The Door

by Magda Szabo

  Fury — and fever — blazed rose-red in her face, and she resumed her sweeping with even greater violence, as if she had a personal vendetta with the snow, which she alone could settle. Sutu and the handyman’s wife, she shouted after me, were bringing her food, enough for the whole street, so there was nothing for me to worry about. She hated being spied on; she’d never in her life gone in for hysterics, but if we nagged her enough she might experiment to see it was like. Her words were drowned by choking, followed by a fit of coughing, then she turned away. Those days she never had Viola with her. She said she didn’t have time to run around with him, and it wasn’t good for a dog to stay still; so I should take him home, into the warmth. There was no need for him to catch a cold as well.

  In every way, it was a most unusual year, and this applied to us too. In the period after the Christmas when we gave Emerence the television, my life began to open out. From the very first day of the new year, it was as if an invisible hand were turning the mysterious tap from which good and bad flowed into people’s lives, sometimes off, and sometimes on. Just then, the tap was in full flow. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was distinctly perceptible. I had never before had so many things to organise and to do, and I didn’t understand the reason until almost the very end. For so many years I’d been held down by outside forces, inside an invisible but almost palpable circle. It took some time for me to grasp that somewhere a decision had been taken, that the barrier which had always been down was being raised, the door on which we hadn’t knocked for years had opened of itself, and I could enter if I chose. At first I didn’t even attempt to interpret the signs. Emerence swept, and coughed; I did the shopping, and cooked. I kept the rooms in order, fed and walked the dog, and wracked my brains as to why this organisation or that was pressing me with such insistent demands; and all the while Emerence’s condition cried out for her to speak, even once, to a doctor, but whenever I raised the subject she shouted at me to get out of her way — everyone had the right to cough; as long as the snow fell she had work to do on the street; it was enough if I looked after our home until she came back to work; but I needn’t pester her about medicines and doctors, I was wasting my time.

  I was scuttling about between tasks like a beetle on the run, without the steadying hand of Emerence at my side, and suddenly every editor in the business popped out of nowhere, and photographers called me up to take pictures. By then I had realised that something really exciting was about to happen — if they’d wanted to harass me they’d have made a different sort of fuss. Never before had I been given such glowing reviews; never before had the outside world been so interested in me. I was forever having to go somewhere, journalists were phoning non-stop, radio and TV people kept appearing; the world had turned upside down. Even when my colleagues started dropping repeated hints, I failed to understand. Then one morning, after a phone call from somewhere rather important, my husband, his face shining as I had never seen it before, not since those hours that followed our wedding, finally spoke the words. The prize.

  Of course it must be the prize. It was already the middle of March and all these signs, especially the latest, a friendly phone call on a totally different subject, could mean only one thing — that the award was coming my way. I should have been so happy, so very happy. After all, my ten years of struggle were finally over. How happy I should have been.

  But all I felt was tired to death. Without any period of transition, my life had become public, and the constant exposure was exhausting me. And our domestic order had collapsed — there was no Emerence. This see-saw existence, which put me ever more strongly in the spotlight and should have produced real happiness, made it very difficult to co-ordinate attending to Viola, to the heating and the cooking, to the laundry, to the cleaning and tidying, and running back and forth to the dry cleaners. At long last Adélka emerged from the hospital, and we hoped that she and Sutu would take over Emerence’s street-sweeping. At first she was rudely rebuffed. Emerence screamed at her, as loudly as her sore throat allowed, to get out of her way, but then she suddenly fell silent and left the street. Sutu shut up her stall, which was now selling fried potato and roast chestnuts, and put up a notice, “closed due to illness”, and took charge of the birch broom with Adélka. Within a single afternoon it became clear that the two of them weren’t able to finish half of what Emerence would do on her own, when in good health. By now the old woman was in hiding. When Mr Brodarics called to ask if she needed anything, she shouted at him through the door to leave her in peace. No-one was to visit her; she wouldn’t let a soul in anyway; no-one was to bring her any medicine because she wouldn’t take it — or a doctor. All she needed was a bit of rest; as soon as she’d had a good sleep she’d be back on her feet. She didn’t want Viola, because he would just bother her by jumping up. I shouldn’t even think of coming over, because she didn’t want to see or have to listen to me. No-one, let’s be quite clear. Not even me.

