The Way Through Doors (Vintage Contemporaries)

by Jesse Ball

  The guess artist came to his side.

  —Many people are thinking, he said. But they are being very quiet, even about that.

  A loud noise of bolting came behind them. S. spun around. The door had been shut. A large man stood in front of it, barring their way.

  —So you thought you’d come to Fourteen Beard Street? he said in a booming voice. Many people come, but no one has ever left. It is a sort of trap. We let people in. Anyone can come in. The door is often open. But once you are in, you are in. You may live here, happily. People have lived happy lives within the confines of this house. We have a small population here. Imminently, you will be introduced around. I myself will perform this service for you.

  He was wearing a scarlet dressing gown, and his fists were the sort of fists an oak tree might have if it balled up its roots and decided to hit you.

  —I’m surprised, said the guess artist.

  —Where is the girl? asked S.

  —All your questions will be answered, or unanswered in time. For now, come and sit in the study. We shall have a cigar and talk of old times. If I am not mistaken, we know each other.

  —I don’t remember that, said S., but let’s get along. The sooner we learn the facts of the matter, the better.

  —Facts of the matter! snorted the man. You can’t leave; that’s the only fact. Haven’t you read Dumas? Haven’t you heard of the mousetrap? Everyone who enters the building is held there indefinitely. This is the only real mousetrap there’s ever been.

  —Clearly insane, whispered the guess artist in S.’s ear.

  —What is he thinking? asked S. quietly.

  —He’s thinking about flying a plane over a broad and tumultuous sea.

  —Really? asked S.

  —And the strangest thing is, the plane is shaped just like this house.

  They came to the study. The man ushered them in. They sat in comfortable chairs. On the wall were many fine paintings, mostly impressionist.

  —You like the French? asked S.

  —I like vague things, said the man. The vaguer the better.

  He turned to the door.

  —You can come in now! he bellowed. It’s safe!

  Dozens of people, it seemed then, came running into the room, and as they did, the room grew larger to fit them. Or had the room been that large from the beginning? That was the only explanation. The people were all dressed as children, in odd nineteenth-century clothing. They had shrill voices, and made braying noises with their throats as they ran.

  S. and the guess artist looked at each other in horror and drew back in their chairs.

  —Just my little joke, said the man.

  He clapped his hands and all the children went away. The room was empty again and small.

  —Caroline, he called. We have guests.

  A finely dressed woman in her forties entered the room.

  —Patrick, she said, you should have told me we were having guests.

  She gave him a sharp look.

  The guess artist leaned over and whispered in S.’s ear.

  —The plane just landed.

  —Hello, said Caroline. I’m the mistress of the house. Can I get you something, a cold drink, perhaps?

  —Yes, said S., I would like a cup of water, if it’s not too much trouble.

  —For me too, said the guess artist.

  —All right, said Caroline in an angry voice. If you want some goddamned water, you had best go and get it for yourselves. What do you think I am? Your maid?

  Patrick looked very angry as well.

  —Who do you think you are, he asked, coming into my house and ordering my wife around? Did I even invite you here? I think not.

  S. held up the letter from the dead-letter office. Immediately, Patrick and Caroline grew quiet.

  —Where did you get that? they asked.

  —It doesn’t matter, said the guess artist. We have it, and we’re here. Where is the girl?

  Caroline and Patrick left the room.

  —I’m afraid we may be stuck here a very long time, said S. My map indicated something unfortunate was going to happen.

  —You may be right, said the guess artist.

  Patrick and Caroline came back in. Both of them had changed their clothing. To what purpose, S. could not say.

  —I suppose we got off on the wrong foot, said Caroline. Now, do either of you want anything to drink? Something cold, perhaps?

  —Nothing for me, said S.

  —Nothing for me either, said the guess artist.

  —Good, good, she said. Well, let’s get down to business. I want you to have a nice stay here.

  She smiled and crossed her legs. It occurred to S. that her legs were on backwards. Or for a moment they had been, but now they were on right again. He looked up at the man, who was carving something out of a piece of wood. He was completely intent on this, and did not seem to notice that S. was looking at him. What was he carving? thought S. It looked like a wolf, but it had a fish body.

  The man looked up.

  —It’s a seawolf, he said. They are very hungry all the time.

  —I would expect that, said S.

  —Well, we’ll leave you for a while, said Caroline. The other guests come and go—well, not from the house, I mean, but from the various rooms, so you should be meeting them shortly, or eventually, if you get my meaning. Anyway, good-bye. Ring that bell if you want one of the servants to bring anything.

  On the wall beside a bust of Verlaine, there was a bell cord.

  —I shall, said S.

  Caroline and Patrick left the room. As they left, Patrick asked Caroline what color the seawolf should be, and Caroline told Patrick that seawolves are black with yellow blood, and that they are cowards at heart. At this Patrick became very quiet, even while he was walking. Now, it is not an easy task to become that quiet while walking, but he managed it.

  Almost as soon as the couple had left, the guess artist and the municipal inspector became conscious of someone else in the room. A man was sitting in the corner by a lamp, reading a book. He wore a long beard in white, and was dressed as one imagined an old gentleman might have dressed in the year 1927 in the city of Warsaw. The old man noticed their attention, and looked up.

