The Devil and the Red Ribbon

by Theo Rion

  But John didn’t turn around; he just kept walking. Philip stopped, anxiety riveting him. “I saw him,” Philip finally said, not very loudly.

  Still, John heard these words. He stopped and turned to his brother, looking at him with narrowed red eyes. “When? Where?”

  “I saw him three days ago.”

  John came to him, not taking his eyes off his face. Philip knew that for his next words he might pay. He could expect anything from John. And yet he ventured to speak.

  “I’ll tell you everything, but you have to come with me.”

  John was silent for a minute, pursed his lips, and then nodded, as if trying to keep his anger inside. Phillip beckoned a hired coach and they left.

  John had never been to this house by invitation. A servant at the entrance even winced when he saw John.

  “Come in, John,” Philip invited him. “Take off your coat.” He tugged off his gloves and unbuttoned his overcoat, and John reluctantly took off his. Philip led him into the living room. It was light and comfortable with pictures and portraits on the walls. A large portrait of Catherine, Eliza, and next to the one of Philip was a portrait of John. Similar to the one John had once destroyed.

  “I’d say that I can’t vouch for the similarity, because no one posed for me.” Philip smiled, nodding at the portrait of John. “But I can vouch for it. And I hope this one will remain whole.”

  John gave Philip a baleful look.

  “Please, sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  Philip left the room. In his absence, John looked at the portraits and pictures on the walls. There was a picture of his family when his father was still alive. In this photo, John was aloof, as if he were a stranger despite his amazing resemblance to his father. At this time, he heard light footsteps on the stairs, and someone entered the room.

  “I didn’t know we had guests. Good morning.” It was Catherine.

  John turned to her and saw how her face immediately changed. She wanted to say something, but Philip and Eliza entered the room.

  “Mother, I invited him.”

  Eliza bowed to John with a slight smile, however, Catherine’s face never softened. John felt uneasy, as if he was an exhibit in the museum, which all came to see. He wanted to leave, but Philip stopped him with a gesture and offered him a chair. John sat down, and the others took their places around a small table. It was an amazingly strange feeling to be a stranger among his family. But John knew it wasn’t their fault. He had wanted so greatly to escape from them that eventually he succeeded with a vengeance. He looked at Catherine and was surprised to discover he didn’t remember his mother’s face, and when he heard the word “mother,” he always called Catherine’s face to his mind. When she appeared in their home, her face wasn’t so surly when she looked at him. She had tried to befriend him…and he had tried to drive her out of their home. But how often had she stood up for him in disputes with his father, trying to show him love. Even after she had Philip. However, she couldn’t forgive John’s dislike of Philip. And it put an end to all her attempts to somehow get closer to John. Now he felt a pang of regret in his chest. He had deprived himself of a lot. And for what?

  Eliza had only recently become a member of their family, but she was much dearer to them than he. Eliza looked at John with the kindness and tenderness with which she looked at everything. Her heart and soul were pure. She had found love and family. She had nothing to be resentful about, and therefore she radiated this amazing gentle gratitude.

  Philip sat as if was trying to prove something, or understand, or change. But a few tense moments of silence had clarified everything. Philip sighed.

  “Mother, Eliza, I invited John to talk to him about a matter. Would you mind leaving us alone?”

  It seemed Catherine received these words with relief. She stood up and went along with Eliza, whom, judging by her gentle eyes, she adored.

  “You have to understand them, John,” Philip said softly, when the ladies had left.

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied John. “I don’t know why you brought me here. Tell me what you know. Please.”

  Philip paused, intently studying John’s face. “Can you tell me first what happened between you two?”

  John gave a warning look to Philip and pursed his lips. Another second, and he was ready to go. As if realizing this, Philip began to speak. “As I mentioned, I saw Kurt three days ago. I wanted to make a few sketches of poor neighborhoods, and I saw him in an industrial area in the East End, close to the market at Rosemary Lane. I could not talk to him. I called him, but he didn’t turn and disappeared from sight. He looked no better than you do now, but I’m sure it was him.”

