chuckled and squeezed the wound on his hand. The towel turned scarlet.

  There was silence, and in this twilight Kurt suddenly found himself thinking. He was back in the recent past, when feelings overshadowed his mind. Outside the window, it was late at night. John was sitting in front of him, and his presence filled the area all around him with invisible atmosphere. He was here, and so this room belonged to him.

  John took off his jacket and shirt and handed one of the towels to Kurt.

  Kurt looked John over. In the dim light of a candle, Kurt saw that John’s back was streaked with bloody red lines.

  The air in the room became heavy; it was barely seeping into Kurt’s lungs. He took a towel and approached John. Carefully wiping the blood off John’s back, Kurt tried to calm his raging emotions.

  The wounds looked like whip marks; some of them were particularly deep and still bleeding. And the luscious smell of blood mixed with the thick air seemed to intoxicate Kurt.

  When Kurt took the towel away, the marks on John’s back seemed remarkably similar to a red ribbon. The lady in red caught it, and it blossomed like a streamer, entangling the room and Kurt along with it. Red ribbons hung from tables and the counter; they streamed across the floor like a snake and laid at John’s feet. Kurt forced himself to speak, to destroy the obsession that suddenly gripped him. “Maybe you can finally tell me what happened to you?”

  “Fell off a horse,” John said, smiling, not even trying to sound plausible.

  “Fifteen times in a row? Or the horse chased you, trying to finish you off?” Kurt made his voice ironical, feeling that at any moment he could again get lost in delusion.

  John laughed. Listening to it, Kurt could barely hold back a smile. He was being pulled enthrallingly and inexorably into the vortex, where he and John would have something in common, but Kurt didn’t want this. He had to keep a distance, maintain sobriety of mind and composure of heart. Although, perhaps it was too late to talk about. “You haven’t visited Archie, have you?”

  “Why are you so worried about that, Kurt?”

  “I worry about people’s lives.”

  “No, Kurt, why are you so worried about what is happening in my life?”

  Kurt was somewhat taken aback, not finding the right answer, while John intently studied his face.

  “Whatever I do, you already know about it, like you follow me! I’m really flattered, but confused!” John exclaimed theatrically.

  Kurt silently gathered the bloodstained towels.

  “I can’t heal stupidity, Kurt.” He winced and rubbed his shoulder, as if it was in pain. “Do you have any alcohol?”

  “I’m not a drinker.”

  “And apparently not a very welcoming host,” John quipped.

  Kurt left the room, leaving the final note unanswered. He went into the bathroom and looked at the towels. He took a deep breath and exhaled it to bolster himself.

  When he returned, John was studying Kurt’s books in the candlelight.

  “I thought you had seen everything in my library the last time you visited,” Kurt said, putting down two cups of tea, which he had made.

  John sipped from his cup. He moved around the room a bit roughly. It was obvious that he had quite intense pain in the side and shoulder, which he constantly held.

  “You need a doctor, Mr. Fenririr. The wounds on your back are very deep. A couple require stitches.”

  “Are you worried about me?” John smiled, as if that made him happy.

  “I won’t be happy if you faint in my house. Blood is everywhere; isn’t that enough?”

  “Are you squeamish?”

  Kurt didn’t reply. He couldn’t explain it, but knowing that John had sprinkled the room with blood; it was somehow pleasant. But why? He couldn’t understand John. Or himself. Or he didn’t want to because he was afraid to consider the ramifications.

  “No, but I’d prefer you keep this blood within you.”

  “Oh, today I’m generous.” John waved his hand, dripping blood on the carpet.

  “Mr. Fenririr, you behave as if you were trying to mark the territory,” Kurt said, with fake fatigue in his voice. He sat down in his chair, needing the support, and sipped his tea.

  “Maybe you’re right,” John said and smiled predatorily. “At first I didn’t think about it. But I rather like the idea.”

  When John sat down at Kurt’s table, John put his glasses on and laughed. “There’s ordinary glass in these!”

