Four Doors and Other Stories

by A. G. Billig

  “Eres todo en mi, solo tu, mi amor...”

  The singer’s coarse and sensual voice transported them into a parallel world inhabited by only the two of them. The walls around the dance floor were its boundaries, the amber, yellow and red lights in the ceiling, its sun. In this world there was no air only cigarette smoke. Temperatures were always high and the skin, slightly moist and shiny from sweat.

  He had fallen onto his knees. She had turned slowly, lustfully around him, with feline moves. Had not her lover been there, she would have pushed the Spaniard with the tip of her red leather ankle-boots, making him roll on the ground. She still found it awkward that a stranger clung to her like this, holding her so tight that she could barely breathe, his sweaty shirt wetting her white lace top, her arms and her palms, but this was the way dancing went sometimes. In fact, these were the ways of this world. A world where music, booze and smoking broke down all barriers and taboos. A world she had entered by accident, where she did not belong. The household usually left around five or six in the morning. She got sleepy around two a.m. They would keep drinking shots. She would keep drinking still water. They would be very friendly. She would find it odd to be so friendly with people she saw only at night.

  Unlike yesterday, the Spaniard had company. A petite, long, blonde-haired woman was hanging from his neck, kissing him passionately. As she entered the room, while kissing the other woman back, he stared at her. As if he was undressing her with his eyes. She felt a mix of disgust. All right she was provocative enough. She was wearing a short, olive dress that revealed her smooth, bare back. However, he was making out with another woman. The Spaniard was just one among many who were giving her the eye. As much as she enjoyed being an object of desire, the dull atmosphere bored her. She would have rather been at home in her bed.

  She went into the entrance lobby to get some air and sat in one of the swinging chairs. The bodyguard had fled and the place was deserted. She swung back and forth for a few moments until boredom gripped her more intensely. She was preparing to go back to the dancing floor, when the Spaniard came forth. It was the first time they had spoken that night.

  “How are you? Do you think we can dance later?” he asked straightforwardly. “I enjoy dancing with you.” He had also confessed this the night before.

  Indeed, she enjoyed it too. She enjoyed his close proximity, but up to a point.

  “Of course,” she answered. “Provided that your girl doesn’t get upset.”

  “Nor your boyfriend…”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “She wouldn’t mind, either. Even if she would, who gives a damn?”

  “Let’s go back….”

  The blonde welcomed him with a prolonged kiss. Watching them, she was wondering who was a greater liar: him, for accepting the love gestures of a woman he did not care about or her, who settled for so little when she could have so much.

  They finally danced, a bit more formally than usual, keeping the distance, because he had company.

  Before leaving, while her boyfriend was holding her hand, the Spaniard whispered to her ear:

  “I’m here every weekend night. On Fridays, I am alone. Will you be here next Friday?”

  THE ENCHANTED SLEDGE

  The sledge was running fast on the beaten path. The driver was making the horses gallop. They were big, stout, dark horses with plaited manes. She would have happily given up her warm blankets for them but the man had told her that horses did not feel the cold. Given their merry high-skip steps, he seemed to be right. From a distance, the sledge seemed empty and unusual. An absentminded passerby might have noticed just a pile of fabrics standing upright in a strange manner. On closer inspection, one might have observed a white-tufted cap on the top of the pile. That was all that could be seen of her: a white cap with a white rabbit fur tassel and a pair of round and dark eyes that were squinted because of the light. The sun was shining along with everything that existed on earth. She had become one with the valleys, hills, trees and the animals hidden in the feverish heart of the soil, pulsating with energy despite their apparent stillness. Each second that passed was sealing her union with this vibrating world. She was alive, more alive than ever in past years. She was smiling, with her face and with her entire body. She was as shiny as the landscape.