  Philip paused, looking at John, who seemed excited with what he heard. He got up.

  “And that’s all the reason you dragged me here?” He tilted his head, staring at his brother’s face, realizing Philip didn’t know himself why he’d done it. And, as if confirming John’s guess, Philip shrugged absently and nodded.

  Without a word, John rose and headed for the exit. He didn’t dawdle. Once in the coach, he went to the East End. It was day already; many people were on the streets. John began to wander through the markets, hoping to stumble on Kurt, especially as Philip said he saw Kurt on Rosemary Lane. But he didn’t find him there, so then he went on.

  During this day, John went wherever he could: to Crisp Street and Spitfield, on Watney Street and Cable Street. Once in the Whitechapel District, John passed the Gilbert music hall, where a performance had just started. On the streets, tipsy men and women emerged from pubs. The evening gloom was dispersed only by lights at the entrances to the taverns. John sometimes dallied outside, wondering if he should go in, ask for Kurt among the people around. Or just get drunk. But he pressed on.

  He came to Poplar High Street when it was quite dark. There were a lot of small shops that had already been closed. John walked slowly down the street and sat on the step of someone’s porch. It was getting colder, and John wrapped his coat around himself.

  * * * *

  There was no more rest. No sleep. Having lost the light of the only beacon, Kurt was left alone in the dark. And there, images stood out, and it was impossible to hide from them. It didn’t matter whether he closed or opened his eyes. They were everywhere. Kurt tried to escape from them. He even went out on the street, but when he heard someone calling him, he hastened to get lost among the people and went back to the workshop. He didn’t know exactly how many days had passed.

  One evening, when Kurt was lying upstairs, chained by his thoughts, someone entered the workshop. A knock sounded, and the sound of the door opening unexpectedly brought Kurt into reality.

  He saw through the railing to the first floor. A man came in the workshop. Kurt crouched and froze. The man was tall, blond and thin. He went slowly around the workshop, looking at the dolls. Finally, he approached the table where Jack Soros left the note for Kurt before leaving. Obviously, the man read it; he bowed his head, crumbling the paper, and the next minute he went away. Kurt guessed who this guest was, but the guess was the only thing he was capable of.

  Kurt thought he fell into a sleep. He again felt John’s kiss on his lips and how he answered to the kiss. This dream repeated again and again. And every time Kurt saw and felt it, his heart was torn apart from the pain. He saw perfect Kurt erupt with fury; it sparkled in his blue eyes, and it gave birth to a burning hatred for John. And at the same time, Kurt knew what made him answer to that kiss. Kurt saw clearly in what part of his soul his feelings were hiding. And he wanted to protect them from the hatred, which perfect Kurt was ready at any moment to throw at them. However, it seemed that perfect Kurt didn’t know where they were. He could not find a way to this cache of the soul. But Kurt himself felt like he was getting weaker by the day, and all he knew was that John could help him.

  Kurt needed a plan; he had to deceive his other self, yet it seemed almost impossible.

  “If I want him to find something I have to hide it. And
hide it well, that there’s no doubt I didn’t want it to be found.”

  Kurt wandered in the darkness of his soul in search of answers.

  * * * *

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” John said loudly to a servant, who had already opened the door. Philip, who was standing behind the door, heard it, and the servant could only look at the guest perplexedly.

  “I heard,” Philip said.

  “What do you want?” John asked impatiently.

  “Based on your mood, you could not find him.”

  “How astute,” John frowned.

  “I didn’t come to quarrel.”

  “Then maybe you can enlighten me as to why you came?”

  “There’s no need to rush at me, John! It wasn’t me who made Kurt Rhein disappear from the city!” Philip raised his voice and looked at his brother with offended eyes. “Yes, John, the news about what you did at the ball of Lady Taylor has already spread through the whole of London! Now I understand why Kurt—”

  “You still don’t understand!” John barked at him and moved forward. The servant recoiled in fright and hurried away. John’s approach clearly didn’t bode well for Philip, but he stood there in the doorway, looking as though he wasn’t about to go anywhere.