  —Good afternoon, he said.

  —Is it afternoon? asked the guess artist.

  —Only just, he said. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Piers Golp.

  —I’m Selah Morse, said S. And this fellow here is a guess artist.

  —A real guess artist? asked Piers Golp. I didn’t know there were any left.

  —I’m not like the others, said the guess artist.

  —I didn’t mean to intimate that you were, said Piers Golp. I only wanted to get across to you my pleasure at your choice of profession, and at the means we now have at our disposal for a fine and elegant conversation.

  —You speak well, said S. I like a man who knows how to converse.

  —Thank you, said Piers Golp. I once had the pleasure of speaking to the great Oscar Wilde. You know, he was the greatest conversationalist we have yet had among us. We as human beings, I mean.

  —I have heard that said, said S. It seemed true then, and it seems true now.

  The guess artist stood up and went to the window. He tried to pull up the shutter, but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t move.

  —Don’t even bother, said Piers Golp.

  —I think I will have that drink of water, said S.

  He went over to the bust of Verlaine and pulled on the bell cord.

  —Don’t do that! exclaimed Piers Golp. He hopped out of the chair he was sitting in and went behind the table, ducking down behind it so that he could not be seen.

  Far away across the house, a bell could be heard ringing. A great sound of shouting could be heard coming closer. S. looked at the guess artist with a question in his eyes. The guess artist returned the question to him unopened. At that moment, the door was thrown wide, and Caroline stood there, in a fury.
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  —Did someone call for the servant? she asked.

  —Not me, said the guess artist. I was just standing here by the window.

  Without making any examination of the room, Caroline called out,

  —Was it you, Piers Golp? Did you ring the bell?

  —Not me, Mrs. O’Shea. It wasn’t me.

  He came out from hiding and stood there fragilely holding his hands.

  —I can smell him, you know, even when he hides, she said.

  At this the old Mr. Golp shrank even more, and seemed on the verge of breaking.

  —Leave him alone, said S. I’m the one who rang the bell.

  —YOU RANG THE BELL? she shouted.

  —That’s right, he said. I rang the bell because I want some water. Now go and fetch it, on the double.

  —Very good, sir, said Caroline, curtsying.

  She left the room.

  The guess artist and Piers Golp looked at each other in shock.

  —Not bad, said the guess artist. But how are we to get out of here?

  —I have an idea, said S.

  He drew his map out of his sleeve again and looked at it a moment.

  —The next bit is a little odd, he said.

  —Anything has to be better than this, said the guess artist. No offense intended to you, Mr. Golp.

  Piers Golp sank into a chair and nodded to indicate that he had taken no offense and also to indicate that he knew very well the undesirable nature of life at 14 Beard Street.

  S. came over and knelt down by Piers Golp’s chair.

  —Haven’t you something to say to us, Mr. Golp? he asked.

  —Well, said Piers Golp, as a matter of fact, I do.

  A tiny bit of light came from the out-of-doors around the edges of the shuttered and draped windows. It made its way slowly and carefully over to the three friends and settled on them.

  —There is, said Piers Golp, in this city, a certain anonymous pamphleteer whose work I greatly admire.

  He held up the book he had been reading. This turned out in fact not to be a book at all but a substantial pamphlet, neatly and elegantly folded to produce the illusion of a book if viewed from a distance of twelve to fifteen feet. On its cover it said, An Inquiry into the Ultimate Utility of the Silly, as Prefigured in the Grave and Inhospitable.

  —Is this a particularly good one? asked the guess artist.

  —I’ve only just begun it, said Piers Golp. My very favorite is one entitled, Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method.

  To all this S. said nothing, but only sat upon his heels, watching very carefully the tides and eddies of expression pass over the face of Piers Golp.

  —About this pamphleteer, Golp continued, almost nothing is known. A friend of mine who knows about my predicament here sends me every pamphlet he can get his hands on. He knows how I long for news of the outside world. After all, I was for many years a war correspondent.

  —A war correspondent, exclaimed the guess artist.

  —Except that, said Piers Golp a bit ashamedly, there were no wars at the time, so I stayed home.

  The guess artist and S. nodded in an understanding way.

  —The first of these pamphlets appeared about two years ago, said Piers Golp. Then, about a year ago, new pamphlets began to appear with much greater frequency. Also, they were better printed, and displayed an obviously greater degree of attention and skill. About him I can hazard little, save that he is a young man of great leaps. He is very sly and is best pleased only when he surprises himself. I think that it is most certainly the case that the best artists are the best because they have in their hearts an infinite affection for the objects of the world.

  In one of these pamphlets, The Foreknowledge of Grief, he plots out a rubric for creating a person to fall in love with.

  First, he says, you have to go out into the world. This is not a simple matter of going outside one’s door. No, that is simply going out. That’s what one does when one is on the way to the store to buy a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of wine. When one goes out into the world, one is shedding preconceptions of past paths and ideas of past paths, and trying to move freely through an unsubstantiated and new geography.

