Robert Wallace Paolinelli
705 Vallejo St.
San Francisco, CA
94133
415-986-8026
A DEVIL OF A STORY
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
I happened to
walk down a small, quiet street one day, a beautiful early summer morning. Just meandering in an
unfamiliar neighborhood. On the
steps of one of the quaint houses on the quiet street, sat a man, an ordinary
looking man, not particularly well-dressed, but not
unclean or unkept.
As I approached he said, "Excuse me, do you have any
matches?" So saying, he pulled out
a pipe and stuck it in his mouth and clamped his teeth
on the stem.
"Yes, I
do," I replied, and, reaching into my pocket, I fished out a small box of
wooden matches and handed it to him. He
took his time lighting his pipe as if I had all the time in the world and,
frankly, I was growing impatient by the time he had
used up three of my matches. "I
can't seem to keep it lit," he said, apologetically, and that made me feel
better about being waylaid.
"If
you'll allow me to clean my pipe I think the next match will do the
trick," he said, whereupon he took several pipe cleaners, put my matches
on his right knee, pulled his pipe apart and with the bowl balanced on his left
knee, he began swabbing out the mouthpiece.
The once white pipe cleaners grew black with the accumulation of tar. "You ought to clean your pipe more
often," I remarked, as he started on the third cleaner. "Yes, yes, quite
right. I should; but I don't often smoke it and I often
forget I even have it. You are most kind
being so patient with me."
My impatience
was over with his words, so without invitation, I sat next to him, and silently
watched him clean his pipe. He took a
fourth cleaner and began on the stem and it, too, proved to have been clogged
as the mouthpiece. I waited. "Do you know what I am?" he asked
me suddenly, as he continued to swab out his pipe stem. What an odd question, I mused, and was at a
loss as to what to answer him; but he spared me a reply: "I'm a devil, sent on a most important
mission by my exacting master, and I'm not sure what to do next."
Immediately I
knew the man was mad: A devil, indeed. But having nothing else to do, I decided to humor him. "Well, if you are a devil, you must have
a trick or two up your sleeve, and I don't think you need my matches any
more."
"Quite
the contrary, I do need your matches; and if you'll continue to be patient,
I'll soon finish cleaning my pipe, and you can be on your way."
"I
replied: "If you are so intent on
having a smoke, take your time, I'm in no particular hurry."
"I
know," he said.
"You
know? Know what?"
"That you
are in no particular hurry;
for you see, I've been waiting for you."
"Waiting
for me? What on earth for?"
"As I've
said, I am on a mission for my master."
"And what
business does your 'master,' as you call him, have with me? And anyway, who is your master?"
"You
don't know?" he said, a bit surprised.
"No, I
don't."
"But I
thought every one knew him;
but I must be too presumptuous.
Are you sure you don't know him? He's been known for aeons--if
not longer."
By now I was
certain I had been waylaid by a lunatic--and possibly a dangerous one--and I
made to go; but
he put his hand out and stayed my going;
and, oddly enough, I offered no resistance.
"As I've
said, I've been sent on a mission by my master and I can't fail him. So be patient. You'll be glad you
did. Ah, there now, I think the pipe is
sufficiently cleaned." He put the
mouthpiece into the stem, gave a couple of sucks on it and I could hear air
pass through. He struck a match and
puffed. Clouds of smoke issued forth and
I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was satisfied. He puffed in silence for a while and I sat
silently, too, feeling suddenly very much at peace.
"Now down
to business," he said, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "My master has expressed a great
interest in your well-being and has asked me to offer you a proposition you
would do well not to refuse--if you don't mind my saying so."
"And what
if I refuse?"
"Refuse?
How can you say such a thing?
You've not heard me out."
"If you
are who and what you say you are, and if you are from whom you say you are
sent, then I can tell you, without hesitation:
I am not interested in any offer put to me," I said, righteously.