  “A harmless trick,” Kurt replied. John looked at him over Kurt’s glasses and smiled.

  “You mean, a cheap trick.”

  Kurt looked at John without a drop of embarrassment. “Well, if we are talking about cheap tricks, then I can’t be compared with you.” John caught his eye, but said nothing. “Why did you come to me?” Kurt asked.

  “I wanted to look at my reflection,” John said and smiled. “I have no mirrors.”

  “And what did you see?”

  John silently looked at Kurt.

  “Mr. Fenririr, I have a lot of work tomorrow, and I need to sleep. And you need to go to hospital. So…”

  “Are you chasing me away, Kurt? I’ve been beaten and bruised! My soul aches. My body suffers. And my only friend is chasing me away!”

  Kurt tensed; he hated the room’s twilight at this point; it deprived him of seeing John’s face well enough to make clinical observations. His eyes were hidden behind Kurt’s own glasses, and they reflected the candle flame.

  “I don’t recall us becoming friends,” said Kurt.

  “What makes people friends?”

  “You can answer that question yourself.”

  “And I want to know the opinion of the great psychologist, who for some reason has no friends.”

  Kurt sighed and paused. “Trust. For me, relationships are defined by trust.”

  “And I didn’t deserve your trust?” John asked, grinning.

  “Yes. And it hurts you, because I deserved yours?” Kurt retorted.

  “You what? Oh, you’re talking about saving my life. But you see, I’m convinced you’re not the only one who would sacrifice your life for me, so should I trust everyone? Is there something special in you?”

  Kurt recoiled as if John touched something inside. “I…”

  “Should I really trust you, Kurt?” John picked up Kurt’s letter opener and began to impatiently tap it on Kurt’s table.

  Kurt grew nervous. John was inexorably approaching the question Kurt has kept, even from himself. And he wondered what drove John’s manipulation of the letter opener. It could, after all, be used as a weapon.

  John’s question forced Kurt to ask himself other questions as well, questions with answers difficult to comprehend. Primarily, Kurt was amazed John could ask such a question, as if intruding into the inner sanctum; and it was unacceptable, especially when wearing an unabashed smirk.

  The question was inappropriate among gentlemen who have known
each other only for a couple of months. But John seemed to be waiting seriously for a response from Kurt. It was clear he could not build relationships on avowed patterns, where loyalty develops over the years, when the interactions in each other’s lives takes place according to established rules, where even the sincerity knows its limits. But John wasn’t like that. He played with people in his mansion, under rules he forced everyone to obey. Leaving his theatre, he forgot about the rules and led a very different game.

  Kurt was still silent, not knowing what to say. Candlelight flickered in the glasses through which John watched Kurt precisely. The candle was burning out. To stay with John in the pitch dark in an empty house didn’t seem to Kurt a pleasant perspective; on the contrary, there was something frightening about it.

  “I think it’s too early to talk about friendship. We’ve only known each other—”

  “Drop it, Kurt!” John stood up, still clutching the letter opener. “What does time matter? Is the test of time more important to you than a test of events? Huh? Tell me how many people you know who have gone through at least half of what you have gone through with me? And then you can tell me about time!”

  “Why do you need my devotion? You have such a numerous retinue—”

  “You’re cunning, Kurt, oh, how cunning.” John blinked, and then he walked across the room. “You’re not blind,” he smiled, taking off Kurt’s glasses. “You know very well what kind of retinue I possess. But your devotion would be very useful to me. Why are you so stubborn?”

  Kurt finished his tea and rose from his chair. He left the cup on the table and approached John. “All these, the so-called events, to which you refer, were arranged by you, Mr. Fenririr. I wouldn’t even be surprised if it turns out…” he looked John over from head to toe, “…you also arranged this just to look at my reaction. And that makes you a madman, Mr. Fenririr.”

  “Even madmen need devotion,” John said, smiling. At this point, the candle went out. Before the room plunged into darkness, the only thing Kurt noticed was John opening the wound on his hand with the letter opener.