  So, one goes out into the world, and then one wanders about.

  The querist goes out into the world, and wanders about. Perhaps the day is a pleasant one. It has rained while he was still sleeping, and this rain brought with it an attendant coolness that remained after the rain had gone north or east with the wind. The streets are fresh as though a blanket of snow has fallen. Each square of pavement has yet to be trodden upon. All the weight of past footsteps has been lifted. Through it the young man walks, looking up at the tops of buildings and into the boughs of trees. How often in our progress we forget to look up! And how much there is to see. A bird takes off from a branch and lands upon another. His eyes trail this bird, follow the branch, then follow the trunk of the tree back down to the ground. A dog there is running past just at that moment. His eyes perch atop the dog’s standing fur, and are shuttled back and forth along the street, far down and up to the dog’s mistress, who, in a loose pair of trousers and a light jacket, is returning from a morning promenade. Her hair is unkempt and in a morning disarray. Her face is flushed with the pleasure of the day. The young man has approached her with his eyes, in the company of her dog, but he will go no farther himself. She and the dog move off through the streets, and the young man continues.

  He remembers that the pleasure he has in morning comes in part from a time in childhood when he would leave school and wander through the quieted town. Shaded streets were lined with silent houses. The beds of lawns cried out to be lain in. And how then he would go up to the old cemetery on Cedar Hill and lie in the cool space between the graves and sleep while all around him was still, and while, to his great happiness and enduring pleasure, his fellow pupils were seated in rows in a classroom, learning lessons.

  In the city too there is a girl. She is the appropriate girl. But she is still sleeping, having refused sleep for the better of the night, having gone along a path of streetlights until the streetlights themselves went out, and the paling horizon ushered her up to her door and into her small room.

  It is for this girl that the young man is looking. Day after day he wakes in morning and goes searching for her. In his work, and in his life on mornings that are not miraculous and afternoons that are sundry and various, he saves the corners of his eyes for her, and watches at all times the entrances and exits of every establishment to which he comes. For he knows that eventually, in time and given some protracted period of days, weeks, and months, he will come upon her, and know her in an instant for who she is.

  He pauses sometimes in the rooms that he keeps, looking over the equipment of his chosen profession, the printing press, the lithograph machine, the rolls of butcher paper, and endless space of desks and typewriters. He looks at the stacks of pamphlets he has made that are piled in corners and pinned upon the wall. And he thinks and knows in his heart that there is one glorious pamphlet waiting yet to be made. He calls this pamphlet by its name, World’s Fair 7 June 1978, and he longs for its arrival. Somehow he knows it is tied to the girl he cannot find.

  Oh, the World’s Fair. What wonders will fill its pages? He makes notes towards its construction, building in his head and upon the page schematics of impossible architecture, pathways that stretch out across water, preserving in themselves a flatness of the earth to oppose every roundness, or a house in which all sound is diverted and played both upon and with, moved here and there, at distance and closeness, words sometimes amplified, sometimes dampened, and phrases cast upon precise winds, both proscribed and known.

  He ponders interviews with artists who were never born, who say things he himself would like to say. These persons, beginning with a perfect biography, an inexplicable and wondrous origin, go on to thunder out the objects of his own hope. Oh, the World’s Fair. If there is an affection, a complete and dear affection, it is
to this idea of the book that he will one day write.

  He stood by the door one day, trying to replicate a posture he had seen in a mannequin, when the door sounded with a loud knock.

  —Who’s there? he asked.

  —Let me in, came the reply.

  The pamphleteer went to the door and slowly opened it. A girl was standing there, dressed in the sort of khaki suit that best befits early-twentieth-century female explorers of Africa.

  —Sif! he said. How nice to see you.

  —And you, she said. It has been some time, I think.

  —Yes, he said. I have been busy working on a pamphlet.

  —Which one? she asked.

  A glint came into her eye.

  —Have you finished World’s Fair 7 June 1978?

  —Of course not, he said. This one is a method for how to enter rooms.

  —Well, then, said Sif. Let this be a lesson to you.

  She entered the room, doing a slow sort of pirouette.

  —Will you get a girl a drink?

  She sat down on the edge of the sofa and watched him as he brought out a glass bottle that perhaps had once held wine, but now looked very much like

  —Iced tea? he asked.

  —Yes, thank you, she said. You know, I was thinking about the story you told me the other day. The one about the gambler. I’m not entirely sure whether or not he was imagining the girl, what was her name, having affairs.

  —Ilsa, said the pamphleteer.

  —Yes, continued Sif. I think her dress was unbuttoned and her hair wasn’t pinned up properly, etc., not by chance. I think it’s very possible that a man who could disappear into, what was it, a fold of heat and light, could very easily appear in a room, ravage a woman, and then disappear.

  —That’s something to consider, said the pamphleteer.

  —But on the other hand, said Sif, the story is interesting because it’s also possible that he is just crazy, that he imagined the whole episode with the devil, and that he is imagining all her possible adulteries. I mean, the point of it could just be that it’s ridiculous in the first place that she should be his property, that he should be able to barter her as an object in his possession in a wager with Satan. Am I wrong?