Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  Sometime in the middle of the week, Bicé went with Valentin and Belle to watch Christian’s swim meet. On the way over, they were discussing Victoria’s latest excuse for not joining them when Bicé noticed that Christian hadn’t said anything since they left the house. “What’s wrong?” she said. “You worried you’ll get beaten?”

  Christian gave a small, unconvincing laugh. “I don’t want to do it.”

  “I know,” said Bicé. She thought about all the times Christian had been forced to steal, about the guilt he felt after each slip. But then had he always felt this way? She remembered a time when he didn’t feel so guilty. When he stole with abandon and laughed like a carefree kid. Something didn’t feel right. “Remember that time when we were eight . . . or maybe seven . . . and we were playing in the park with the other kids?” Christian nodded.

  Bicé’s eyes darted toward Valentin and Belle. Valentin coughed. Neither of them said anything, but they looked more than uncomfortable.

  Bicé turned to Christian again. “Remember how you stole from them like ten times in one game? You did it every time they tried to play with us.”

  “Yeah.” Christian laughed. “I remember.”

  “Why was it so easy then?” asked Bicé.

  “What do you mean?” Christian was suddenly alert.

  “I mean, why were you so happy stealing then, and now it’s so hard? What’s changed?”

  Bicé glanced at Valentin and Belle again. Their heads were down.

  “I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “I’m older now.”

  “No, that’s not it. It just doesn’t make sense. There’s so much that doesn’t make sense.”

  Finally, Valentin spoke up. “Bicé, Christian has enough to worry about,” he said as he pulled her aside. Bicé felt Valentin’s tight, unsteady grip and looked up into his eyes, glazed as usual, pupils dilated. He had obviously been in that room again — his gift from Madame Vileroy. Bicé worried about the room. Valentin had told her that it gave him power beyond imagination and that he was absolutely intoxicated by it. She wasn’t allowed to go in, but she had seen it before. When Madame Vileroy had first given her the ability to hide, she had wandered into many of the rooms, exploring, with everything frozen. Somehow, she could never find Vileroy in a frozen state. Maybe she never was. But she did find that room — and five years ago, the person she found inside, gazing through the solitary white window, was someone that looked an awful lot like Buddy. Bicé pushed those thoughts out of her head and returned to the present conversation. “Well, aren’t you curious?” she asked.

  “It’s just his nerves, sis,” said Belle, putting an arm around her sister. “And maybe he won’t have to steal.” Bicé tried to stifle her frustration at Valentin and Belle, who were being so obtuse. As they passed a kiosk, she grabbed a Bulgarian newspaper and tossed a dollar to the vendor, with a curt mersi.

  Valentin’s hand brushed against Belle’s. A sort of reassurance that they were in this together. Neither one of them had enjoyed it, but it was a hazard of their chosen game. It wasn’t the worst thing they had to do, nor the most disagreeable. Just an everyday nuisance — having to listen to Bicé relive scenes from a life they had supposedly lived, being reminded of the false memories that Madame Vileroy had used to fill the gaps in Bicé’s and Christian’s minds — of a shared childhood that had never existed.

  On the way over, Christian made himself a promise. I’m not going to steal today. Today, for once, I won’t give in to this sick habit. But Christian knew that he couldn’t always trust himself. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just give in to sucking at whatever he did. Sports are supposed to be fun, he thought. But he always let thoughts like that die. He needed to win. There would be scouts for the national team there. And this was the only way Christian knew to protect himself from a life of poverty. Besides, if he were doing it for the fun, he’d just quit sports and write.

  Once again, Christian would have to face Connor Wirth. As the swimmers were preparing for the 400-meter butterfly, standing and stretching next to their platforms, pulling on their swim caps, Christian approached Connor.

  Connor looked up. “Hey. Congrats on the tennis thing. I heard you made it to State.”

  “Thanks,” said Christian.

  “You’re just cleaning up this season, aren’t you?”

  Just then, the announcer came on the loudspeaker. “. . . and by platform five, Connor Wirth, the clear favorite to win the race, is preparing for another Marlowe victory.” Connor smiled and waved at his parents.

  Christian felt something in his chest. The announcer didn’t even mention me. Did the scouts hear? He turned to leave, the weight of his fears pressing on his body and making him so sick with worry that he didn’t hear the announcer finally read his stellar swimming stats.

  As Connor was bent over, stretching his hamstrings, Christian gave him a friendly pat on the back, right behind his lungs, and wished him good luck.

  Just as he was finishing the race, Christian realized what he had done. He was the first to reach the end, and as he pulled himself out of the water, he saw that no one was looking. A lifeguard was jumping into the water. Parents were running from the stands. The other swimmers reached the end and, one by one, realized what had happened. Connor Wirth had almost drowned. In his hurry, Christian had taken a bit too much of Connor’s lung capacity. He had assumed that Connor would just swim slower. But Connor had passed out before he even realized he needed to breathe.

