The Way Through Doors (Vintage Contemporaries)

by Jesse Ball

  —Well, said the pamphleteer, there is the burn on his wrist. That’s real.

  —He could be imagining that too, said Sif. He’s the only one who ever saw it.

  —But the Chinese woman referred to it. And her grandmother too, said the pamphleteer. You can’t just ignore their testimony.

  —Sure I can, said Sif, tossing her hair. That means nothing, and you know it.

  The two sat quietly, drinking their iced tea.

  —Was there pinot noir in this bottle before the iced tea? asked Sif.

  —Bingo, said the pamphleteer. Boy, you’re good at that.

  —Can’t help it, said Sif. I just like wine. Next time you should try a young cabernet. I think that would contribute better to the taste of the iced tea.

  —I’ll put it under advisement.

  —Oh, so did you hear about the guy who’s down at Coney Island?

  —No.

  —The guess artist, there was a piece on him in the Times. Supposedly, he can guess what you’re thinking in three tries.

  —Most people think about a very limited number of things, said the pamphleteer. Especially when they’re at the beach.

  —No, you sap, said Sif. He can tell you exactly what you’re thinking. I’m going to go down today and see. You want to come?

  —I’ve got some things I have to take care of here, said the pamphleteer. But we’re supposed to have supper later on. The Tunisian place on Third, right?

  —Yeah, said Sif. Seven o’clock.

  —I’ll see you then.

  Sif stood up, straightened her skirt, and, leaning over the pamphleteer, gave him a long and lingering kiss.

  —That’s so you remember me all day.

  —Wow, said the pamphleteer. You need to leave right now.

  —See you ’round, said Sif.

  In a blur of Nordic grace and khaki, Sif disappeared out the door. The pamphleteer sat, and looked at the bottle of iced tea. Cabernet, he thought to himself. Cabernet next time.

  Sif left the pamphleteer’s building and hailed a taxi with a peculiar and effective gesture known only to her and the people to whom she had confided it. This gesture was so effective that with it one was able to steal taxis from people who were upstream. One can imagine how valuable a technique this was in the devil-may-care world of New York City.

  She got into the taxi.

  —Coney Island, she said, and step on it.

  Out of her bag she took a booklike object. First there was a thin card-stock cover. Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method, it said in neat black letters. Out of this cover, she slid the pamphlet of the same name. She opened it and began to read.

  Upon coming to a threshold one should always consider the possibility that there may be something hostile awaiting one within. Also, there may be some great pleasure, which, with its sudden and implacable onset of joy, may disarm one even more than the deepest hostility. Sometimes one must be more careful of being seen in happiness than in grief or anger. A great deal may be told from the expression of a happy man or woman. In any case, one must be prepared for the worst, and ready. Therefore, pause a moment before passing through a door, unless, of course, one is being watched on the outside, or one’s approach to the door is being timed, as in a situation when one is buzzed through an exterior door. In that case, one does not have the leisure to pause, for that pause would in its turn be noted and interpreted in a variety of ways, some of which would be harmful. Therefore, perhaps we should say, make the pause a mental pause, a sort of inner unveiling of precaution. It should last barely a second, and immediately preface the entering of the room in question.

  Now, when one enters a room one should consider all the angles that are now present from which one’s person may be approached. One should instantly scan the room, looking not with a particular gaze, but with a gaze in general. This second sort of gaze is a more comprehending gaze, and allows the faculty of the mind a greater freedom.

  Gunfighters, when entering a hostile situation, have a vague eye that assesses the room at once with a piecemeal faculty, and at once in a coherent vein. They arrange in a flashing second the hierarchy of shooting ability on the part of every man, woman, and child there present. Thus when the gunfighter begins to shoot, killing the various inhabitants, he kills them not from right to left, or left to right, as we often see in films, but according to the prescriptions of his established hierarchy, from strongest to weakest. First he might shoot the old man half-hidden by the bar. He knows the old man was a captain in the Mexican cavalry and that, furthermore, there is a shotgun behind the bar that must not under any circumstances come into use. Then next he spins and takes out the wealthy rancher on the stairs. He has been guested several times at the ranch and knows the rancher’s prowess with the silver-touched pistols he keeps at his side. These two gone, the gunfighter may continue, shooting down first the youngster with the Winchester, leaning against the faro table, and then and only then the cowboy on the near side of the bar. Now, you may say, why wait that long to shoot the cowboy? Alone among the people in the bar, the cowboy has two pistols, and one drawn already at the gunfighter’s approach. Well, it is true that the cowboy may be able to get off two or even three shots before the gunfighter can attend to putting a bullet through his hardy skull. However, the gunfighter relies upon the fact that the cowboy is a terrible shot, this fact gleaned from the state of his pistols, which have obviously not been cleaned or attended to for some time.

  So you can see, the proper method of entering a room has more to do with observation than with any particular grace or finesse. A girl who is a real knockout and carries herself with verve and élan must necessarily…

  —Coney Island, said the cabbie. That’ll be seventeen dollars.

  Sif reached into her wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, folded it twice, and then handed it through the portal.

  —I have to get my luggage out.

