A Chinese man walks into a bar and orders
a stoli with a twist. Chinese people cannot
pronounce ‘l” and replace it with “r,” so a barman
hears “a story with a twist.” “OK,” replays barman,
not a bit surprised, “Once upon a time...”
                                                                       A bar joke

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red.
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
                          “Ballad of Reading Gaol,” Oscar Wilde

He looked around. He was sitting on the bed in the middle of a small wooden cottage. It looked neat: patchwork quilt with intricate pattern laying on the bed, hand knitted doilies on the top of the dresser and the table, floor covered with rag rugs of many bright colors, vintage chest in the corner, and the large antique mirror dimly glowing near the entrance. The cottage would have been cozy if not for the smell that penetrated every corner, the smell of the old woman who lived here. Despite the smell, the place felt homelike. It could have been my home, he thought. But the old woman never let him in – until he came uninvited. Did she sense it was her fate coming, he wondered.
He belched, covered his mouth, and muttered excuse-moi – to nobody, for he was alone in the cottage. The old woman’s round spectacles and shawl were left on the small table near the rocking chair. He got up and walked across the room; a sudden movement by the door made his heart drop – but in a moment he realized it was his reflection in the mirror. He came closer and took a long look at the mirrored self; shaggy image with bulging eyes and big, jutting ears was looking back at him. In a suit of shabby grey, he thought, quoting his favorite poem. He exhaled a sigh, turned around, approached the rocking chair, and picked up the glasses. Slowly, he traced the frame. Unsatisfied longing, the feeling that haunted him all his life, consumed him again. I feel empty inside, he reflected, and the irony of this thought made him smile. Oh, what a sad smile it was. He sat down in the rocking chair and started to rock. Half asleep from the soothing motion, he yawned. He closed his eyes, but vivid pictures of what happened in the cottage just an hour ago kept him awake. He always has good memory and lively imagination – since his childhood.
He opened his eyes and looked around once more. The framed pictures on the walls, many pictures of generations of people who lived in this cottage in love and acceptance, were staring at him. His life would have been so different had he ever felt loved and accepted... An unwanted child, almost a changeling, he never knew the love of his parents. His father disappeared before he was born. His mother left him alone — a crying, scared child – for long, long hours. Since he remembered himself, he remembered the longing he felt, longing to be loved, to be accepted. To belong. He never had friends. Nobody ever wanted to play with him. As though his coevals were afraid of him, they scattered the moment he appeared. His mother did not want him to learn anything not needed for survival. He taught himself to read when he found the abandoned cabin at the edge of the forest, the cabin filled with books. A long gone owner of the cabin fancied poetry, and the first poem he read was Oscar Wilde’s “Ballad of Reading Gaol,” the poem that became and remained his favorite. Even the name of the author was meaningful to him, bearing the resemblance with his life, with the image that was imposed upon him and plagued him; the image he eventually grew into. The poetry books were his only friends and companions when he was little. They still were...
His eyes paused on the picture of a girl smiling happily. It was the girl he met earlier today, round-cheeked, innocent, and kind. He was watching her many months, adoring her silently, but that was the first time they’ve talked. Their short conversation was ordinary and nearly meaningless, but he could have sworn he’d heard a promise in her voice. But when she had come to the cottage...I would have became her dog, he thought with a sudden surge of rage, I would have licked her feet! I would have worn a chain for her! But no, all I can offer was no good for her. He had known before it all started that the old woman, settled in her ways, had to go, but he was hoping the girl will understand him, will accept him. But no, she had to ridicule him, just like everybody else. She was making fun of his looks, of his eyes and ears. She did not bother to see deeper that the skin; she did not care what he felt, who he was inside. Did she have to ask all these questions? Did she enjoy humiliating him? The rage left him as suddenly as it came. He felt no regret, either; what has happened was bound to happen. Yet each man kills the thing he loves, he thought of his favorite poem once again, The kindest use a knife, because the dead so soon grow old. At least, it went fast.
Besides, whom was he trying to fool? Like in his childhood, a changeling again, he pretended to be somebody he was not, and it did not help him. It could not possibly have helped him, because there was no place for him in this girl’s world. He never had a chance.
He heard voices from outside — men’s voices, loud and angry – and then, almost immediately, a knock on the door. Hopelessly, he got up and went to the door, catching a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror. The last glimpse. I always knew this is how it ends, he mused. For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die. He touched the door knob. Behind him, tucked between two mattresses, a scarlet piece of fabric was sticking out – betraying and revealing. A little red hood.