  Connor’s parents were so scared that they kept him home from school for several days. Mrs. Wirth was absolutely wrecked with worry. But still, she had her explanations. To Mrs. Wirth, the world was a very logical place, with a rational reason for everything. Nothing inexplicable could ever be acknowledged. And so she put her son through a series of medical tests to pinpoint the underlying condition that must have been the cause of his accident. Connor’s friends went to his house to see him in groups of three or four, each bringing little presents, best wishes, and gossip from school.

  The only person who didn’t go was Christian, who chose instead to remain holed up with Buddy, his only real friend. A few hours after the swim meet, Christian sat cross-legged on top of the closed lid of his water coffin. Buddy sat next to him, trying to entice him into a game of thumb war. Christian just sat there, head hung, shoulders slumped forward, while Buddy played thumb war with his flaccid hand. He didn’t notice Madame Vileroy come in. She was standing in the corner, watching, and after a few minutes, he knew without having to look up that she was there.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry, Christian. You’re always sorry,” she said.

  “He almost died. And you’re telling me that’s OK?”

  “No. Stealing is supposed to make you look good. It’s not heroic to beat a dead fish.”

  “I didn’t think it through,” said Christian.

  “Practice makes perfect, my dear,” she said as she swept out of the room.

  Buddy tossed a basketball to Christian, trying to get him to play. Christian looked at Buddy and felt grateful for the reminder. He did have something to look forward to. The basketball game on Friday would be better. He could play for fun for a change and let the others take care of winning. “Good idea, Buddy. Let’s play basketball.”

  On Friday, Christian walked back from the basketball game feeling great. Marlowe had won. Having convinced his parents that he was well enough to play, Connor had ended his confinement by midday Friday and had come to the game. In fact, Connor had sunk the winning shot — he was a hero. Christian actually had fun, and he didn’t have to steal even once. The other guys were being nice to him. They invited him for pizza after the game. “Great pass, Christian,” one of the guys said as they walked toward Vinnie’s Pizza. Even Connor was acting friendly toward him again. Everything felt normal for once. When he got home, Christian went straight to the rejuvenation room. He felt like writing in his journal. But Madame Vileroy
was waiting there, doing something to Buddy.

  “Hey, leave him alone.”

  “He’s not human, Christian,” Vileroy responded. Then she added, softly, almost to herself, “Not anymore.” She eyed Christian up and down and said, “Don’t be so queasy.”

  Buddy was crying as Madame Vileroy twisted his ear to see that his perception of pain hadn’t dulled too much. Christian turned her words over in his head. Not anymore.

  “How was your game?” she asked.

  “Great, we won.”

  “We?”

  “Marlowe. The basketball team.”

  “But did you win?”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I didn’t need to do anything because we had it in the bag! We were already much better than them! There was no need to steal from the other team.”

  “And the other Marlowe children?”

  “The other . . . we were on the same side! If I stole from them, we’d lose.”

  “You’re not part of a team, Christian. You’re a leader. A true leader doesn’t belong to the team. The team belongs to him.”

  “So I should have made us lose?”

  “You did lose. You lost to Connor.”

  Christian sighed and sat on the edge of his coffin. He wondered why Madame Vileroy cared so much whether he won or lost. What does she gain from it? She always made it sound like she did it for him, like she had nothing to gain.

  “What do you want?” Christian screamed at her. No one could answer that question about Madame Vileroy. What did she want? Why had she adopted them? Why had she given them these gifts? Why did she push them to do these things? Sometimes, Christian thought she just got some perverse enjoyment out of it. Maybe it was a big experiment for her. Maybe she loved torturing them. Or maybe they were a prize to her. Maybe there was something in their future that made it all worthwhile. Or maybe she was after something entirely different.

  Christian leaned on one hand and looked her straight in the eyes, ignoring the flash of light in her angry left eye.

  She spoke with an even voice. “I want you to take a long pause and think about what I’ve said. . . . Think about what it means to really win. Think about it until you fully understand. . . . Yes, that’s what you need. Some time alone . . . to think.”

  Madame Vileroy barely nodded. Suddenly Christian’s hand slipped, and he landed hard in the pool of water. Before he could lift his head, the lid slammed shut with a loud bang. Christian pushed with his hand to open it, but something was keeping the lid shut. He pushed again. Nothing. He felt a slight panic mingled with confusion. He was sealed in, his mind drifting from fear to anger to the lingering thoughts of what it means to win.

  In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night, Christian struggled as the water filled his lungs. He was sealed in. He coughed and spat the water out. He scratched and kicked. His fingernails bent backward on the immovable lid. They splintered and bled. Every time he lowered his arms back into the filthy water, the urine he’d had to let go on the second day would burn the wounds on his fingers. He couldn’t remember how long he had screamed, crying for someone to help him, cursing the others for not even checking on him all that time.

  There in the filthy lake, Christian gnashed his teeth and learned how much he could hate something he had once loved — the coffin, winning, his life.

