Mrs Mephistopheles

by Julia Murphy, Canberra College

My husband is so cute when he gets excited. He loves nothing more than coming home after a big job and telling me all about how his victim – clients as he likes to call them – screamed in their final moments, always realising at the last moment how bitterly they regret taking Mephistopheles’ deals.

Too late by then, of course.

The tales themselves aren’t too interesting – definitely nothing I haven’t seen and done myself – but I just adore watching Mephie’s face light up when he gets to “the good parts”.

He’s cute when he’s upset, too.

Really, the man just entertains me to no end.

I do miss him when he’s away. Mephie often goes away to work his little jobs, sometimes for years at a time. I check on him while he works. I tell myself it’s to make sure he’s not in any danger. Honestly, though, mostly I just like to watch. I’m always hidden, of course. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe just a little.

I always go back home right before he claims his victim’s soul, so I can greet him at the door after a job well-done.

The Faust case was the longest case my Mephistopheles has ever worked. He served Mr Faust for fifteen years, in total, before claiming Faust’s soul.

Or to be more accurate, before attempting to claim Faust’s soul.

I remember so clearly the exact moment he realised he’d been tricked. He came bursting in, smiling like he’d just been crowned the new King of Hell, waving his fist in the air as if to show off a trophy; but his sweet little claws were clenched around thin air. I shot him a simple, meaningful look, a glance up to his empty hand then back down into his eyes. That made him look. And oh, the look of shock on his face when he realised.

Adorable.

I’d been following him on the Faust case, as I do. I was hidden in the corner of the smoke room when they made the deal. I was spying when he rigged all those elections in Faust’s favour; I was watching silently when he made Faust a banker, made him a businessman, made him Pope. I even went to the moon with them. I was hiding in a crater. I watched the whole time.

And I did see what Faust was doing.

I knew the man hadn’t a soul. Maybe he had one at some point, but I could tell it was long gone by the time Mephie approached him.

A more dutiful wife might have, upon seeing this, subtly advised her husband to drop the case. I didn’t. Not because I don’t love Mephistopheles. I do. But because I couldn’t sate my fascination with watching the scene play out.

It was like theatre to me.

The players were marvellous. At centre stage, I saw Faust, a man in for the long con, trying to find fulfilment by achieving everything a man could ever want. He never would, without a soul. Hollow people can’t be filled. It was brilliant. As his deuteragonist, there was my beloved husband, Mephistopheles, earnestly granting Faust’s every wish in the hopes of claiming Faust’s non-existent soul at the end of it. And then, side stage, one particular character who truly fascinated me. Mrs Faust.

I spent more time watching her than I did the main characters. Watching the boys became boring after a while, with their obvious motivations. Too simple.

But I couldn’t understand Mrs Faust. She never sought the highs her husband did. She was obsessive, ever reaching for something, but I just couldn’t figure out what. I watched as she went everywhere, tried everything. I observed silently, as if from the gallery, as she spent exorbitant amounts of money on things that never satisfied her.

So, what did she want?

It was after the final act when I finally figured out Mrs Faust.

It started after I ducked back home and as usual greeted Mephie at the door. Watched him rage and roar and vent his frustrations at everything in sight. Cutie. Like watching a puppy snapping at his own tail. I stifled my giggles behind pursed lips, creating an expression that might be mistaken for pity. Once he’d tired himself out, I held him in my arms, offering some kind of superficial comfort. I feigned sympathy when, underneath, I only felt amusement.

That was when it finally clicked. Mrs Faust and I weren’t the same, but in that moment, without a doubt, we were similar. That superficiality, that hollow imitation of things that ought to be beautiful. Those foolish husbands, making a mutually worthless deal whilst the two of us sit back and reap the benefits. Entertainment, in my case, and wealth, in hers. So, did she just want Faust’s inheritance? Was that it?

Something was still missing. One unknown lingered in my mind. I know that my entertainment satisfied me. I was happy. In Mrs Faust’s case, though, with the inheritance, all that money, she must have everything she wanted. So, was she happy?

Whilst Mephistopheles slept, I went back to the mortal world one last time for the epilogue. I saw Mrs Faust surrounded by everything that failed to satisfy her husband. Anyone else, surely, would never want for anything again. But Mrs Faust… still empty.

I sensed no presence of a soul behind her eyes. Mrs Faust did a better job of hiding it than her husband, but she was just as hollow as he.

The void where her soul should be could never be filled by wealth.

That was when I finally understood. She’d tried, hadn’t she? Just like her husband, she’d tried to fill that void. All that time, she was trying to buy herself a soul.

All that time, she didn’t know she was being followed by one of the very few beings in existence who actually dealt in souls. If I were to make her an offer, would she take it, I wonder?

What should I ask in return?

Can she cut herself a better deal than Mr. Faust?