Cutter and the Devil

Marcus had to fight briefly with the bar’s door, as it was unclear to him which way it opened, and when he figured it out, the thing required a concerted push–in, obviously. Just because I have a PhD, it doesn’t mean I know how to run complicated machinery, like a swinging door, he thought darkly. It should have made him chuckle. But tonight the happy part of his brain was being pushed out by the worried part, and a little bit of the irritable part too. Cutter’s call had been out of nowhere, insistent, and a bit unhinged to be honest. And just when Marcus was about to crack a volume of his new guilty pleasure – eighteenth century romance novels in the original German.

As he escaped the cold November air outside and took in his surroundings, he thought about how this wasn’t the sort of establishment that he and Cutter were used to patronizing back in the day. Their long-winded conversations, sometimes with Daniel and Steward in tow, would unfurl in a well-lit coffee shop like The Perch, or, if in the evening, a pub like Larkins, where you had to raise your voice over a wave of laughter that suddenly crashed at a nearby table. People giddy with each other’s company. And a bit of alcohol. This place–what was the name? Five Nails? He hadn’t even noticed it before, in spite of driving down Washington Street on a regular basis–was darkly lit, and no windows. As he walked through, scanning for Cutter, he noticed bins full or papers that he was vaguely aware were pull tabs. Several lottery machines lined the back wall, and the pungent air bore witness to the fact that someone somewhere had gotten away with smoking.

It took him a while to find Cutter, simply because he was looking for the wrong person. That disheveled figure hunched over a notebook at a small table, surrounded by empty glasses, with greasy unkempt hair, was 20 or 30 pounds heavier than he had been the last time they had seen each other. As Marcus slid into the plastic lined chair opposite, his irritation melted completely into concern.

“Hello my friend,” he offered gently, his English slightly accented.

“Were you followed?” Asked Cutter as he briefly glanced up at Marcus and then scanned the room intently.

“I have no idea,” said Marcus, also looking around. “It is not something I usually keep track of.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” said Cutter. “I know I probably look a bit off.”

Marcus just studied him, as if trying to decide just how much off.

“And thanks for coming. Really.”

“What is going on?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m being followed by someone. A priest, I think? Wears a black cassock and one of those flat rimmed hats?”

“You are being followed by a priest. Some kind of evangelist? But surely, such people are harmless.”

“Here. I’ll show you,” Cutter ignored him. He paged through his notebook, and as its pages flipped by Marcus noticed sections of dense writing, scraps of diagrams, and drawings slide by. Cutter found what he was looking for and showed him: a full page drawing of a priest like he had described. His face was gaunt and menacing. If you had told Marcus it was Count Dracula, he would have considered it a good rendition. But the figure was holding beads–a rosary–in his right hand, and book–presumably the bible–in his left. The hat seemed at first glance out of place, but on second look, bizarre enough to make it feel real. The rest of the page was filled with writing that broke off in a small outline around the figure, and seemed to continue invisibly and then pick up on the other side, with words and phrases missing underneath the drawing. At first Marcus thought they were in a foreign language, but then he realized the words were written backwards: eva airam lluf fo ecarg–but apparently in order.

“Is that the Ave Maria written backwards?” Asked Marcus, puzzled.

Cutter withdrew the book and quickly shut it.

“You should not see such things,” said Cutter.

Marcus put his hands up in surrender to his wishes. And then, seriously, trying to get him focused, “What is going on Cutter? You call me out of nowhere to this dive baar. You haven’t showered in days–or combed your hair even. You don’t seem well. What does Jenn have to say about it?”

He looked at Marcus with a cruel smile and said, “You don’t know Jenn. You think you do. But you don’t.” Then he leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes darting around, licking his lips. “You know that book you studied for your dissertation back in the day? Gerta, or however you say it?”

Marcus didn’t even bother to pronounce it correctly for him but just listened with his intense eyes, hoping this was going somewhere; sensing it must be.

“And there was this guy–Faust–who had… He, ah. How do you say it?” Cutter was stuck. He couldn’t get out the most basic plot point of the story he himself had brought up.

