The Way Through Doors (Vintage Contemporaries)

by Jesse Ball

  —What do you want?

  The man’s voice was a little whiny.

  —Let us in, said S. I’m an Inspector.

  He showed his badge again.

  The metal window slid shut, and they could hear locks being unbound. Slowly the door swung open.

  —Well, come on in. You’re the first visitors in a long while, said the dead-letter clerk.

  He was a tiny man, with a long face, long fingers, and a keen gaze like a lamp.

  —We’re looking for— began the guess artist.

  —Don’t tell me, said the clerk. You’ll see why.

  He led them down a low hallway, so low that S. and the guess artist were forced to duck their heads as they walked. At the end there was a step down and a turn. As they came around the turn, they beheld an enormous room the size of a gymnasium. The entire room was piled high with letters of every kind. One huge pile of letters, perhaps two stories tall. Up above, on the ceiling, there was some kind of aperture that opened and closed. Through it, the guess artist surmised, the letters were dropped by some kind of machine.

  On the far side there was a bed, a table, some chairs, a little bookshelf, a single burner, and a sink strapped to the wall.

  —Do you live here? asked S.

  —We do, said the clerk. My wife and I.

  A woman came out from behind the pile of letters. She looked identical to the dead-letter clerk except that she had long hair.

  —Hello, she said.

  Her voice was very pleasant. As soon as she said hello, both the guess artist and S. wanted very much for her to say something else.

  —How are you? they asked.

  —All right, she said. We have the devil at our necks down here. If we don’t get something done with these letters, our home will be crushed.

  And indeed it was true. The letters were already encroaching on the area where their little home was situated.

  —Whose idea was it to put your things there? asked S.

  —The director’s, said the clerk. It’s to boost productivity.

  —But what are you supposed to do with the letters? asked the guess artist.

  —We have to get rid of them somehow, said the clerk’s wife. I often put them into other envelopes.

  She took some out of her pocket.

  —And then I mail them to other places.

  —What do you do with them? the guess artist asked the clerk.

  —I like to cut them up into bits and put them in the tube.

  In one wall there was a large tube mouth. The clerk held up a set of cunningly fashioned shears. They looked like they would cut through almost anything.

  —Those look like they could cut through almost anything, said the municipal inspector.

  The clerk picked up a metal pipe that happened to be lying on the floor. He nipped at it with the shears and cut it in half.

  —Pretty neat, said S.

  —Thanks, said the clerk, blushing.

  The clerk’s wife came over and patted him on the shoulder.

  —He’s very proud of his shears. He just got them a week ago.

  —A week ago? asked the guess artist.

  —Yes, just a week ago, she said. It was his birthday.

  At this the dead-letter clerk blushed even more.

  —Well, happy birthday, said S.

  —Thank you, said the clerk.

  He looked down at his feet for a while and then managed to regain his composure.

  —Was there anything you wanted down here? he said.

  —We’re looking for any letters having to do with a girl, said S. carefully.

  —Hmmm, said the clerk’s wife.

  It was a really wonderful hmmm, and the other three smiled gently at the sound of it.

  —Do you know her name? she continued.

  —No, said S. She lost her memory and I’m in charge of finding it.

  —A special case, then, said the clerk. I wonder if…

  —Good idea! said the guess artist.

  —What? said the dead-letter clerk.

  —He’s a guess artist, said S. Sometimes he can guess what you’re thinking.

  —Really? asked the clerk’s wife. Would you try to guess what I’m thinking? she asked softly.

  —Sure I would, said the guess artist.

  He looked at her for a while.

  —You want to take a trip to the country, but you’re afraid that if you say so your husband might be sad because he loves it so in the dead-letter office, and doesn’t really want to go anywhere else, and besides, you know that if you left, the work would pile up and you might come back and have nowhere to sleep and what would you do then?

  —How did you know? she said, aghast.

  —You want to leave? said the clerk to his wife. His eyes got very large and began to fill up with tears.

  —Just for a few days, she said. Just for a weekend. You know, a weekend in the country!

  Her face was radiant. She really did look not at all like him sometimes, and just like him other times.

  —But, he said, the letters…

  —I know, she said. Don’t worry. We’re not going anywhere.

  There was not a trace of resentment in her voice.

  —Now, she said, turning back, what are we going to do about your girl’s lost memory?

  —I had an idea, said the clerk, but I seem to have forgotten it.

  —It was, said the guess artist, that you were going to use the dog to sniff the letter out.

  —Dog? asked S.

  —Whirligig! called out the clerk.

  From the top of the pile of mail came bounding a miniature German shepherd. He was perfect in every way, but very tiny. He ran up to the clerk, who knelt down to receive him. The two exchanged greetings.

  —Do you have anything that belonged to the girl? asked the clerk’s wife. A sock? A scarf?

  —I have her shoe, said S.

  Out of a secret pocket he produced one of the two espadrilles that the girl was wearing during the accident.