  “What is there to understand? You have disgraced a respected man! Destroyed his reputation!”

  “I told you, you don’t understand! Stay out of it!”

  “You know, John, I was sorry for you when I saw you. Such a miserable appearance...but knowing what you have done, I hope very much that you will never find Kurt! And if I get to know where he is, don’t expect me to tell you,” Philip said coldly.

  John barely restrained himself from hitting Philip; he closed his lips tight and his hands involuntarily clenched into fists. “Get. Out!” John yelled at him and rudely shoved his brother out the door.

  * * * *

  Later, John drove to Whitechapel and walked around. While he surveyed people, all his thoughts returned to Philip’s words. Philip doesn’t know the Kurt Rhein I know.

  “Looks like I won this match, Kurt,” John said aloud. “You owe me a revelation.”

  Passing windows, John looked at himself. He usually dressed more gracefully, and his hair was elegantly done, but now such fastidiousness had lost its value. I don’t believe Kurt left because of a tarnished reputation, he thought. I don’t think he was so upset because he had lost the favor of the old lady…no, I saw something else in his eyes. He’s hiding from me. Only from me. Otherwise he would not have returned the kiss. Remembering that, John felt a sudden impulse. It was very malapropos, because the longing fed off such impulses, like a hungry beast, and they gave it new strength. If he returned that kiss then…he can’t hide and feel nothing. He could not have it all planned and played out. I’m sure about what I saw and felt. So why is he hiding, and in the East End? Philip mentioned that he looked no better than I do. Hence, he doesn’t feel better trying to hide from me. Has this damn psycho suddenly become a coward? I don’t think so . . . Is he punishing me? That’s more like the truth. But that Kurt would not let himself suffer. He would rather drain the blood out of me. So maybe all this isn’t a game and not the match? And if I find him, what will I tell him?”

  John stopped. All this time he had been obsessed with the desire to find Kurt, but now he asked himself this question, the answer to which depended on what would happen next. And this led John to the question of what he really wanted. He felt embarrassed because of this question, even some shame, as if he was forced to expose his soul. And there lived the simple and sincere desire for another person, dressed by caprice into a grotesque mask. It distorted the words, images and feelings, protecting its owner from the very awkwardness when it was easier to turn dozens of people into puppets, than to sincerely say, thank you…I love you…I’m sorry.

  John remembered that in the tower Kurt told him about how expensive a sincere hug was, and that they both were beggars. But now John didn’t believe it, because there was the man in his life whom he wanted to hug. But instead of it, there were fights, taunts, a desire to see the innermost thoughts and feelings of that person and make fun of them, turn them against him. And what was it all for?

  For the third day in a row, John went to Rosemary Lane. He spent about an hour there, just looking at the people who crowded around the stalls, and then he walked through the narrow streets, looking at the passers-by and everyone who got in his way. He passed through Whitechapel and ended his journey at Poplar High Street, where at this time, an unusual pandemonium reigned. Smoke poured from one of the shops, in the distance. John made his way through the crowd to get closer. The doors and windows of a shop were boarded up, and fire could be seen breaking through the cracks. One girl about six years old was crying and pulled her mother’s hand. John wasn’t listening on purpose, but her words with sobs drifted to his ears.

  “Mommy, there’s a man in there! He’s going to die!”

  “Annie, who could it be?! The store is closed, the owner has long gone! No one is there, don’t you see the doors are boarded up?”

  “No,” the girl continued to insist. “I saw him! I saw him go in there!”

  “Stop it, Annie!”