  So Emerence vanished. Without her, the street seemed unreal, a wasteland, a desert. It’s typical of me that when I finally took it in that the old woman had withdrawn and shut herself away, even from me, I felt neither pity nor panic, but simple, futile rage. So she didn’t want anyone to see her; even I wasn’t to bother her? How very thoughtful of her! Just when every single minute of my life was being claimed by someone, I got stuck in this mess. Instead of things getting better, the place was falling apart, and it was all up to me. My husband wasn’t allowed out in the cold; the dog howled all day long; the apartment had to be kept spick and span for the constant visitors. When I was supposed to do it all was a mystery. And added to everything, the phone never stopped ringing, and I was surrounded by journalists. Whenever I went out, I found a street humming with activity, Sutu and Adélka chatting away as they swept, and the neighbours, who had learned from the old woman how decent people behaved when others were ill, tramping through the snow on their way to Emerence’s porch with mugs and bowls and food containers. From me she got nothing. At mealtimes I would open two tins and the three of us, including the dog, lived on that. I couldn’t have offered that to a sick person. The others, to be sure, quite outdid themselves. No-one else failed the test, only I, though I went over several times a day to her door and called out to ask what I could do for her. But that was the full extent of my nursing activity, on which the old woman made not one second’s demand. As I stood there asking if she needed anything, I shook with anxiety, praying she would refuse. I couldn’t cope with what I already had to do, let alone take on more, and besides, the snowfall had so disrupted transport that I had to run down to the shops four or five times a day, dragging Viola with me, because nothing was being delivered on time, and I couldn’t get the simplest things. Almost everything in the kitchen had been used up and needed replacing. I slithered all the way home with bulging carrier bags, but never quite caught up with myself. Meanwhile the photographers were beavering away in our apartment. I had never looked quite so haggard, unattractive and worn out as in the photographs taken just before the announcement of the prize.

  Emerence never opened her door, never once showed herself. Enraged by the constant knocking, she demanded that no-one bother her. Her voice had lost all its strength; it was somehow altered, not muffled but strange-sounding and raw. She continued to refuse entry to the doctor, and only I knew why this was. The gifts of food stayed outside on the little bench. At first, she had collected them and taken them in, and the empty dishes were washed and returned. But when she stopped going out to get them, and the christening bowls from the neighbours sat there side by side, untouched, I really began to worry. When we challenged her about it she replied through the gap around the door that she had no appetite and anyway her fridge was full. By now her speech was slurred and broken; I thought she was treating herself with too much alcohol. I knew what she was saying wasn’t true. I had seen the “fridge”. It wasn’t electric, and it was years since ice was last sold on the street. As in that moment when I’d watched her sweep the
Christmas snow, I registered only part of what I saw. I knew she was lying, but I didn’t think through what she and the cats might be living on. Perhaps, I tried to persuade myself, she had rationed out the food she’d had earlier. After all, she took so much in at the beginning that the bowls might still be full; the sills between the windows and shutters were very cold, so perhaps the rest was piled up in there? But I didn’t think about it too long. I was always rushing off somewhere, always being phoned or receiving visitors. And yet every day I made my way to her door and repeated my offer to call someone, such as my neighbour who was a professor of medicine. I knew in advance that she would refuse, and when she did I was secretly glad, because there was no room in my life for anything more.

  Luckily my brain was still working sufficiently for me to try to contact the Lieutenant Colonel and let him know that Emerence was ill. He wasn’t at the police station. He was on holiday somewhere — they weren’t free to name the resort. I informed Józsi’s boy, and he came over, but he didn’t get in either. He left some oranges and lemons and a large saucepan of stuffed cabbage on her doorstep. Finally, Mr Brodarics walked over to our flat one evening and asked if I had worked out how long it had been since the old woman had appeared on her porch, because it was now the very end of March, and if his calculations were correct, it was two weeks since she had last opened the door. The tenants were worried that they’d be in trouble as a community if they didn’t call in a doctor or other assistance, even if she didn’t want it. He also pointed out what I already knew, that her bathroom opened directly on to her porch, and she kept that private area padlocked, but she hadn’t been using it lately. The snow was blowing on to the porch, but for days there had been no footprints in it going from the front door, only those leading to it, made by people bringing food. What was Emerence doing when she needed to answer Nature’s call? There was a strong smell coming from behind the kitchen door that gave him cause for concern. We couldn’t allow this ridiculous business of locking herself away to go on for ever. We had to do something, or the old woman would suffer. If she carried on refusing to let either the neighbours or a doctor in, they were going to break down the door. A district official had already tried to get in to her — Adélka had taken him there early that morning — but Emerence had chased him away. According to Adélka, she had almost no voice left, and had mumbled her complaint about being disturbed. This wasn’t darkest Africa, so would I be kind enough to contact the rescue service, and quickly, or the poor thing would soon be dead?

  I was plunged into despair. No-one else was allowed in there without her permission, and she had let me in only once. It was impossible to know what might happen if she thought we were planning to force our way in. I was so worried that I finally came up with a possible solution. I told Mr Brodarics that we should wait till the next day. I would have to talk to Emerence face to face, with no-one else present. Then I would let them know whether my idea had been successful, and if not, we would speak further.

