The Devil and Mr Fowster

 

 

‘Who’s that chap behind me?’ Christopher wondered as he was combing his hair, ‘I’m sure he’s staring at me.’
      Christopher had just been tidying up after a necessary ‘pit stop’, and now, the paper tissue disposed of and hands dry, he was concerned that he was making the best of what was left of his hair. No longer the flowing locks of his youth, the passing years had seen to that. ‘Just the opposite of my waist,’ he mused, for while he had less 'growth' on top, he had decidedly more 'growth' around the middle.
Cautiously he altered his position to get a better view. ‘Funny!’ he thought, almost out loud, ‘I could have sworn there was no one else in here.’
      He had left his seat in the theatre a few minutes before the interval, knowing that the facilities would soon be in great demand, and, more importantly, he hoped to get a drink before curtain up for the second half.
      Now, ready to leave, he felt able to turn and face the man in the corner, but as he moved to depart he glanced across but was surprised to find that he was indeed alone. He turned away this time moving toward the door, when he saw in the mirror the somewhat dim but quite clear image of the mysterious man. Not only that, but in that split second he was sure that it was a face he knew. Spinning around with some urgently, he faced the man, or at least where he judged him to   be, and was shocked once more to find no-one there.
      Alarmed now, Christopher felt a tightness, and though he was on his own he could not stifle a little cry, and was breathing heavily as he left the ‘gents’, trying this time not to look in the mirror. Nevertheless, as he departed he knew full well that he was being watched. He emerged just as the lights came up, and made for the bar with speed, for now he had more need of a drink than just socializing. The lights and the noise as theatregoers left their seats, and the need to beat the crowd galvanized Christopher into action. It was his normal habit to get two whiskies, saving the need for a second scrum, but this time he ordered three. Doubles at that!
      Christopher quickly downed the last of his trio when the bell for the second half rang out. Feeling somewhat calmer now as the Johnny Walker started to weave its spell he took his place to watch the concluding half of ‘The Devil and the Man’. It was a new production by a writer he did not know, but which had attracted rave reviews. It re-told, in a modern way, the well known story of Dr Faust selling his soul to the devil, and as predicted the first half had been truly absorbing.
      The lights came down and the curtain went up in perfectly choreographed stage management. On the stage only the two wings were lit. On the left, seated, was the forlorn figure of Faust. On the right, arms aloft, naked save for a number of long red silken banners, which billowed and tumbled around him, strutted the Devil himself. With his long red hair flowing, and his ‘garments’ hanging in the air like smoke, he was animated and eager; cock-a-hoop at the prospect of yet another conquest, for he knew that the good doctor was about to fall.
      The first half had ended when the evil Mephistopheles had tempted Faust to abandon his selfless and righteous life style, in favour of one that offered him all the pleasures of the flesh, and every creature comfort imaginable. All he had to do was sign a little piece of paper; just a simple thing to do, thus surrendering his soul.
      “Come my friend.” the devil breathed as he crossed the stage to open the second half, the voluminous strands of his broad red ribbons floating around him. The ‘garments’, if such they could be called, barely covered him, exposing an athletic body with strong legs and bare feet, which seemed to glide effortlessly until he was standing behind his intended victim.
      “You have nothing to loose, and all the things you have ever dreamed of to gain.” he whispered.
      “But to lose my soul?”
      “Your soul! Ha!. I’ll bet you never ever thought of it until I came along.” The red spotlight completed the illusion of evil as it focused on the figure of the slowly spinning devil, arms held high as he encircled the hapless Faust, the flowing drapes of his garment loosely entwined around the poor man’s neck as he moved. “And what is so great about your life that you want to hang on to?” He hissed “Where is your reward?”
      Christopher had all but forgotten his curious encounter, so quickly had he becomes engrossed in the events unfolding before him. Dr Faust stood up and walked to the front of the stage; the lights dimmed and only a spotlight illuminated his face, while behind him moving to a slow rhythmic beat danced Mephistopheles, just visible in a faint but luminous glow.
      Faust started to speak, quietly, almost a whisper as if to talking to himself, yet every word was audible, such was the power that the actor had over the rows of spellbound theatregoers. In the darkness of the auditorium the intensity of his delivery was riveting. In his distress he pleaded with his unseen audience for understanding of his torment, imploring forgiveness for his weakness. Most of those watching and listening were aware that he had lost his internal battle, his mental struggle and soon his soul; his very being; all but lost. It was a moving soliloquy in which he spoke of his life’s work; of his dreams – mostly unrealized – of his ambitions – mostly unfulfilled, and of his loneliness. The audience was silent, responding both to the drama and the emotion, as a lonely broken man teetered on the edge of mortality and sanity.
      “Who is there to help me? He was imploring. “Who has seen the other side of this veil to tell me right from wrong?”
      As he sank sobbing to his knees the light switched to the devil, standing erect now, legs apart, in victorious attitude, hands on his hips and smiling, his victory assured. His sharp features and clipped red beard accentuated his jubilation as he anticipated another human sacrifice.
      Faust lifted his head and stared out into the blackness his eyes piercing as he gazed, as if searching. Christopher was enthralled by such theatre. Never had he felt so involved, so drawn as now. He wanted to communicate with Faust. Like a child at the pantomime he wanted to shout out to warn him of the ‘bad man’ standing behind. The power of the performance was such that Christopher was feeling faint, his breathing hard and his eyes unblinking. It was as though the man on the stage was no longer acting and that his eyes were no longer searching. Christopher felt a stab of pain in his chest when he realized that they were now locked on him.
      “Who will save me from the evil thing I am about to do?” Christopher heard the words as he rose from his seat and walked towards the stage.
      “I will.”
      He climbed the steps at the side of the stage and went first to Faust. “You’re the man in the mirror.” He said simply.
      “Yes, I hoped you would come.” Faust replied.”
      No more words were spoken as he approached Mephistopheles, and took from him the paper that was being offered. Christopher’s last impression was of the cruel eyes and smiling mouth of the devil, and of the uncontrolled laughter that rang out as he signed his name.

      It was theatre in its rawest state, and the audience were spellbound.
      But it was not quite the end of the show for In the newspaper the next day, the following report was printed.
      ‘“Man suffers massive heart attack in theatre.” shouted the headline.
      “Punter found dead in his seat at the end of the performance as Faust sells his soul to the Devil. The police have named his as Dr Fowster, and are appealing for information from family members.”
      It was not reported however, that the man’s face, far from displaying signs of distress, displayed an almost serene countenance, a smile no less. Not a broad smile but more one of contentment.