“Dr. Faustus sold his soul to the devil in return for knowledge,” Marcus helpfully filled in. “But as soon as Faustus got the knowledge, he lost interest in it.”

Cutter nodded and instead of answering with words, he pointed at Marcus as if to say, “That is what I am talking about. Exactly that.” Then he started breathing hard and swallowed and broke into quiet sobbing.

Marcus almost never looked surprised, but it became Cutter’s rare privilege to behold his raised eyebrows and open mouth. Only he was too busy weeping into his chest.

When Cutter had recovered, he said, “What I wanted to ask you about, since you are an expert on this whole thing of… You know…Um… Mephistophones…”

“Selling your soul to the devil?” Asked Marcus.

Cutter nodded quickly.

“To be clear, as a literary theme.” Emphasized Marcus. But he sensed this was no literary discussion.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. Ha ha. Er… It’s not real or anything. But the themes might reflect, you know, older mystical, hermetic, cabalistic traditions and things that are real in a sense.”

“People thought they were real,” explained Marcus. “But for modern people, they are more like parables or metaphors. Like, how getting that thing you want so much requires giving up everything you love. And in the end, maybe it wasn’t such a great bargain as it seemed, but now it’s too late. Is this what is bothering you, my friend? Loss? Have you broken up with Jenn?”

“I mean yeah. But actually no. She left me. But that’s not the core of the thing. It’s deeper than that, Marcus. I can hardly believe it but I’m living the real nightmare. I just don’t understand how this crazy old story suddenly became my life. It’s like hearing horror stories about some terrible disease and then one day you find you have it!”

“What disease, Cutter?” Marcus misinterpreted him, thinking that he was finally getting to the core of it. Cutter has just been told he has AIDS, or ALS. Now it all made sense.

But Cutter still held back.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you straight out, so let me just tell you what has happened in the last three weeks.” He sat up in his chair and made a visible effort to compose himself. He grabbed a napkin from under one of the shot glasses on the table and wiped off the tears streaking his face. He gulped down the last bit of something in a glass, cleared his throat and launched into his tale as Marcus listened on, with his characteristic focus.

“So you know hard I’ve been trying to get my musical career off the ground.”

“Not really, no. Last I heard, you were playing in a band.”

“Yeah, and working two jobs. I’ve been trying to make it work as a job, you know. Full time. But IT hasn’t been panning out. Seems like nothing ever works out for me.”

“Don’t say that Cutter. It’s not true.” He might have been about to say “you have Jenn.”

“Point is, I was trying to finish a recording, something that would put me on the map, but we got behind on our bills, and Jen was taking care of little Sarah. I’m embarrassed to say this Marcus, but I got way behind on my mortgage payments. I just got so focused on this one thing, and every time it came around to pay the mortgage, I would justify that it was all about to work out. You know how it is. Actually nevermind. You probably don’t know how it is. You’re mister stability. No offense. And Jen and I were basically always at war over it. She would nag me every day–instead of offering to help me! She would judge me. I couldn’t look at her. I would lock myself in my studio and work. Put down tracks, refine them, go over every single note until it’s perfect. But deep inside I knew this is going nowhere. It’s just… not how the music industry works. Pouring your soul into something doesn’t necessarily mean you get rewarded, you know. It’s cruel that way. Ok, so one night, this is towards the end of October–last month–I go out with a couple guys from a band I used to play in. Just to blow off some steam, and maybe do some networking. We go to this party and everything is landing on me so heavy. Being broke, and then the sinking feeling that all the work I put into this project, it’s probably not even going to pay off. It’s like somehow, I woke up and realized just how bad it all was. Jenn’s completely alienated, I’m not taking care of my kid, and all the work is just a delusion. Oh yeah. And I’m drinking too much-duh.

“So I’m drunk with the old bandmates and we end up at this party. Weird place. I had no idea what was going on. We get separated and I end up in a back room. There’s just a table, a guy sitting at his table. It’s just a wooden table with the one chair he’s sitting on, and a chair for me. He’s dressed in a tux. Seriously a full tuxedo. His hair is all greased up into a widow’s peak; perfectly trimmed short beard and mustache and he’s got a look about him. Like he’s staring right into my soul. And behind him, it’s that priest–the one I drew. He’s just standing there with his arms crossed. Head kind of bowed, looking out from under the rim of his hat. I’m thinking WTF is this? Really freaked me out. I’m about to turn around and the guy at the table goes,

‘Don’t you want to make a deal, my friend?’

