The Way Through Doors (Vintage Contemporaries)

by Jesse Ball

  The air is crisp and the leaves on the trees that line the streets have begun to change. As he crosses the doorstep and passes within, he sees behind the desk dear Rita the message-girl.

  —Rita, he says.

  —Selah! We haven’t seen you in quite some time.

  —Any messages?

  Rita pushes down an intercom button on her desk.

  —He’s back, she says into a tiny microphone hidden in the flower vase. He looks a bit skinny, but otherwise no worse for wear.

  —I was working, he replies. I heard a story, a good one: There was a municipal inspector who, on a day in October, returned to his work after some time away. He entered the building and saw his dear old friend Rita the message-girl. She was pleased very much to see him and reported his presence to the chief inspector. Afterwards, he took her hand and they did a minuet all around the room.

  Rita stands, offers her hand to the young inspector. He takes it and they do a minuet all around the room. Rita is looking especially beautiful on that day, and the young inspector has the urge to kiss her. However he does not, because he likes the way things are at the ministry and does not want them to change.

  Into the room then, comes the chief inspector, Levkin.

  —Selah, he says. Come here. I have something to show you.

  Selah goes with him, spinning Rita once more into and out of his embrace. In the next room, Levkin has set up a 16mm film projector and a screen. He goes along the windowed wall, untying the drapes. The room becomes dark.

  —Sit, he says.

  Selah sits down in a large leather chair, and Levkin switches on the projector. The film reel begins to turn, and light is thrown onto the screen. Numbers running, and then brilliant sunlight. A woman, regally dressed, a queen of some kind, entering a guarded room. She is extraordinarily perfect in every way, her chin, her nose, her eyes, her throat, the manner of her walking, standing, the motion of her wrists. Selah watches, hushed.

  The door is opened by a guard, and the queen is admitted. In the room, seated by a small window, is a grotesque figure. A woman whose features are unpleasant, yes, difficult to look upon. The queen says to her,

  —You.

  The other says nothing.

  —Today you are to marry the man whom I once loved. Do you know this?

  Still the other says nothing.

  —I am giving to you possibly the most remarkable man that was ever born and raised in this our land of Russia. He is a king among men. His tastes are the most refined tastes, his passions the most refined passions. I am giving him to you, forcing you upon him, because I know how horrible it will be for him who was once raised above all other men to taste the wares of a creature as despicable as you. What do you have to say to that?

  To that, the ugly woman continues to say nothing, and the queen goes away. The light pouring through the window has the sheen of new light, of early light bred away in the east and brought here with a spring in its step. It dances through the window, coming in turn upon the face of the wretched woman and the queen, and delighting in both.

  And there in the dawn, the ugly woman smiles.

  —Still I will make him happy. Ugly as I am, I will please him, if he is so great a man.

  The film reel blurs for a second. It is in black-and-white, and very grainy. The guard is speaking. His voice is distorted.

  —There is someone to see you, Kolya.

  —Thank you, she answers. I would like that.

  Then a young woman enters the room, dressed in a sort of flapper outfit. She sits down beside Kolya and takes her hands into her own.

  —THAT’S HER! shouts Selah and jumps to his feet. MORA KLEIN!

  —I thought it might be, says Levkin quietly.

  —This is how things are going to proceed, says Mora Klein to Kolya.

  And bending, she whispers something into Kolya’s ear. The film ends, and behind Selah the reel flaps against the projector.

  —It was her, he says again. But how?

  —We are not certain, says Levkin, of whether that is: a. actual footage taken from the memory of someone who has not been delivered of the facts of their past life, b. a film shot in the 1950s, or c. a postulation on the part of a cruel and uncertain fate.

  —I don’t entirely understand, says Selah. What do you mean?

  —Well, says Levkin. Your girl, Mora. She might have been in the event in question. Or she may have been in the original historical occurrence. Therefore, should this prove a filmed reconstruction of the historical occurrence, they would then have had someone playing her with greater or lesser skill. Perhaps enough skill to fool you into thinking you are watching her.

  —But, says Selah.

  —Or, continues Levkin, she somehow managed to be present both in the historical scene and in its reconstruction and subsequent filming.

  —I begin to see, says Selah. I will have to think about this.

  Both men stand and look at each other in the darkened room.

  —So you’ve been working on pamphlets? asks Levkin.

  —I’ve finished it, says Selah.

  —What have you finished?

  —World’s Fair 7 June 1978. It is my precondition, set at the start of the world.

  —Very good, says Levkin. I will have to look at it. I thought, he says, that I saw someone a few days ago carrying a copy. I tried to look closer, but she noticed me watching and hurried away.

  —Sif, says Selah. A girl. She came to the apartment of the pamphleteer.

  —The pamphleteer? asks Levkin.

  —The pamphleteer, replies Selah.

  Levkin nods in a Levkin-like-Wednesday-way. Selah continues.

  —Selah, she said, I want very much to read your WORLD’S FAIR and I am not about to wait any longer. She was wearing a short dress with very spectacular Roman legionnaire sandals that strap all the way up to the knee.

  The pamphleteer had just come from a bath and was wearing a flannel nightshirt.

  —How did you get in? he asked.

  —Your keys, she said, holding them up.

  —I never gave you my keys.

  —But I spoke to your super and had copies made. I thought it would be prudent. I knew there would be a time when I would want to enter your apartment without your permission, and now that time has come. Give me the WORLD’S FAIR.

  —But it’s not done, he said.

  —It will never be done, said Sif.