  This sledge ride was not an ordinary one, I must say. Nor this realm. Legends and stories spoke of a magical land, where everything was possible for those who had eyes to see and ears to hear. No wonder that those who stayed within the comfy confines of the sky slopes, nightclubs and modern hotels were unable to discover these mysteries. They were taking fast slides, without noticing the curious squirrels in the trees or hearing the birds’ songs. They were going on sledge rides, without asking for “the magical tour” for fear that they might miss dinner. There was only one man who was giving the magical tour. Not to everybody but only to those he believed would appreciate it most. To those who had messages to unravel in legendary places he was the only one to know. “The Magical Tour” was not to be found in travel agencies’ catalogues. People were telling other people. Therefore, it was easy for him to turn down the unwanted:

  “It’s just a rumor, nothing more,” he would answer.

  “But we would love to see the evergreen tree,” the visitor would insist.

  “There are plenty of green trees around you,” he would answer with a mild smile. “I suggest a half-hour journey so that you can enjoy them. The snow is so perfect for a sledge ride.”

  At this moment, children would become frantic, clapping their hands and clattering with joy and eagerness while their parents, eager for a slice of supernatural would give in, get in the sledge, and settle for a mundane experience. The owner of the sledge and the four black horses could tell a seeker of the truth from a seeker of lurid. Still, that morning, he was unsure about her. He was able to read people at a glance. Now, he was hesitant. The young woman looked at a loss and abashed. Nothing but the usual tourist, lost in her own life. Yet, beyond this, he could sense utter beauty.

  “Are you here for the magical tour?” His question popped up from his lips before he controlled it.

  Why was she here? What made her leave her cozy hotel room and get out in the cold? Some last night images flashed in front of her eyes. The fight in the nightclub. Feeling incomplete. His vomit scattered all over the bathroom. Snuggling up on the other side of the bed, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. The urgent need of purification she felt as she woke up. She had dressed quietly—she would not want him to wake from the world of dreams—and left in a hurry. Her steps had brought her here.

  “The magical tour? I have no idea what you’re talking about, but why not. Let’s have it.”

  “There is one thing I should tell you before we go. We know when it starts but no one knows when it ends. The duration is up to you and only you.”

  “I’m fine with it.”

  The man helped her into the sledge and tucked her in the blankets. She looked at him from head to toe. It was her way of giving men a searching look, hoping to recognize the right one. It was hard to tell his age because he had muffled himself up. His deep and penetrating eyes spoke wisdom and cheerfulness. He appeared to be nimble and strong.

  As the sledge was rushing on the plateau, she was thinking that she wouldn’t mind if he abducted her. If he took her away from the person she was at that moment. As if he heard her thoughts, the driver pulled the reins and got off the main road, entering a glen guarded by gentle slopes. As they were moving forward, the trees grew thicker. Their branches were joining over the path in a tender embrace, dimming the sunlight. It was not long before the sledge stopped. A small hill was barring the road. He helped her down. Right in front of them, there was this clear water spring, flowing slowly and steam was rising from the small pond in front of it.

  She stood there, waiting. Since he was saying nothing, after a while, she felt like breaking the silence.

  “What’
s the story?” she asked.

  “The story that you are about to discover. Drink the water and you will find out.”

  She obeyed him, like being in a trance. As soon as her lips touched the water in the palms of her hands, the scenery became completely different. It was still her, drinking water from a spring. However, she had a hard time recognizing herself, dressed in that long and fluid dress as she was, with long, golden hair wrapping her shoulders. The clearing was vibrating with happy laughter, the grass was green and tall, and the trees were whispering. What a happy day. The master had confessed in front of everybody that he had accomplished his mission. There was nothing left for him to teach her. She had become a master, too. Her paintings were going to be shown in the galleries of great castles. She was going to be free, free of the bondage of an arranged marriage demanded by her noble origins. She was going to dedicate her life to the gift that God had granted her. She felt alive only when she stood in front of the easel, with a paintbrush in her hand. Then, she was able to bring to life the images that came to her mind, one after another. She came here today in order to give her thanks to the spring that supplied her with strength and courage.