He’s got an accent, but I’m not sure where it’s from. My guess: Russian. But that could be Eastern Europe too. I don’t know. I don’t know what made me stop, but I turned around and said,

‘What kind of deal?’

I was really drunk and maybe I thought he was a record producer with a weird kind of flare, you know? Like a Ramstein video. Avant guard. I could do that kind of music.

‘Come, come. Sit. Let’s talk. Don’t worry, I don’t bite. As for my friend, well.’ He looked back at the priest. ‘I can control him.’ He laughed but I wasn’t sure what the joke was.

He held out his hand signaling that I should sit down at the chair, so I did.”

Marcus had interlaced his fingers and was staring at the table now, not distracted, but in concentration.

“‘Who are you,’ I blurted out.

The guy looks at me and says, ‘I think you know.’

‘Are you a record producer?’

He chuckled and looked at the priest, who just smiled a tiny bit. Enough to add just a little bit more to the menace of his presence.

‘I really don’t…’ I had an idea, then, who it might be. But I was afraid to say it.

‘You are a musician.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Keyboards and vocals,’ I responded. Swallowed. I wondered what the hell this was. What had I walked into?

‘I’ve done deals with musicians. Let’s see,’

The priest leaned down and whispered in his ear.

‘Jimmy Page. Was that it?’ He looked over at the priest, who nodded.

‘Janice Joplin, Kurt Cobain, oh yeah, and the strange case of Keith Green. Ronnie Van Zant. What is your name, little girl?’ He made dancing motions with his hands.

The priest leaned in again, whispered something inaudible.

He wagged his finger, ‘Richard Manuel‘.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ I said, thinking I knew where this was going.

‘It’s true. They all went down in flames. In one way or another. But what a ride, my friend. What a ride.’ He looked me straight in the eyes, ‘Some say it was worth it.’

I just stared at him. I wasn’t saying yes, but I wasn’t saying no. I was that desperate.

‘I can see you are in a spot of trouble,’ he went on. ‘Am I right? I do have a bit of a fire sale going on at the moment. Tonight only. Ha ha. I’m just kidding. It’s always the same deal. Has been since the beginning of time: you get what you want, and then I get what I want. Everyone wins.’

I nodded.

He inspected his fingernails, which were yellowed.

‘Your talent is being wasted, time is slipping by, the bills are piling up, and there’s trouble at home. Am I right or am I right?’

I nodded tightly.

‘I can get you the connections, the money, women–if you want them. It’s all part of the deal. Whatever you want. That’s the deal.’

‘Until when?’

‘Until it’s over.’

‘But I mean, how much time? It’s gotta be a minimum amount of time. I mean, I’m not going to do it for a day, you know. Like, a minimum seems fair.’

He looked at the priest, who betrayed nothing.

‘You’re right kid. And I can see that you are a smart negotiator. I’ll give you 20 to life.’

‘So at least 20 years. Maybe more. I don’t want to know… exactly.’

‘Sure. I can work with that. Twenty years is a long time. I mean about 20 years; maybe even more!’

He stood up and I automatically did too.

‘So we have a deal?’ he said and he put out his hand.

I nodded and shook it firmly.

After that, he smiled in a way that if found disturbing, and I hurried out, my head now clear. I thought maybe I heard laughter behind the door as I walked away. But weirdly, I was elated. I felt sure now that things were about to change. I went straight home and slept in the bed with Jen–not on the couch in my studio. The next morning, I reassured her that everything was going to be fine, but she was skeptical and wanted to know if that meant I was going to get a job. I said don’t worry. It’s OK. I got on the phone and called anyone I could think of to see if there were any openings for keyboard player/vocalist. I knew, because of the deal, that anything I did would work out, you know. So it gave me confidence. I might have called five or six people and–bam! I found an opening in a working, gigging band. Local East Coast, plays the weekends. Home for the week. Serious guys, no partying. Just rock and roll and they all have families and bills to pay, so I’m like yeah, I’m in. I went in the next day for the tryouts and they liked me. I’m like yes! This is working. It’s actually working! Unbelievable. I was so confident and I could tell I was nailing it. Every note was perfect, with style. Panache. You want a solo? Yeah no problem. No, I don’t need to practice. What? Just go. Throwing it down.”

