This story, “The Winners,” was originally in Volume 10 of the Conium Review (Dec. 2020). Because the print version is out of stock, I’ve published it here.
THE WINNERS
It’s Aaron’s idea to enter the contest to win a weekend in an Eastern European castle. It’ll be fun, he says. Castle B— has a mirror maze and a resident ghost, the Red Lady. I ask about bathrooms, central heating. Why are you such a spoilsport? He leans close as if he’s confiding a secret. I’ll write an article about it. I know I’ll be in that article, rendered thin as paper; I’ll have some crisis he invents to manufacture conflict. He clicks through websites in foreign languages, shows me pixelated photographs of dark shapes I can only identify by not looking directly at them, like glimpsing dim stars through a telescope. You are not endearing me to this castle, I say. He savagely shuts his laptop. You can work on your poetry collection, he says. A cheap shot, the manuscript gathering dust.
What is the chance of his winning? One in ten thousand? OK fine, I say.
I am nothing but the supportive wife.
Six months later. We barely talking (my fault). A plane to an Eastern European capital, another plane to a university city in the north, where the protests occurred two years ago, a taxi (Russian model, bungees securing the rear bumper) racing on serpentine mountain roads through villages squatting in gorges, the driver’s arm thrown across the back of the passenger seat (dark rabbit-shaped mole on the hairy back of his hand), and, finally, our destination: iron gates open and the taxi’s tires crunch on a dirt driveway. Castle B— is composed of the requisite dark granite, soaring battlements, red-tiled roof, and turrets. The building looms, it hunches, it throws dark shadows on what remains of the castle’s park, the windblown twisted trees, dark winding paths.
A crone (as Aaron calls her later) guides us up steep narrow stone steps with surprising alacrity, never using her cane tipped with bone. Her hair is dyed pale lavender to hide the grey, her month pursed. On the back of her hand, a mole in the shape of a rabbit. She opens a heavy wood door. Our bedroom suite, she annunciates in perfect English.White-washed walls, four-poster bed hung with forest green velvet curtains, a chandelier of antlers. A stove covered with porcelain tile commands one wall.
My wife is concerned about bathrooms, Aaron says. I have said nothing of the sort since he won the contest. The crone opens a door, gestures with her cane at the Jacuzzi tub, moss-colored towels on a chrome towel heater, the gleaming white toilet with mysterious buttons. She tells us the cook left us a hot meal in the kitchen and will return at eight in the morning for breakfast, then will leave lunch and dinner in the refrigerator. The crone points to a thick notebook with a drawing of a woman and the words “Manual of Castle B—” on the cover. This is everything you need to know. How to work that for heat—another gesture with her cane to the tile stove.She shoves a laminated paper at us: a map of Castle B—, the writing blurry and indistinct, the lamination yellow and peeling at the corners.
Go with god, she says, giving us the typical farewell of the country, at least as per Aaron. Beware of the Red Lady. And then shuts the creaking door of the bedroom suite behind her.
She plays her part well, he says. Good thing we don’t believe in ghosts. He sits on the mattress, bounces a little. This will be great for my back. Better than our sofa. I guess he’s decided to share a bed again. I roll my suitcase into a corner, start unpacking into the drawers of a heavy dark dresser. Sweaters and T-shirt in this drawer. Underwear here, a set of the nice lacy stuff, just in case.
Aaron tosses the Manual at me. The drawing on the cover reminds me of a Renaissance painting: a woman crowned with a red cloth headdress and dressed in a red robe with long bell sleeves. In handwriting, someone has written (in an attempt at iambic poetry): She appears to the guilty and the curséd / She appears to the holy and the blesséd.
Oh, thanks, I say. Holding the manual in my hands as if I’m actually going to read it.
You can figure out how the stove works. It’ll get even colder at night.
The stove’s huge; a niche beside it holds logs cut almost exactly the same size. A small metal door to put the logs in. It’s pretty self-explanatory.
My eyes keep returning to the stove, even if I look away, as if the stove compels me to regard it as the center of my existence. The tiles are painted in faded colors with hunting scenes. Hunters and their dogs pursue a white stag, the stag rests with its head on a maiden’s lap, the maiden, like the woman on the Manual, is dressed all in red and protects the stag from the hunters. The nostrils of the stag flare as it breathes. I mean: as if I watch a movie, the nostrils expand, the maiden’s veil blows in a breeze, a hunter throws his spear to strike the maiden, and the maiden writhes in widening pool of blood.