  —All right, said the driver.

  They got out of the cab and went around to the back. The cabdriver opened the trunk. Inside there was a birdcage with a canary in it. The birdcage was finely crafted, made from some exotic wood that matched in its texture the feathers of this rare canary.

  —Did you put that in there? asked the cabdriver. I don’t remember you putting that there.

  —I called ahead, said Sif.

  She took the birdcage out and walked up the steps to the boardwalk. It was a very sunny day and there were many people walking arm in arm. Damn that man, thought Sif to herself. This would have been such a fine day to be in love.

  She observed in the distance a booth that resembled the picture from the Times, and she walked in that direction. When she arrived, the booth did indeed say, GUESS ARTIST, but the man did not look like the man she had seen in the article.

  Must be a copycat, she thought to herself, and continued down the boardwalk. After a few hundred yards, about six hot-dog stands, and nine crying babies, she came to the booth of the real guess artist. A very carefully old-fashioned man was speaking to the guess artist quietly.

  It must be hot, thought Sif, in all that black clothing. But the man looked very happy standing there speaking to the guess artist. When the man was done and had left, Sif approached.

  —And the Maccabean Revolt? she asked.

  —A little, said the guess artist. But mostly we talk about the phenomenal calendars of the Aztec civilization. That man is an expert on calendars of all kinds. Probably the foremost calendar expert in the world.

  —Does he have the one with the cats dressed up like people? asked Sif, who liked always to say things both carelessly and with a touch of sarcasm.

  —No, he appreciates cats for what they are and hates it when their owners dress them up.

  —Good, said Sif. I like him already. So, I brought you this.

  She set the canary down on the counter.

  —If you’re right, you get the canary. If you’re wrong, I go and give the canary to the fake guess artist down the bloc
k. She gave the guess artist a merciless look.

  —But I get three tries, said the guess artist.

  —Three tries, agreed Sif.

  She lifted herself up onto the counter, crossed her legs, and leaned against one of the booth poles. Her eyes were very keen and sharp, and she fastened them on the guess artist’s temples. Let’s see how good he really is, she thought to herself.

  The guess artist stood up and came around the counter. He leaned against it and peered at her. She inclined her feet and let her sandals fall onto the boardwalk, one, two.

  —If you think you’re making it harder for me, you’re not, said the guess artist.

  —Stop stalling, said Sif. What am I thinking?

  —You’re thinking, said the guess artist, that this whole business of there being only seven days to the week is a big lie, and that there are actually eight, but that one is hidden, and that if you can discover it, your life is lengthened by that exact proportion, but better even than that, you get one day a week when only the people in the know are out and about, and it is on that day that all the best conversations happen.

  —I think you’re still stuck on that calendar expert, said Sif. I wasn’t thinking anything like that at all.

  —All right, said the guess artist. You’re thinking about the fact that the cage and its canary were in the trunk of the cab by chance and that it was only by chance that you thought to tell the cabdriver to open the trunk and that you lied to him about it, and should you feel bad about lying to him? Because you don’t, but you wonder if a regular person would.

  —No, said Sif. Not me. Try again.

  The guess artist gave her a searching look. He nodded to himself.

  —You’re thinking that the pamphleteer whom you are in love with maybe doesn’t love you as much as you would like, and perhaps you should put some kind of truth serum into the Tunisian food at supper tonight so that you can ask him questions about what he does when you’re not around.

  —Geez, said Sif. You are the real guess artist. Do you know where I can get truth serum from?

  —Sodium Pentothal? asked the guess artist. There’s a Russian guy several blocks that way, on Avenue Y. He supposedly sells old Soviet army gear. He’s the one to talk to.

  He wrote the address of the store down on a piece of paper.

  —Well, said Sif. Thanks.

  —No problem, said the guess artist.

  —One more thing, said Sif. You don’t get the canary until you tell me what he’s thinking. And don’t lie, because I can tell when people are lying.

  —I know that, said the guess artist. Give me a minute.

  He looked intently at the canary. Then he reached out and rattled the cage a little. The canary leapt from one spot in the cage to another. The guess artist began to cry.

  —Shit, said Sif. I was afraid that would happen.

  —Don’t worry about it, said the guess artist, wiping his face with a handkerchief. However, I refuse to tell you what he’s thinking. It’s too sad. Nothing so sad has ever been said out loud.

  Sif shrugged her shoulders. She opened the cage and let the canary out. He flew up and landed on her shoulder.

  —Later, she said.

  —So long, said the guess artist.

  Sif walked off down the boardwalk, canary clinging to her shoulder. The guess artist sat down behind his booth. What a day, he thought. Just then a kid ran up to the counter. It was the guess artist’s apprentice, Gustav.

  —Hey, Gustav, how are you? he asked.

  —I’m all right, said Gustav. My frog died.

  —That’s too bad, said the guess artist.

  Someone came up to the booth. A very heavy man with a large briefcase. The guess artist made a signal to Gustav to come around the counter.

  —Hello, he said to the man.

  —Hello, said the man. Quite a day.

  —Yes, said the guess artist, a day for painting eyes onto the eyelids of the dead.