Cutter seemed to have forgotten all his problems, as he relived his moment of transcendence.

“So, they didn’t even tell me they would call back. They took me on the spot. They said come back next Tuesday, which was a week later, and we’ll sign the contract and we’ll start rehearsing. I was like ‘Yes! This is your moment my man.’ It’s all falling together. But when I got home and told Jenn she was super skeptical. She thought I was going to go get a regular job, not join a band. But I explained to her that it was a gigging band. Local area only. Real pay. An actual salary. Probably better than I could get at any other work. This is real, I promised her. Not like other times. Just give me one week Jen, I said. One week and we’re back on track. It’s all good. But she wouldn’t believe me. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t she believe me?

“The next day, she’s gone, with little Sarah. I just… I didn’t understand. And wasn’t it all supposed to work out like the guy had said? Twenty years to life, right? I tried to call her, but she wouldn’t answer me. She just texted back saying, “Don’t contact me. We’re done.” And I was like what? Why? I love you! What about Sarah? And while I’m literally texting with her a buddy from back in the day–You didn’t know him–also texts me and he says, hang on.”

Cutter pulled out his phone and searched for the message.

“He says, ‘Hey Cutter. I just saw Jen and Sarah with this guy at The Common. Did you guys split up?” And that, that’s the thing that killed me, man. Just…like a knife.”

Cutter was losing his composure again, but breathing hard in what appeared to be an attempt to stay in control. Marcus took his hands and brought them together in his own, and said, “I’m sorry Cutter. I’m so sorry. I think she had given up a long time before that.” Cutter nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah. I see that now.” Then he started crying again. The waitress came around to see what Marcus wanted to drink, but he shook his head, implying she should make herself scarce. But the story wasn’t over. Cutter recovered again, sat back in his chair and prepared to continue with his story, but Marcus stopped him and called out to the waitress to bring him “a bud,” not because he had any interest in light American beer, but to keep her from interrupting again.

“Sorry about that,” said Cutter. “As I was saying, that destroyed me. I went out and spent the last dollars in my wallet on booze and I tried to stop the pain. And it kind of worked, because I have no idea what happened that whole week. But I do remember a phone call a couple days ago from the band manager, and several texts asking me if I was coming to sign and get started and whatever, and I don’t know what I said but I’m sure it wasn’t good and now I’m royally screwed because I have no wife, no kid, no job, and an a broken promise from the Devil himself, who now owns my soul. So yeah. Also, I’m going to hell.”

“Cutter,” said Marcus, “This thing about selling your soul. Come on.”

“Don’t tell me it’s not real.”

“It’s not real, Cutter. Hell isn’t real. Neither is heaven. It’s all nonsense made up by superstitious, pre-scientific people.”

“You weren’t there,” whispered Cutter fiercely. “I made a deal with the Devil. And the reason I’m here–aside from talking to an old friend–the reason I’m here is because there’s gotta be a way out of this. And you, of all people, should know how to beat it.”

Marcus stared back, speechless for a moment. “I am not an expert in the supernatural, Cutter. I study literature, fiction. The stories of Dr. Faustus are fantasies, or parables, if you like.  I don’t know what you think you saw, drunk and desperate at some paarty, but I can tell you without a doubt that it was not the devil. You imagined it, or dreamt it, or, or, anything other than ‘it is real’ makes more sense. And if you must know, in the fictional world of Dr. Faustus, regardless of which version, there is never ever an escape clause. Ever. The devil always gets his due. So please, please, stop this nonsense about the devil, stop drinking yourself into a stupor, and all these drawings…”

At this, Cutter stood up abruptly and yelled, “Enough! I came here looking for your help, and what do I get, some stupid rationalist drivel? You’re in a worse position than me because you don’t even know what’s coming for you. It’s gonna hit you like a freight train at full speed. All these drawings are what’s going to save me. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. I will. But you, you don’t even know what’s coming for you.”