  —What a nice shoe, said the clerk’s wife.

  —You were carrying that all along? asked the guess artist.

  —No, said S. It just occurred to me now.

  The clerk held the espadrille for the dog to smell. He sniffed at it with his nose, then ran away into the pile of letters. Sometimes he climbed and sometimes he swam through them. Soon he had disappeared from sight.

  —If anyone can find it, said the clerk, Whirligig can. He’s quite a pup.

  —Where did you get him? asked S.

  —He was in a package that came here, said the guess artist. She heard barking coming out of a box; she opened it up, and there he was.

  —Actually, said the clerk’s wife, he was a gift from my sister, who lives in Idaho.

  —But how did he arrive? asked the guess artist. Truthfully, now.

  —In a box, said the clerk’s wife. Wrapped up in a sweater.

  —That’s no way to send a dog, said S.

  —But in this case, said the clerk, it worked just fine.

  —Nobody’s disputing that, said S.

  —The other day, said the guess artist, I was down by the harbor and I saw the most horrible sight.

  Everyone looked at him.

  —A seagull was flying about, as seagulls often do. However, this one tried to fly beneath a dock, and it fetched up against one of the wooden supports. It must have broken its wing, because it fell there, right in the shallows, and was splashing around but going nowhere. Out from beneath the dock then came a large swan. It came closer and closer to the seagull, came right up over it and began to tear at the seagull with its beak. It started tearing off pieces of the seagull, eating it while it was still alive. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  —That’s horrible, said the dead-letter clerk.

  —I wish I had never heard that, said the dead-letter clerk’s wife.

  S. nodded slowly to himself; he knew well the true nature of swans.

  Ju
st at that moment, Whirligig reappeared from the pile. He was carrying two letters in his dandy little mouth. He ran up to S. and dropped them at his feet. S. patted him on the head and picked up the letters.

  The first letter came in a richly embroidered envelope. There were traces of gold in the fibers of the paper, and the address had actually been embroidered on. It said, Selah Morse, God Knows Where. He put that envelope on the bottom and picked up the other. It was a simple white envelope, one of the official sort that you buy at the post office, where the letter folds into being the envelope. This one said nothing on the outside. He opened it.

  14 Beard Street

  Brooklyn, NY

  Soon.

  Or else.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  —Very strange, he said, and his voice was loud in his ears.

  —We had best be going, said the guess artist. —But the other letter, said the clerk’s wife.

  —It’s from his sister, said the guess artist. She died some time ago. I don’t know that he was ever meant to see that letter.

  —Then give it back to me, said the clerk’s wife. She took a hold of the letter and began to pull it out of S.’s hand.

  —No! said S. That’s my letter. Let go!

  The two were pulling back and forth on the letter. Whirligig began to bark and nip at the ankles of S. and the guess artist. Just at that moment, the aperture in the ceiling opened and letters began to pour in, pouring down over the pile, increasing its size with every second. The noise was tremendous. Also, the clerk began to shout.

  The clerk’s wife pulled the letter away from S. and ran off. He chased after her, but she was very fast, and also good at running on top of piled letters, which S. was not. She made it away past a sort of small portcullis, which she brought down immediately. S. halted before it.

  —I’ll be back for that letter, he said.

  —Not on your life, she said. My husband’s going to cut it up with his shears.

  —You wouldn’t do that, would you? asked S.

  But the clerk was running around in circles, shouting and trying to save his home from the incoming flood, with Whirligig at, before, and around his heels. The mail continued to pour out of the ceiling at an increasing rate.

  —We’ve got to go, said the guess artist.

  —I guess you’re right, said S.

  Together they ran, half-bent over so their heads wouldn’t knock against the low ceiling, back up one passage, then another, and out of the lower reaches of the post office.

  As they reached the main level, they stopped, huffing and puffing, to catch their breath. The security guard came out of an alcove and shone a light on them. Everything was very quiet and still. None of the chaos they had seen below existed here.

  —Odd down there, isn’t it? he asked. I never go down there after dark.

  —Who’s in charge of this place? asked S.

  —There’s a big computer somewhere, said the guard, made out of wood. That’s what they make computers out of nowadays, the really fast ones, anyway.

  —Right, said the guess artist. Well, good-bye.

  Out, then, the front doors, and into the night.

  —Should we go to the address now? asked S.

  —It seemed urgent, said the guess artist. Not much else to be done about it, don’t you think? Do you know where to go?

  —I do, said S.

  The two were quiet a moment. S.’s hands were making a sad expression, one not betrayed by his face or eyes.

  —I wonder what that letter said.

  —Probably something kind and useless, said the guess artist. You can assume that much.

  The guess artist patted the municipal inspector on the shoulder.

  They went down through the pavement and through a turnstile. A subway car drew up immediately, as though it had been waiting for them. The guess artist wondered how long it had been waiting there. The municipal inspector thought some more about his sister’s letter and how horrible it was that he hadn’t gotten to read it.