  “Whenever you will feel discouraged or hopeless or lose your direction, this spring will be of assistance. Each time you drink the water, imagine the mist around your soul and thoughts scattering away,” her nanny told her. She had taken her advice.

  “Yes, you’re right. This is the guiding water spring. The one that helps you unveil your gifts and bring them to life...” The voice of the sledge master was lapping over the nanny’s. Here she was, back in the frozen valley, wearing a white cap with a white teasel. Her hair was dark.

  “Now you see why it’s the passenger who tells the story and not me...”

  “I used to be a gifted painter,” she whispered in a melancholic voice. “I who cannot draw a single, decent line.”

  “You never lose a gift. At most, you forget it. You cannot draw a single line nowadays because you believe so,” answered the driver. She liked his voice. His tone. A sensual, caressing voice...

  “Let’s go!”

  As if under a spell, the roads were unwinding in front of the sledge, through valleys and trees. From time to time, a narrow path where the sledge fitted perfectly opened up from a thicket. The four horses had a merry, heavy stride. She was sitting with her head tilted back and gazing at the sky when the sledge stopped for the second time. They were surrounded by several circles of fir trees. Right in the middle, at a few feet distance, a majestic oak with branches covered in green leaves stood proudly. That was impossible. She jumped out, not waiting for his help. Then she walked around the great tree and touched the trunk. Wood. Pure wood with wounds, rings, traces and holes. Light, fragile leaves, so pleasant to touch. The expression on her face, more explicit than a thousand words, made him smile. A smile that was bringing the tide into her heart, a sensation that seemed long forgotten and now came back.

  “You wonder how is this possible? Give the tree a hug and he will tell you.”

  She put her arms around it, eager for the rest of the story. It was still winter but she was realizing that these were different times. Some time at the dawn of humanity. Or maybe earlier. She let go of the tree and turned to the clearing. She put her hands together in prayer. The men and women in front of her imitated her gesture. The ceremony was over. This morning, like every other morning, they had gathered in this sacred space in order to connect to the universal energy and create a wonderful day. The oak they embraced daily was both a binder and a barometer. As long as it stayed green, their lives and souls were in harmony with the universe. She felt more at peace with herself and the world like never before. She was a tiny piece of cosmic light.

  “I’m beaming with light. Come on, feel it!” she exclaimed, taking the man’s hand. She was back in the modern world, renewed. He slightly withdrew. The tide was starting in his soul as well. Nevertheless, he was a story keeper. He was forbidden to get involved. Unless…

  “We should hurry. There are some more things to see and the sunset is near,” he said, putting an end to the joyous moment and pushing her to the sledge. But when? How? She had spent little time in each place. It seemed that the journey had begun only minutes ago. Despite not having breakfast, she was not even hungry.

  They returned to the snowbound plateau with far margins that were out of sight. The sledge was running incredibly fast, making the tiny black dot in the distance become bigger and bigger. Until it became a huge statue, a wolf statue. The beast had a peaceful attitude. In this sitting position, he looked like a guardian on watch. She was dazzled. Everybody could see the whole plateau from the nearby driveway. She must have seen the sculpture. Yet, she had never noticed it before.

  “Back then, you had no eyes for it,” said the man. Is he really able to read my mind? she asked herself. Obviously, he could. For him, this was another sign. Even though he begged to be spared of such an experience. Last time he had it, he endured too much pain. He was satisfied with the sledge and his horses. He was at peace.

  “What do I have to do this time?” she asked.

  “You don’t have to do anything. Just relax and watch.”