With that, Cutter stormed out of the bar. The waitress looked at Marcus, with concern in her eyes, not for Cutter but because he was walking out on his bill. Marcus waved at her to reassure her that he would get the tab, which turned out to be close to $100.00. Plus a Bud.

Marcus hated to see his friend storm off like that, but he did not know what to do. He decided to wait for a bit, to give Cutter some time to calm down, and then try to contact him again. He was frustrated that there was no infrastructure he could appeal to. He didn’t have Jenn’s contact information, and that would probably be useless anyway. He didn’t know anyone else in Cutter’s life. The poor man was seemingly cut off from the world, and steeped in his diabolical delusion. He paid the bill and left his beer untouched on the table. At the till, the waitress asked him if his friend was going to be ok. Marcus said he did not know.

As he approached the door, he rehearsed the procedure for opening it, and executed it with ease. “Just like a regular,” he thought. But the moment he stepped out on the sidewalk, a dark figure brushed past him in a rush, almost colliding with him, sending Marcus tumbling back into the bar. He managed to right himself before colliding with another exiting patron, and rushed out to see what all the fuss was. The retreating figure was wearing some kind of robe and hat like the one Cutter had described. Marcus stood next to the bar’s door and made himself small in the shadows and watched as the figure receded, and the other patron brushed past him.

“Sorry about that,” he said to the passing figure.

“It’s all good man,” slurred the other, waving his hand to no one in particular.

The other figure, further ahead, was medium build, and agile. Striding purposefully along Washington Street, his head moving back and forth as if looking for someone. Then he stopped and inspected an alcove and moved on. Marcus felt good about having the drunk guy between him and the… priest? He decided to call him that. He trailed the priest for a block, and then the drunk turned off the street, to the East. It felt a bit ridiculous to hide at this point, so he decided to just be a guy who was walking home from the bar, who was by pure coincidence keeping pace with the other figure ahead. The priest suddenly reached into his pocket and brought out a phone. He listened for a moment, then,

“I can’t find him anywhere. Yes, Washington Street… Five Nails. OK. I’ll check.”

He turned suddenly and started walking straight towards Marcus. It seemed impossible to Marcus that this could not have some connection to Cutter’s story, and he had said that a priest of this, frankly ridiculous, description was following him. The approaching priest was narrowing his options. Macus took his stand, and as the priest approached, he said firmly.

“Why have you been following Cutter?”

The priest, who had been prepared to ignore Marcus as street furniture, was suddenly taken aback and stopped in his tracks.

“Do you know Cutter?” he asked, his voice thick with an Irish accent. Not menacing or challenging, but full, it seemed, of concern.

“Yes,” said Marcus firmly. “He told me you had been following him, and he told me about a ridiculous event you were apparently involved with, where he sold his soul to the devil. Why are you harassing him?”

The priest approached him, palms out, seemingly to convey a non-threatening posture. “Christ, you’ve got it all wrong,” he said. “I’m trying to help him. I’m the one that’s trying to help him. I wasn’t part of the… the sale. Sure it was all sure a terrible mistake, or, a miscalculation. A… a.. A pig’s ear. It was a really bad idea. Have you seen him? Is he OK?”

Marcus had been preparing for a confrontation, so the priest’s reaction took him off guard, and he wasn’t quite ready to trust him. “What mistake?” he said. “What are you talking about? Cutter thinks he sold his soul to the devil. You talk first, then I’ll decide if I want to tell you about Cutter.”

“Allright, I understand, Christ, I do,” said the priest. “This whole situation has been balls-up. He thinks I’m following him? I’m just trying to talk to him, to clear this all up. I’ve been looking for him up and down Washington Street for hours. I spoke to his wife, and she got me in touch with-”

“Clear what up?” Insisted Marcus.