And then the images are still.
Aaron waves the map in front of my face. Earth to Lucy, he says. Let’s explore.
I must have been hallucinating due to fatigue and jet lag. I need a nap.
Suit yourself.
In the space between our words, an electrified hum pulses, power being delivered to the light bulbs through the walls. He leaves and the bed is perfect for my back. I dream of trapdoors opening into dungeons and a woman all in red and corridor walls moving to trap me. When I awake, Aaron tells me about his explorations. What you would expect: dark corners, winding staircases, locked doors.
In the kitchen, at a long, scarred table, we eat dumplings, thinly sliced beef with a syrupy red sauce, and a hazelnut and raspberry torte. The crone left us a bottle of local wine as heavy as fresh blood: on the bottle, silver writing, Welcome to the Winners. Aaron takes my hand. Kisses my life line. I have forgiven you, he says, I want to work on our marriage, he says.In the corner, a mouse convulses from rodenticide. My palms sweat from the heat of the kitchen. Show me the castle, I say.
Tomorrow. He leads me to the curtained bed, covers my mouth with his. Rain lashes the windows.
In the morning he’s already typing on his laptop, drinking tea. Writing that article, I assume. I spiral down the stairs to the kitchen.
The cook is a twin to the crone, flowered kerchief on her lavender hair, the same rabbit-shaped mole. Are all of them siblings, the taxi driver, the crone, and the cook? Or the same person, disguised in different clothes and wigs? She also wields a cane, the handle carved into stag’s horns. Let me help you, I say, but she makes me sit at the table and sets before me eggs with bold orange yolks and shot after shot of the coffee they make in this country, thick and black and sweet. She repeats the word charveney, insistent, then points to a red dish towel, and I realize she means the color red. I shake my head I don’t understand, and she makes the sign of the cross.
Back in the bedroom, Aaron shaves, a towel wrapped around his waist. He tells me he wants to go to the village nearby. I’m up for anything. My eyes snag on the heater again, its hulking bulk, like a creature waiting to pounce. I must have been wrong about the hunting scene. Sure, there’s the white stag and the maiden in red, but birch trees and pines surround them, pretty yellow flowers and songbirds at their feet.
A bird trills from our window. Aaron’s been talking all this time as he layers fleece on top of fleece, ties the laces of his hiking boots. Outside, the ground is wet from last night’s rain, although the sky glistens blue. At the gates, I turn to look back at Castle B—. The tower windows are opaque with sunlight and shadows cross the courtyard. A glimpse of red on the parapet—so bright for a moment then gone quickly. Did you see that? I ask, but Aaron points to a building mirroring the shape of the castle in miniature. The mirror maze. We’ll go there later. The double wooden door to the maze resembles a closed mouth.
We wind down the hill, cross a bridge over a fast-moving river to the village, and climb narrow twisted streets to the main plaza. A covered wooden staircase leads from the main plaza up a hill to the Ivory Church (One-hundred and ninety-nine stairs, Aaron informs me, as if he’s a walking guidebook), and older women in headscarves—indistinguishable from the crone and the cook—grip shopping bags and trudge across the cobblestones, girls in high heels and short skirts sit at café tables in the sun and drink small twisted bottles of the local brand of Coke.
We visit the supermarket to buy bottled water and boxes of dry chocolate cookies. There, the shelves are sparsely stocked, the goods pushed forward to the edges of the shelves to hide the bareness behind. This is what it must’ve looked like under communism, I say.
There was a dictator here, he says. Fascism, not communism. This country has been free only two years, the length of our marriage. During our honeymoon (days spent in bed, nights at the resort’s bar), the news was occupied with the demonstrations in the country. The iconic video on all the news channels after protestors stormed the President’s Palace: the dictator and his wife running to their private jet, suitcases full of plunder, her fluttery red scarf blowing behind her, as they escaped to Russia.