  That afternoon I ran over and called out to her through the door. I promised to respect her wishes and keep in mind her reasons for not wanting to open up No-one would set foot inside, I would go in and do everything that had to be done, but she had to come out. She wouldn’t have to go to hospital if she didn’t want to. She could stay with us, in my mother’s room, with Viola. The doctor was already waiting. He would examine her, and with his medicine she would soon be well.

  The suggestion enraged her, and her voice grew stronger. It was no longer a slurred mumble — she positively shouted at me. If we didn’t leave her in peace, the moment she was back on her feet she’d indict us for neighbourly nuisance. We were all pushy, base, thoroughly nosy types. She had a right to convalesce for as long as it took to get better, and to lie down or sit up or stand as she pleased. If I set foot — I or anyone else — people should know she had a hatchet and she’d kill them. Repulsed, I made my way home, horrified. Mr Brodarics came over again that evening with the handyman, and Józsi’s boy also presented himself. They decided to break down the door, with the doctor waiting outside. However Józsi’s boy wouldn’t be taking her home — he was afraid his little girl might catch something — but he’d help drag her up the stairs to our flat. If I could get her to open the door a tiny crack, or even turn the key, the rest would take care of itself.

  My husband uttered not a word of protest, even though we’d planned and decided everything behind his back. What did puzzle him was why the thought of breaking down the door upset me so much, when it could be fixed back on again. It wasn’t exactly news that the old woman wouldn’t open her door. Emerence had never been quite right in the head, so why was it so terrible that she’d gone all stubborn and withdrawn, like Achilles? We’d get her better in spite of herself. I should bring her home, if she was willing. He didn’t like having strangers in the house, but that wasn’t the point. The old woman had to be looked after, and kept in a properly heated place. Anyone who could leave her to her fate would have it on their conscience for the rest of their life — that would be indefensible — but my panic was irrational. After all, I liked the old woman, so why did the thought of bringing her here so upset me that I was crying my eyes out? I didn’t reply. I couldn’t reply. I alone knew about Emerence’s Forbidden City.

  The doctor, Mr Brodarics and I had decided that Emerence should spend this last night in her home. The next day, once the surgery had closed, we would take action. It was a difficult night. The hours dragged slowly by, as I continued to deliberate. But finally I made up my mind. There was nothing else I could do. If she didn’t get medical attention it would be the end of her. The only way to save her was to betray her. She was made of iron — perhaps it wasn’t too late. If I played it right I might still be able to preserve her secret. It would mean an appalling amount of extra work, a string of well planned lies, and a huge expenditure of energy.

  At dawn I went over to her flat and knocked. I asked her to do this much for me: to step outside her door for a moment that afternoon, to reassure the neighbours. It wasn’t wise to let no-one see her. They would only think the situation worse than it was. No-one wanted people to think they didn’t care — she knew how much they all loved her. My plan was to get her to open her door a crack, the doctor would move in behind me, seize her by the arm and pull her out, then the handyman, Mr Brodarics and Józsi’s boy, with my help, would take her over and settle her in our apartment.

  She replied that she’d been about to give me a message. She certainly wouldn’t step outside her door. But if I would stand close to it, with a large box, a long one, her old cat, the neutered one, had died, and I should bury it. She didn’t need a doctor, and no-one should come anywhere near the flat. If they didn’t believe she was still alive they could all go and hang themselves. They’d know she was alive if she gave me something. I could say I was taking her rubbish away. That should be more than enough for all the nosy neighbours and their fears. I could barely decipher her mumbled whispers, but when I did I thought I’d go mad. I had never hoarded boxes. Where would I get hold of one suitable for a cat’s coffin? And what was I supposed to do with a corpse when I was up to my ears with everything else? But I promised.

  Back home, I fished out a discarded box from our cellar, and my mood began to lift. The dead cat had actually made my task easier. She would have to open the door to pass the corpse out, and the doctor could then seize her. It was just that everything would be happening at the same precise moment. The doctor couldn’t get there until just before I had to leave for the TV studio, to do a personal profile. They had asked me for four o’clock; the car was coming for me at a quarter to, just as the doctor would be arriving (he couldn’t do it a moment earlier). I’d call to her, the old woman would open the door, I’d give her the box and be given the cat in return, and at that moment the doctor, Józsi’s boy, Mr Brodarics and the handyman would haul her out, the men would bring her to our apartment, and I’d be able to go off to the TV studio. My face was green wit
h anxiety and I was gobbling tranquillisers like sweets, even though earlier it had all seemed so simple, and I’d been ashamed that such a practical solution hadn’t occurred to me sooner.