“Ok, look. My name is Father O’Donnell. I’m a priest at St. Brendan’s,” Marcus looked at him blankly, as it meant nothing to him. This was a kid in his 20s. The idea that he was a “father” to adults sounded ludicrous on his lips. “On Halloween, some of my parishioners–this was not formally endorsed by the church, because the church would never endorse such a thing–they wanted to do a kind of performance art at a Halloween party. One of them, Vincent, is an actor, and the other, his friend Ray Dolan, he’s the one that came up with the idea. Ah now, to be fair to me, they did not explain very well to me what it was all about. And Christ, I could have pushed them for details, too, but I didn’t. Ray asked to borrow my cassock and biretta, as you see me now. I later found out that they had set up a room at the back of a party, and they were pretending to be the devil and Rasputin. And I don’t really know what they thought they were going to accomplish, or if they even thought beyond just trying to scare people with the fear of hell. How would this accomplish that, exactly? And since I lent Ray the clothing, I’ve been trying to clean up the aftereffects for the last two weeks. Some people at the party sure saw through it and thought it was wildly entertaining, but a few others, like your friend Cutter, took it seriously, apparently. I’ve been trying to talk to him for days, but he keeps avoiding me.”

“So you have been following Cutter around, dressed as the individual he thinks was the devil’s assistant, and you’re surprised he doesn’t want to talk to you? Are you crazy?”

Father O’Donnell was confused, as if this had not occurred to him. “This is what I wear out in public…”

“You cannot be serious,” said Marcus irritably. “I’ve never in my life seen a priest walking around in such an outfit!”

“Ah here. It’s what I wear,” insisted O’Donnell, with an edge to it.

“This is unbelievable,” said Marcus. “Cutter’s whole life is in shambles because of this. And on top of it he is convinced that the devil owns his soul, that the devil also tricked him and everything will now go wrong in the future, unless he can find some esoteric spiritual trick to get out of it!”

“I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my fault, and–”

“You gave them de vestments! And de idea of hell in de first place!”

There was a moment of silence as they both took a step back from the confrontational tone.

“I’m sorry this happened, and I take responsibility, as far as I can. But I’m sure not going to apologize for the doctrine of hell. You are obviously not a believer, and that is fine. Let’s just focus on helping Cutter get through this.”

Marcus bit back several caustic remarks and accepted the truce–for the moment.

“I have Cutter’s phone number,” said Marcus. “We just had a long conversation, which did not end particularly well. But let me see if I can meet up with him, hopefully tonight, and explain everything to him. I don’t think you are the right person to do this, especially in your current outfit.”

O’Donnell silently acknowledged the truth of this statement.

“What’s your phone number? I’ll keep you posted, and maybe you can talk to him, once I talk Cutter down.”

They exchanged numbers and went their separate ways.

Marcus waited until he got home to reach out to Cutter via text. He apologized and said he had some new information that changed everything, please call me! He did not want to mention the priest yet. He would do that in person.

He sat on his couch, waiting for a response, and getting nothing. He noticed his dissertation, sitting on the mantle with some other favorite books and, since he had nothing better to do, he grabbed it and paged through it, intrigued by Cutter’s question of whether there was an escape hatch from the Faustian bargain. Marcus had not been entirely truthful when he had declared that there was no such thing in the entire literary tradition. In the traditional renaissance telling, where it was a straightforward morality tale, it is true: there was no getting out of the bargain with the devil. This point was made in vivid detail. Dr. Faustus watching with dread as the minutes wound down for the bargain’s beneficial stage to wind down, and then a demon literally drags him off to hell. But the story took a different turn in Goethe. The bargain there was more complicated and philosophical: if Faust were ever satisfied with the experiences that the Mephistopheles offered up, and said to that moment “Stay, thou art so fair,” then, his soul would be forfeit. But since Faust never was satisfied, and always hungered for more, this never happened.