When Aaron climbs the covered staircase to the Ivory Church, I sit at a café, the table rocking on uneven pavement, and take out my notebook from my purse. Hoping a change in scenery will spark some poetry. I order coffee, although caffeine so late in the day may keep me awake all night.
There’s a pattern in the cobblestones on the plaza, circles among circles: a labyrinth. I wonder how old it is, the story behind it, and write in my notebook, labyrinth. My table jostles as a man sits down, although other tables are empty. He wears a jean jacket over a T-shirt with the Mercedes logo and reeks of alcohol, alcohol soaked into his skin, exuding out of his pores, as if he’s bathed in beer and vodka and the bitter herbal liquor this country is known for. Not handsome but in a way that’s hot, like the famous actor who was born here. He must have been on quite a bender, and I nod at him approvingly. When he lights a cigarette, I’m worried it may ignite him too.
You stay at the castle? he says. You are the winner?
I nod. You speak English?
I worked once in London. Deported. He adds something that sounds like a curse word, and then, but here I am back again.
He flags down a waiter and orders pivo. He asks me if I am American, how much a plumber makes there (I make up a number), and what I do (when I say poet, he says, We all need more beautiful words). The waiter brings him a tall gleaming amber beer.
He’s older than I originally thought, wrinkles feathering from the corner of his eyes and lips. But still hot, if I look a little away from him, notice how his long fingers circle his glass, the way he throws back his head when he laughs at something he says, his squint as he gazes at me.
I’d be lying if I tell you it’s been a while since I flirted with a man not my husband.
Have you seen the Red Lady yet? he says.
Tell me about her.
He shrugs. The usual stories. She committed suicide, was enclosed into the castle walls, or got lost in the maze. A woman left by her man, a woman pregnant with a bastard, a woman who murdered her husband, a woman murdered by her husband. What does it matter?
It very much matters, who did the leaving, who did the murdering. But I say, Have you seen her?
No, what would a drunk like me be doing up at the castle? Suddenly hostile, he chugs the rest of the beer and slams the mug down on the table.
I’m sorry, I say. His reaction must be my fault. He stalks away, without paying for his beer, cigarette pinched between thumb and index finger, bumping first into the table and then into my husband as he leaves.
Already picking up men? Aaron says. He sits down, spreads his legs under the small table so I need to adjust mine. Panting a little after the one-hundred and ninety-nine steps. You’ve lowered your standards.
I twist the wedding ring on my finger. You know me, making friends wherever I go.
Yes, he says. I know you.
Geez, Aaron, he didn’t even speak English.
I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean to say that. But can you blame me?
I take that as a rhetorical question. Yes, I could blame him. No, I am full of guilt.
He calls for the check and throws a stack of bills on the table. I close my notebook. There’s the one word I’d written, labyrinth, and a maze around it, like the mazes I drew in high school when I was bored, curving tight lines and pathways resembling the wrinkles and folds on a brain. I hadn’t even realized I was drawing.
The sun sets as we hike up to Castle B—. When we pass through the castle gates, I say, trying to broach the distance between us, Let’s go to the mirror maze.
It’ll be better in the daylight.
Aaron, I ask, do you know the story of the Red Lady? We were in the kitchen then, eating venison stew and dumplings, and I mop the gravy, rich with blood, with a chunk of brown bread.
You didn’t even read the website for Castle B—, did you?
Just tell me. Don’t make me read it on my phone.
Hesighs. Vladislav of B— took a wife, Margosha, and sired a son by her. Vlad thereafter died in battle, and, left alone, she “went crazy,” as the website says. She hired young boys and girls from the village as servants and killed them. She used their blood to dye her clothes and to feed the stags in Castle B—’s parks. The villagers revolted, and, ultimately, her teenage son slayed her.
That drunk from the café said her husband may have murdered her.
I thought he didn’t speak English. Silence settles heavy between us. I’m not going to apologize—except to myself, for not remembering my lie. Why do I even bother, Lucy? He throws his cloth napkin on the table, storms out of the kitchen.
I push the remainder of the stew around my plate, then put the dishes in the sink, as the Manual instructs. I am exhausted, barely able to walk up the stairs and crawl into the big canopy bed. Aaron sits propped up with pillows and watches Netflix with his AirPods on, ignoring me. Thunder echoes across the valley.