  As she sat in front of the sculpture, she noticed the attention that the artist had given to each detail. The wolf seemed to be once alive and turned into stone by a dark witch. Little by little, the animal’s chest began to move as animated by a throbbing heart. Finally, the wolf got down from the pedestal, licked her hands, and spoke:

  “There’s no need to worry. The forest is sealed to the north, south, and east. My brothers are protecting the west. No one and nothing can ever harm man.” The young woman petted him, without being surprised. The night fell and so fell the attack. It was the night when she found out that man was able to hurt both his own kind and innocent, loving animals. The happy era, when they lived together in peace, was over. Only she and her friend, the wolf, stayed alive. They hid in the forests. Her heart was burning with rage and pain. She had lost everything: loved ones, her home and her roots. No wonder she already planned a merciless revenge. Find allies, mount an expected counterstrike and destroy them all. Including the traitor. Instead, the wolf had felt forgiveness. He could have easily entered their homes at night and eaten them one by one. Nevertheless, he had chosen to withdraw into the deepest part of the woods. Attack only when threatened only those who adventured into his territory and showed no respect. “This was meant to be,” he told her. “Let them live their lives covered in guilt and don’t carry their burden. Pursue your path with gratitude and confidence knowing that what seems wrong may be a step further in your evolution and that of the others. We’ll meet again when you are ready.”

  And here he was, right in front of her, a giant of grey stone. Compassionate thoughts about the man she had abandoned in the hotel room, about his fears and weaknesses came to her mind. It was time to let him go. She whispered “thank you” to the wolf and mounted the sledge. The team started again, silently. A small bump created an unbalance, unveiling one of the lateral handles, beautifully crafted. In a hidden place, two letters altered the model carved in wood. She couldn’t help but touch them with her fingers.

  It was the same sledge but the age was different. A thick fur covered her up to the neck. She had a strange feeling of not being alone. It was true. She had no longer the flat tummy that made her proud but a round belly. She had missed this sensation, this unique bliss so much! The driver, a different one, turned around and told her not to worry. They were almost there. Soon, they were pulling up in front of a wealthy manor. The master of the sledge and the four horses stood in front of the entrance. He carefully took her into his arms and held her to his chest with infinite tenderness. The woman’s eyes filled with tears because finally, after travelling for so long, she was home. She had taken heart and flown away from her husband by name, in order to join the one man who was meant for her. The day was a blessing. A night followed when every touch, every breath,
every gesture had become a fulfillment of their love. A night when everything, even the wildest inventions of the imagination, turned into life. The next morning, she got back into the sledge despite his bad feelings. The day was bright and she wanted to go see her mother and bring her the news. Besides, getting some fresh air would be good for her and the baby. He agreed. The horses were striding merrily, the coachman was humming a song, and her heart was thriving. When suddenly, another team appeared in front of them. She only saw the horses rising up on their back feet and the driver being thrown away. She felt an excruciating pain. Then, it was dark.

  And here she was again. The woman she once was, with a white cap with white tassel. Motionless, with her hand clinging to the wooden handle. The man took her in his arms and put her on the ground, as he did in another life. He had tears in his eyes. She never returned to the hotel, into the nightclubs or the skier’s world. Her mother received a note in which she told her not to worry. She was fine and taking a trip around the world. The driver, the sledge and the horses simply vanished. Instead, visitors could see a well-crafted, wooden bench. And people stopped talking about the magical tour.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, I would like to thank Maria Smith and Mark Pearce from MP Publishing, for having faith in me, helping me fulfilling my dream and giving me this huge opportunity of having an international debut.

  I’m also grateful to Romy C., my former radio colleague for being a constant support, for proofreading the English version of the stories and last, but not least, for having this great idea of me attending the London Book Fair in April 2012. Thank you and I am looking forward to cheering you on as an established DJ at the Ministry of Sound (to start with)!

  I also send my love and appreciation to my dear, dear friends who stood by me and believed in my gift even when I was displaying little signs of it: Mircea (my adopted brother, could not have a better one even if we were same blood), Janina, Robert and Marius (a.k.a. Grasu’). A special mention for Piru, for never letting me forget that I came to this Earth with a mission to fulfill. May we meet in Paris soon, for a signing session, as I promised.