But Marcus was sure that this would have only confused Cutter, who was clearly captured by the older morality tale–one that Thomas and Klaus Mann had revived in their takes on the musician and the actor who trade collaboration with the Nazis for fame and fortune. Now everyone seems to think that the Faust story is just this: you compromise your morals, values, or ethics to get something seemingly unattainable in return. Then you reap the whirlwind. But the idea of an out–in the traditional tale–was intriguing to Marcus. He made a mental note about it. What if there was a new, less moralistic, version of the classic Faustus to be told? Something where you made a bargain with the devil and just having that in your back pocket, just knowing someone was on your side, even if it’s the devil, gives you the confidence to take life by the throat and make it your own. You take the chances because you know it’s going to work out. And that act of boldness is itself the only thing that ever really mattered. It would be a commentary on humanity’s collective insecurity and moral paralysis. But then, and here’s the escape hatch, the one Marcus was offering Cutter: the out is that the entire schema of devils and morals and repayment dissolves into thin air. There was no devil. But the idea that he exists, gave flight to your wings. So, is there a way to drop the pretense, or must we always be weighed down by our mythological kludges? He dozed off at that point, on the verge of some phrase about nihilism. In his dreams Cutter got it. He was composed again, and they laughed about the whole thing. Thank you Marcus, he said, for helping me find the way out.

Marcus awoke at 2:00 AM. Still nothing from Cutter. He migrated to his bed and fell asleep again.

He was startled awake at 6:00 AM with a text notification. It was Cutter.

“Meet me at the Common, Central Burial Ground. 8:00.”

“Ok. See you there.”

But Marcus’ heart sank. The melodrama about meeting in the Burial Ground suggested that the delusion was still strong. What was Cutter up to? Why there? He got some coffee and breakfast, updated O’Donnell and took the T down to the Common.

The burial ground was quieter than it ought to be, with the city’s main arteries pumping vehicles and people around it, just feet away. But it was a cold November morning, with a heavy fog lacing the ground, and streaming around the ancient gravestones like a liquid. Some of these headstones, recalled Marcus, were so old you couldn’t even make out the names anymore. But not quite as old as the cursed tale of Dr. Faustus. For a second time in the last twelve hours, he scanned for Cutter. He found him kneeling at one of the headstones, inspecting the etchings, and taking notes in that notebook of his.

“Cutter.”

He stood up, still disheveled and unkept and as Marcus approached, he noticed the characteristic smell of homelessness, as if Cutter’s final transformation had taken place over night.

“So you came,” he said noncommittally. Then he rubbed one of his eyes with the palm of the hand that was holding the pencil

“Are you OK, Cutter? Did you spend the night on the street?”

“I can’t sleep anyway,” said Cutter.

“Do you want to get some coffee… some breakfast?”

“If you can spare a couple bucks for a coffee, I wouldn’t mind,” he answered.

Marcus searched for some spare bills in his wallet, and then just handed all of it over to Cutter without inspection.

“Thanks.” He stored it in the pocket of his black overcoat.

“Look, Cutter,” began Marcus, suddenly unsure of himself. “I actually have some really good news for you.’”

Cutter just looked on, too exhausted or distraught to rise to the occasion.

“The whole thing–with the devil and the priest–it was all a hoax. I ran into the priest on Washington Street, after you left last night. He wasn’t following you. At least not with any ill-intent. He was just trying to talk to you. The whole scenario was some kind of hell house thing to scare people into getting saved. The priest was supposed to be Rasputin! Can you imagine? They were just mixing up historical figures impressionistically. The person who played de devil was an actor! And the priest–the priest who was following you! He wasn’t even the person you saw. They had borrowed his clothes! Ha ha. Cutter! It’s all been a crazy misunderstanding! Who would have thought? It was really nothing, and the best part is, you didn’t make a deal with the devil–because there was no devil involved!”

But Marcus stopped suddenly because he realized he was trying too hard to sell it, and that made it less convincing. And why was he feeling like he had to sell it at all? He was just explaining the facts to his friend, setting the record straight.

“I know you think you have an explanation for everything,” said Cutter. “But what if I believe you and it turns out you’re wrong? Then stakes are too high. Way too high. Thanks for the coffee money. I have to get to the library. And stop trying to get in touch, OK?” He blinked slowly and swayed slightly as if he might fall asleep standing right there. Then he took a deep breath and said, “It’s not going to work.”

He turned and walked away, and Marcus watched him fade away into the fog until he was standing all alone in the graveyard. A car honked in the distance, calling him back to the real world.