  They sat down. The train began to move.

  The municipal inspector took something out of his sleeve. He unfolded it, and as he unfolded it, it became bigger and bigger. The whole thing was covered in child’s writing. It was in red crayon, with occasional blue and green. S. looked at it intently. He mumbled to himself and moved his finger over it slowly.

  The train passed on at great speed.

  —This must be the express, said the guess artist.

  S. murmured something noncommittal.

  —What is that? asked the guess artist.

  —A map, said S.

  —Of what? asked the guess artist.

  —Can’t you guess? asked S., a bit brusquely.

  He was still bothered by the loss of his sister’s letter. Should he go back and try to claim it later? he wondered to himself. No, no, it was lost forever. He shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.

  The guess artist was peering at him.

  —No, I can’t, he said. Where this map is concerned your mind is…blurry. I can’t tell a thing.

  —Well, it IS an odd business, said S.

  He pointed to a spot on the map.

  —We’re here, he said.

  The guess artist nodded.

  —Is that me? he asked.

  There was a drawing of a man with question marks shooting out of his head. As the guess artist looked closer at the drawing, it seemed to get larger and more detailed. He could almost make out his face.

  —Yes, said S., that’s you. Do you know how déjà vu occurs?

  —No, said the guess artist.

  —Well, said S., when you are a child, somewhere between two and four years of age, a night comes that you have a dream. In that dream you dream your entire life, from start to finish, with all its happinesses, its disappointments, its loves, its hates, its pains, its joys. Your entire life. The dream should have to last an equivalent amount of time, but somehow it happens in just one night.

  The guess artist said nothing, but only stared at S. with a look of great and involved interest. This pleased S. He continued.

  —Most people forget their dream. In fact, everyone forgets most of it. However, I was a precocious child. That morning I was left alone by myself with a large sheet of paper and a bucket of crayons. While my dream was still fresh in my head, I constructed a map of my life, using symbols and writing down what I could. Somehow I realized that to write too much would ruin it, and would make me sad in the end. Therefore, what I wrote down were mostly clues as to how to manage the difficult parts.

  He closed the map up and returned it to his sleeve.

  —Doesn’t that make life rather complicated? asked the guess artist.

  —I don’t think it can become more complicated than it is. I think it has already inherently reached the ultimate level of complication.

  —What does it say about our search? asked the guess artist.

  —We’re coming up to a tricky part. I think we may end up in a bit of trouble for a little while.

  —All right, said the guess artist. I don’t mind that. I don’t have anything else to do. And I can always go back to my booth.

  —Yes, said S. You can always go back to your booth.

  Just then the train pulled into a station. The municipal inspector and the guess artist got off. They went down to the street level and walked for a while in the direction of Beard Street. The night had been passed in great industry and first false, then true exaggeration of circumstance. Both men felt this, and it was a pleasing feeling. The sun was coming up behind them to the left as they walked, and they could feel it warming their backs. The guess artist thought of his booth, and how the light would be warming the curtain that hung over it, how an old man might be walking along the boardwalk just at this moment, and how he might look at the guess artist’s sign and think, I wonder if he can guess my thought. The guess artist tried, just to try.

  —He is thinking of his late wife, who used
to love to drink tea when the sun was rising. All the rest of the day for her was naught. Just drinking tea at dawn and having a bit of a walk to look for signs that the seasons were changing. And also there was the picture of her when she was a young woman and all the young men were after her for a date. And how she had asked him, she had asked him, if he wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and how fine it had been that night, with all the lights of Manhattan far away on the horizon, and the feel of his own body, young in his young man’s clothes.

  —What are you talking about? asked S.

  —Nothing, said the guess artist. Here we are.

  Up ahead there was a sign.

  BEARD STREET

  it said.

  —It’s that way, said S., pointing to the left.

  They walked along for a little ways. It was a Victorian house, quite a large one, standing all by itself on an overgrown block. There was a high stone wall around the premises. Farther down the street, S. could see the warehouses where ships would leave their goods, and the wharves. He could see in the distance Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty. Lower Manhattan sat quietly too, behind a veil of Brooklyn buildings. He thought then of the Seventh Ministry, of Rita sitting behind her desk, delicately writing out messages to bring up to him upon his return. He thought too of Mars Levkin, who might be wondering at that very moment just what the young inspector was up to.

  Well, Levkin, thought S., I think you would approve.

  —In we go, said S.

  Up to the gate he proceeded. A metal plate was stamped and set upon the gate: 14 BEARD STREET, it said. He unbolted the gate, and passed through. The guess artist followed after. Up the stone stair they went to the door. S. knocked upon the door. There was no answer. However, there was certainly the hush of something about to happen, and the hush of a large number of people suddenly deciding en masse to keep quiet.

  —What on earth? asked the guess artist.

  S. closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. The interior of the house was somewhat dark. All the windows had been covered over, and lamps gave what little light there was.

  —Hello! he said. Is there anyone here?