  People bustled around, but there was little sense of urgency. The words of the girl didn’t let John relax; he glanced around, then at the shop. This place was a great place to hide. Something inside John shuddered. He rushed forward to the burning building under the shouts of the crowd. Someone even tried to stop him, but John turned into a beast, making his way past those who would stop him and then past the wooden planks blocking the path. He dashed into a smoke-filled room being devoured by fire. The flames were quickly disposing of the dolls and toys sitting on the shelves. John covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

  “Kurt!” he shouted, but the answer was only the crackling fire. “Kurt!”

  John saw the door to the back room and rushed toward it. If he was wrong, then most likely he would pay for it with his life. The door was locked, but John felt Kurt there, behind it. He ran up and pushed the door with his shoulder.

  * * * *

  Kurt smelled smoke and felt the heat of a fire, but he was unable to wake up from his sleep. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave that part of his soul, which seemed to him a safe haven from all he had done, from all what he thought before. But Kurt knew his strength, his other self wasn’t asleep. For a long time this power, this desire for knowledge and control, had formed something that was in fact his alter ego, which now sought to seize authority again.

  In the maze of his feelings and thoughts, a cold and perfect image of himself made its way to the sacred hiding place. It was only a matter of time before they would be face-to-face.

  And suddenly there was a strong blow to the door. He felt his power completely restored and longed to gain control. Again, there was a hit to the door; it was so strong the walls trembled.

  Kurt wanted to get up, but could not. He had no strength at all. There were footsteps on the stairs; it was too late to hide. So, Kurt waited, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly his own face appeared in front of him. To be exact, it was the face of his perfect copy, of his power. However, something was wrong. On its beautiful face appeared a scar. It was more like a crack that crossed its once handsome face, as if crossing it out. It was like a cracked mask.

  Kurt tried to sit up. At this moment, he saw himself again from the side. He was a little boy, and in front of him an adult Kurt was sitting with a slashed face. The boy reached out hesitantly. Adult Kurt’s eyes looked angry—cold and determined. He, like a predator, was preparing to attack. The boy’s hand touched the crack on his face, and he looked sadly at his grownup copy.

  The air shuddered with a sense of danger. Kurt wanted to shout to the boy, so he would run away, but he wasn’t running. He hid the lady in red—the first one Jack Soros had made—under his shirt. Everything was immersed in darkness.

  * * * *

  John battered the
door, over and over again. Whether John had gotten so weak in recent days, or the door was very strong was hard to say, but it took six powerful blows to break the door down. John thought he heard the sound of breaking glass from above. Here too, smoke was everywhere. The fire hadn’t reached here yet, but it was impossible to breathe. John felt dizzy, and he could barely walk. This was a workshop; dolls were sitting around. They watched John, who was almost blinded by the smoke. He saw a ladder and climbed up. But there was nobody.

  John’s eyes darkened, his head spun, and he lost his orientation. He noticed a passage way to the attic, where the window was smashed. And here he noticed a figure on the floor. John had no doubt it was Kurt.

  Quickly, John stuck his head out the broken window, eagerly sniffed and coughed. A little revitalized by this breath of fresh air, he picked up an unconscious Kurt and ran back the same way he had come. Unfortunately, the exit had already been barred by fire, which had been drawn by the air above. John saw a second door, which he supposed would lead to the stairs, and rushed to it. He managed to open it. On the stairs, it was possible to breathe, but John didn’t stop until he ran into the street.

  The crowd surrounded them at once. There were voices, but John didn’t hear them. He laid Kurt on the ground and looked at his pale face.

  * * * *

  Kurt came to himself slowly, though the voices around him sounded strange. He didn’t know who or where he was. He didn’t start to look around at once and didn’t try to remember what had happened to him. For now, he was feeling safe, and that was enough. Inside him calm reigned, though maybe it was the calm before the storm. For these short moments of peace, he didn’t feel his brokenness or his ambivalence; it was like he had returned in his former life. And soon he would hear Eliza’s footsteps on the stairs and her voice would call, “Mr. Rhein, you said to wake you up at nine!” And he would get up, get dressed, drink a cup of tea and meet another patient…