"Come,
come, sir, you refuse and nothing has yet been offered. Nevertheless, allow me to continue: My master has, in his great magnanimity,
consented to give you whatever you might ask."
"Oh! And at what price: My soul or my shadow?"
The devil
laughed, "Ho, ho, ha! you are amusing. He doesn't do that sort of thing any more. I must tell him, though, that people still
believe those old stories--well they might have been true once--but no
longer. Times have changed, and so has
my master. So, to
answer your question, no, not your soul and most certainly not your shadow. He has souls and shadows enough."
"Well I
can't believe your master is so generous that he offers gifts without something
in exchange."
"Nothing. He
wants no collateral, no chattels, no liens on
anything. He simply wishes to offer you
this gift as an expression of his deep admiration for you."
"Admiration for me?
What on earth for?"
"You
don't know? Come, you are being too
modest. He knows all about you."
"Keep the
matches, enjoy your pipe and tell your master I don't care what he knows about
me. And I
couldn't care less for your master's admiration. Good day to you, sir." This time when he went to put his hand out to
stop me, I pushed it away. "Don't
try to stop me. I'll not be waylaid by
you any longer."
"Why all
this mistrust and anger? You certainly
have a wrong impression of my master. Let's stroll a bit.
I'm tired of sitting here, and as we walk, I can tell you a few things
you might be interested in."
I agreed and
knew I would wend our way to the main street and lose him in the crowd. As we walked he
said:--
"My
master has admired your books, has read every last one of them. He especially liked your latest novel where
the pioneer family dies of starvation, but the son, who was the strongest,
feasted on his parents' corpses and managed to survive. A brilliant story, he called it."
"I find
that repugnant," I said, indignantly, for my novel had been based on a
true story and the cannibalism episode was not the focal point of the story.
"And the
novel before, where the insane professor kills his students in a cruel lab
experiment."
"But that
was also based on a true incident at the state university. I didn't make it up."
"Nonetheless, he thought it a delightful tale; and your short stories--I admit I'm not much
of a reader myself--but the one where the distraught wife jumps off the cliff
with her two small children because her husband's marital infidelities were
more than her innocent soul could bear.
I found it a remarkable tale. Did
you know her and her family? You seemed
to be so informed on the intimate details of their lives."
"Fiction--it was just a story--art for art's sake. Don't you know that?"
"I know
nothing of the kind, but I know a good story when I read one. Now, what would you like--no strings
attached: Immortality? Power? Riches? All three? You've but to chose
and I shall bestow one or all upon you."
"First of all I think you are mad; and, secondly, I'm convinced you've escaped
from some insane asylum and I want nothing to do with you," I said,
angrily, and, as I made to leave, I felt such a sudden heaviness in my legs
that I could not take a step; and then I
knew I was in the power of a devil and I thought fast. What could I do to get away from him? In a flash I had it!
"Very
well, but first you must release me and give me back my mobility. I give you my word I shan't try to run
off."
"Agreed," he said.
"Now
you've said your master will give me whatsoever I want--and no strings
attached. Is that not so?"
"Yes; you have stated
correctly."
"Very well,
this is what I want: I want you to stop
following me and to never come near me again and to disappear."
"If that,
sir, is your wish, then, as per my instructions, I must obey," and right
before my eyes, he vanished;
and where he once stood was my box of matches. I bent down and picked up the box, and
putting it in my pocket, I went on my way.
When I reached the main street, I scanned the headline of the morning paper which read: BOY
15, SHOOTS GIRLFRIEND, THEN SELF, OVER CHEWING GUM.
What a marvelous
basis for my next novel, I thought. But
suddenly I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to vomit and scream out loud and
weep that that youngster had done what he had done--and then I understood why
the devil's master had loved my stories:
They were exactly the kind he liked and I felt wretched. I gave up writing and became a street
sweeper.
The End
{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from
original MS Word document}
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split them. As soon as we have another
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