When I dream, I dream that Aaron sleeps next to me, his laptop nestled between us, and the green curtains of the bed are drawn around the bed, enclosing us in a jade box. I slip out and the porcelain stove exudes waves of heat, although I didn’t light it before going to bed. The tiles pulse the dark red of dried blood. A low moan from the hallway and I open the door (I know this is a dream because I would huddle under the covers if I were awake) and a red skirt flashes down the stairway. I follow it, a woman, in a red dress, a veil slithering down her spine, walking—no floating—through corridors that are white-washed and ones that are not, through a dining room with mounted stags’ heads and a huge stuffed bear, through an armory with walls covered with swords, up and down stairways, but no matter how fast I run, I cannot catch up to her. Up another spiral staircase, and I’m in a solarium, one wall of windows and a view of the dark valley below, and the Red Lady is nowhere to be seen.
I realize I’m awake, in my pajamas. My hands press against the cold glass of the window. Across the valley, under the moonlight, the walls of the church gleam. I have no idea how to find my way back though the dark castle to the bedroom suite. I huddle on a silk-upholstered settee, half falling into sleep, watching the moonlight ignite the small dust motes in the air. I think of hands that aren’t Aaron’s caressing me. When the sky lightens from pale purple to orange to vivid red and then to blue, I walk through what I believe is the entirety of the castle, and I find our empty bedroom suite and dress.
The stove is cold to the touch. The images on the tile are still, but now there’s no hunting scene, no forest scene, but a maze snaking around the sides and front, men and women lost within. For what seems like a long while, my eyes follow the paths of the maze, seeking to solve it, but I cannot. I tear myself away from the stove. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want to know; I want to fast-forward to this afternoon, when the driver takes us to the university city, where I’ve reserved the honeymoon suite, in an excess of optimism, at the fanciest hotel.
Aaron’s in the kitchen, reading his phone, his empty plate pushed away from him. The cook bustles around him, clucks at me, and cracks two eggs into a cast iron pan.
Where were you?
I got up early to wander around. Sorry to worry you.
Oh, I wasn’t worried, you always land on your feet. He continues to scroll through his phone, laughing under his breath. I refuse to ask him what he thinks is so funny. After the cook slides the eggs on my plate, he sets the phone down. We have just enough time to go to the labyrinth. He takes my hand, squeezes it. I take this as another gesture of forgiveness, but I’m not sure if I am willing to accept. I want us to solve it together.
I imagine us holding hands as we exit the mirror maze. He waits for me to finish breakfast and then leads me to the mirror maze and opens its dark carved wooden doors with a brass barrel key, the bow of the key fashioned into a stag’s head. This was built in 1830. The lord sought to trap his younger brother in the maze. He was sent in and never came out. After, children mostly used it, until the Red Lady was seen.
I step inside. Carved wooden pillars frame mirrors and arch to a ceiling also covered in mirrors. The light is slippery, golden. There are so many of me in the mirrors. So many of him. Reflections hover in silvery glass, in the tarnished corners: in one reflection, we hold hands, in another, we flinch apart, in another, I am with a man I recognize, in yet another, I am with a man I don’t. The reflections are infinite. My fingers trail on the surface of the mirrors, seeking solidity and empty space. We find an opening, follow a path. In the corner of my eye, a flutter of red scatters across the surfaces of the mirrors.
Aaron’s reflection skitters across the face of a mirror and then disappears. I am alone. One of the mirrors in my path is cracked and my fingers snag on the sharp edge. A thin line of blood wells up. Hysteria rises in my chest. I move quicker, bump into a sheet of clear glass between two columns. I turn to find the path, my hands outstretched.
The mirror in front of me reflects a woman, her veil thrown back, her eyes like coals, her garments not merely red but flames. Her veil and dress flowing lava. Whether divine flame or the flames of hell, she is the most awesome creature I have ever seen, her light so bright I cannot look directly at her. I fall to my knees. The maze strobes red. Are you cursed or are you blessed? she says. Her voice echoes. Cursed, I think. Guilty as charged. And then she disappears, or, rather, is extinguished, and only an afterimage of light lingers then fades. The gleaming mirrors still surround me. I call for Aaron. But there’s only my image, multiplied sixfold.
Lori Sambol Brody 