  —I haven’t heard anyone say that in a long time, said the heavy man. Anyway, can you guess what I’m thinking?

  —I can, said the guess artist. And so can my apprentice here.

  He pointed to Gustav and smiled proudly.

  —But it takes him more tries. Do you have a minute? he continued.

  —Sure, said the heavy man. Go on, then.

  —By the way, said the guess artist, leaning over the counter and whispering: His frog just died, so take it easy on him.

  —All right, said the heavy man.

  Very quietly, then, to the guess artist, he said,

  —I’ll think of something historic.

  He closed his eyes and then opened them.

  —Go on, he said.

  Gustav made little fists and hunched over. He growled a little bit like a dog and then straightened up. His eyes had gotten very big.

  —It was in Russia, many years ago. Perhaps it was the reign of the empress Elizabeth. Her palace in Moscow was as grand a palace as had ever been, and all her courtiers were beautiful and elegant, and any one of them was wiser than the wisest man could ever be today. Now, Elizabeth was a virgin empress. She had never taken a lover, and once she came into her majority, she began to look around for an appropriate man upon whom to fasten. Before her gaze, then, the Count M.

  M. was a renowned man. An accomplished horseman, a deadly duelist, a killer of bears, a tried soldier, and an excellent dramatist; whatever he turned his hand to flourished. He had been at court when the empress was a young girl. At that time he had gone away to make his reputation. Having made it he had returned, and she longed for him to think of her not as the girl she had been but as the woman she was. And so she lavished every reward she could on him. She gave him a great estate in the western marches; she gave him servants and a large house in the city. She brought her gifts to bear upon his friends and acquaintances. To those whom he showed favor, she showed favor. In short, the star of the Count M. rose as never any star had risen before.

  And for these gifts of favor, all the count had to do was make attendance upon the empress, and bring her things that she desired. She loved, for instance, the tiny flowers that bloom only at dawn on the wayward side of hills that have not seen human step in six generations of man.

  For these flowers he would hunt, on his splendid charger, galloping with his Cossack guard up and down the broad plains.

  Her joy upon the reception of these little nothings was boundless, and she longed to throw herself into his arms. However, she was the empress and he a mere count. Things had to be done properly, and that would take time.

  It was at this moment in the empress’s reign that a certain grand duke came to court, and along with him his daughter. This girl was unremarkable in any way, save that for some reason, the count was riven by her, and could think of nothing else, could stir to no action but to go to the grand duke’s house, day and night, and pay court to her hand. The girl was sensible of the great honor being done her, but was frightened by the possible anger of the empress. The affair was hushed up for a fortnight, but when it became obvious to all that the count no longer was coming to see the empress, all wondered where he was going instead. And in that time the Count M. was married to the daughter of the grand duke. So soon the truth came out.

  The empress, needless to say, was pierced to the heart. She wept and cast herself repeatedly onto the ground in her opulent dressing chambers. She looked into the mirrors there surrounding her and could find no reason in her own appearance and grace, for there had rarely been a woman born in the world so lovely as the empress.

  Then her sorrow turned to rage. She called to her ministers and convened a council of which it has been said no council ever bore so particularly upon a single hatred as this of the empress Elizabeth.

  Her first act was to call to her first minister.

  —Inovsky, she said. I want you to strip the Count M. of all his lands. I want you to strip him of all his honors. I want you to strip his family of their lands and ho
nors. I want you to cause terrible things to happen even to people he vaguely regarded from afar with affection.

  —Very good, said the Count Inovsky, who had long despaired of regaining the empress’s ear in light of the dominance that the Count M. had recently enjoyed.

  —Torvald, she called out.

  —Yes, Empress, responded her second minister.

  —I want you to have the marriage of the Count M. and the grand duke’s daughter annulled. I want her to be married off again to the most brutal man you can find, perhaps that Italian ambassador, Balthazar something, whatever his name is.

  —At once, my empress.

  —Third Minister, she shouted.

  Her third minister then came out from the dark, shaded portion of the room, where he had been standing quietly. The first two ministers were astonished to see him. They had not known he was still living, and they certainly had not thought he retained any of the power that he had once used to scourge the land in the reign of the empress’s father. For the third minister was a dastardly and evil man, infamous for his depravity.

  —Yes, my dear, he said, presuming even then upon her diabolical favor.

  —I want you to search throughout our land of Russia. Search everywhere, in and out of borders, frontiers, estates. I want you to find for me the ugliest woman who now lives in our broad and implacable land. Bring her here.

  —Thy will be done, said the third minister.

  One week passed, then another. The Count M.’s life was ruined in a single blow. His wife was married off to another; his fortunes were dispelled with an imperial stamp. He tried even to kill himself, but was stopped by the first minister’s soldiers, and kept under watch to await the empress’s pleasure.

  All up and down the land the third minister traveled in a dark coach, sampling the ugly wares of this burg and that hamlet. He traveled even into the depths of Siberia, along obscure trade routes to forgotten principalities. After two months he returned, and in his train was the ugliest woman that ever man had set eyes upon. He brought her in secret conference before the empress, and the smile that rose then upon her face would have lit a ballroom.