  By the third day, Christian smelled nothing but ammonia and his own skin dying and floating to the top of the liquid like soggy wheat flakes. It was only water this time, none of the blue gel, the super drug. Just dirty water, shriveling his hands. His muscles starved and hung limp on his bones. His back was raw with sores.

  On Sunday, sometime late in the day, the lid of the coffin shifted, and then slammed open. Bicé jumped back from her chair beside it. Christian surged up from the water, sitting up and gasping for fresh air. After the sudden rush, he slumped back down, unable to muster any more energy, squinting in the light. He was completely soiled, but his skin was pale as a ghost. The patch of sunlight coming in from the tiny window hurt his eyes, now almost nocturnal after three days. The blue gel that had once made him inexhaustible was gone, fully spent after such a long confinement. And it seemed that for all that time trapped in the coffin, it had also been keeping him alive.

  “You look like a junkie on the F train,” said Bicé.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Four days.”

  All of a sudden, Christian got a whiff of himself.

  “Have you been here this whole time?”

  “More or less. We couldn’t open it. We all tried. We figured it would just take time. Today I just tried it and it opened right up.”

  “Could you hear me?”

  Bicé didn’t want to embarrass him. “No.”

  She didn’t want to tell him she had heard everything. Christian tried to lift himself out of the tub, but his arms trembled under his weight. Bicé walked over to help. Christian recoiled, aware of his own smell.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “I’ve been on farms before. And I’ve lived with Belle for a while.”

  They laughed at that for some reason. It was the way normal things are funny in horrible situations, like cancer patients with balloon animals. Bicé helped lift him by his underarms. His skin was pale and cold. He grabbed a towel that was lying on a chair nearby and walked away. As she went to help him, Bicé noticed something in the tank. She looked and saw, scrawled on the underside of the lid, chaotic lines in bloody circles. Bicé squinted to read them. As she moved her eyes down, the letters became less frantic, more calm, and what looked like the beginning stanzas to a beautiful epic rose out of the sedge like a saving grace.

  “God, will you look at me?” said Christian out loud. Bicé turned around. He was at the mirror. “I look awful.”

  “You should take a shower,” said Bicé. “I’ll get some food.”

  She started to walk out. Even though Christian’s body was weak and dirty, something inside him felt clean, as if he had been washed from the inside, as if something filthy had been lifted out. He suddenly felt aware of everything that was under his own control. He could decide where to walk, what to say, what to eat. He felt a freedom that he had never felt before. He imagined that this must be how prisoners feel the first time they walk out into the world. More than anything Christian felt a lightness in his heart. The things that had scared him before didn’t seem so bad anymore. It wouldn’t be so scary to be poor or hungry or to lose once in a while. Maybe it would be nice to try something new.

  “Hey, B?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for staying.”

  “Hey, what’re big sisters for?” she said with a wink.

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do. I know what it’s like . . . to be alone like that.” Bicé knew a lot more about what Christian had been through than he thought. She had heard him yell and scream obscenities for hours at first. She had tried to get him out of the coffin. But then, after everyone else had given up and left, Bicé had listened to Christian’s tone change from desperation to resolve. And by the end, it sounded as if he had completely let go of everything he had wanted before, with no desire ever to steal again. And then, out of the blue, the coffin had opened — as if to say that it had no more power over him.

  Christian turned to Bicé, wanting to tell her all about what had happened to him. “It was hell . . . I was . . .” But just then, Bicé interrupted, realizing that Christian’s body was still wet and that something was missing.

  “Christian, look. The mark on your chest is gone!”

  We will stay in the shadows, answering only a seeking heart. The mark is the sign of the willing soul and shall guide us. It is a black shadow falling over the heart of those who seek our power, a mark that oceans cannot cleanse but that a drop doth reveal. Legion, thou shall NOT capture a heart without the mark. If the mark disappears, thou shall set that sinner free.


  — The Book of Legion, “Commandments”

  Bicé found Belle in the kitchen, pacing back and forth in front of the fridge. She was combing her fingers through her hair, reaching for the refrigerator handle, then pulling away. On the table were half-empty bottles of all kinds. Bicé didn’t say anything as she opened the cupboard for a packet of noodles. There were so many questions coming up for Bicé — the meaning of the mark, how both she and Christian didn’t have it now, and Belle did. Even though they were sisters by blood, she didn’t think Belle was on her side anymore, which made her incredibly sad. But Belle probably hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy seducing the entire school and most of the city.

  In midstride, Belle said, “Hey, sis. You’re ready for tonight, right? Want me to help you pick out an outfit?”

  “No. What’s going on tonight?”

  “What? Thomas, remember? Supremely perfect Thomas? The love of my life Thomas?”

  “Today’s Sunday?”

  “Yes! And he’s coming! Let’s get you changed!” Belle grabbed her sister’s hand and tried to pull her to her room, but Bicé didn’t budge.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Are you an immigrant?” Belle said, annoyed.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Bicé tore open the seal on a cup of noodles. As she was filling it with water, she turned to Belle and said, “Do you still have that birthmark? The water one?”