  She came closer and grabbed his ear. The gesture was very rapidly done, and it flashed in the pamphleteer’s head that he would like very much to draw a schematic of the action and put it in the World’s Fair 7 June 1978, along with vector lines of force and angles of incidence, etc.

  —Here’s the story, she said. I’m more stubborn than you are. I’m telling you now I won’t let go of your ear until you let me read WORLD’S FAIR.

  She gave him then her winningest smile.

  The pamphleteer smiled too.

  —You know, he said, I was thinking of taking all the smiling out of W.F. In Seymour, an Introduction, he goes on about how smiling is just awful and no one should do it, in books, at least. What do you think?

  —Smiling is for the birds, said Sif. Now give me the goddamned book.

  —All right, said the pamphleteer. I’ll give you an early version. But hold on a moment, because I have to add one more bit.

  He walked over to his drafting table. On the butcher paper he quickly sketched out the schematic he had just imagined, complete with a figure indicating Sif and a figure indicating himself.

  Sif (still holding on to the pamphleteer’s ear), said,

  —Do I really look like that?

  —Much cuter, he said. And craftier-looking.

  —Do I look crafty? she asked.

  —You’re just the craftiest, said the pamphleteer.

  This pleased Sif immediately. The pamphleteer rose and crossed the room, Sif hanging on all the while. He proceeded to make a lithograph plate of his schematic. This took
some time.

  —Can I get a drink? asked Sif. I’m very thirsty.

  —All right, just give me a second, said the pamphleteer. He put the plate into the lithograph machine, put some good-quality paper underneath, and made a print. Taking it out, he smiled.

  —Not bad, said Sif. Now, to the refrigerator.

  They crossed the apartment. Sif took a bottle of iced tea out of the refrigerator. She poured two glasses and returned it. Lifting the glass to her lips, she took a long sip.

  With a spluttering laugh, she shook her head and put the glass down.

  —Not an American cabernet, she said, an Italian, even a Chilean. American cabernets are fine. But not for this….

  She shook her head again.

  —You really don’t have the right instincts for this business of putting iced tea into old wine bottles.

  —Fine, said the pamphleteer, blushing. Let’s finish this so you can let go of my goddamned ear.

  Together they managed a sort of three-legged race over to the printing press. The pamphleteer took a little box from off the top of a pile of little boxes. On the cover it said,

  WF 7 J 1978

  Out of the box he slid a thick pamphlet. He took the printed schematic sheet and, taking a sewing needle and some thread from off a table, sewed it into the pamphlet. Then, turning, he returned the pamphlet to its box, kissed it once upon its cover, and presented it to Sif.

  —For you, he said. You’ll be the first to see it.

  Sif let go of his ear and did a little dance.

  —I’m so happy, she said. This had better be good. You’ve refused countless outings with a certain girl named Sif on account of you were working on an important book. SO it had better be good.

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then she danced off to the door. She pulled her bag off a hook on the wall, slipped W.F. into it, and herself slipped out the door.

  —GOOD-BYE, she said. I’ll be back soon.

  —When? called the pamphleteer.

  Sif’s pretty head poked back through the door.

  —By good, I mean that the book had better make life better in at least six or seven definite ways immediately. Also, there had better be somewhere in it a method for handling fortune and chance so as to best provoke the most complicated, involved, and glorious refractions of what’s possible.

  —Look in section three, said the pamphleteer.

  But Sif was already gone away down to the street. A man was passing, carefully transporting his entire life and a mustache with great speed between the tables, chairs, waiters, and regulars of a sprawling street café. She followed. This was how she chose her routes, by tailing someone for precisely seven minutes, deciding upon where he or she must be going, and then going there, independent of him or her. This course of action had often resulted in her arriving at a person’s destination ahead of that person, which then gave that person the feeling that there were some favorable circumstances or kismet involving the two of them. But, in fact, it was merely caprice on the part of Sif.

  At some point she entered a park and climbed a tree. Someone saw and told a policeman. The policeman came over. Sif was seated quite high up in the tree and was reading W.F. The policeman shouted up to her.

  —Miss, he said, you’ll have to come down.

  She set her book a moment upon her crossed legs and peered down at the police officer. Taking from her bag a small square of card stock, she dropped it expertly. The card stock fluttered through the air and hovered a moment before the police officer, who caught it. It said:

  Pardon me, I am almost entirely deaf. I would, in general, prefer not to speak to you, however, if you must speak with me, please write your remarks out legibly in longhand (or preferably type them), and deliver them to me. Two things: Do not use scraps of odd paper or the backs of promotional materials, envelopes, etc., for this purpose. I choose to read only elegantly assembled correspondence. And second, allow a period of time for me to read and then respond to your message. Also, I would appreciate if, during that time, you would go away. Find something else to do and then return. If you allow enough time I will be likely to have responded. I’m sorry that these measures are required of you, and also of myself, however, I am, as I have said, rather hard of hearing, and it would be kind of you to do this little thing in order to make me more comfortable in the world.

  The policeman was young. He was a good-natured fellow and well liked. Everyone thought that he would go far. Already proposals were being put forward at the station house by his superiors that he ought to be transferred to Homicide and made a detective. He had the peculiar faculty of having the proper resources to deal with many odd and inflammable situations.

  He read the card over twice, then put it into the pocket of his jacket. He looked up at Sif, met her gaze, then held up one finger. He walked away from her tree, left the park, and crossed the street. A copy shop was there. The policeman talked awhile with the clerk in the copy shop. The clerk immediately went into the back and attended to the policeman’s order, putting it ahead of all the other orders that had piled up through the course of the day. Some few moments later he returned and pressed a package into the policeman’s waiting hand. The officer thanked the clerk and left the store. He then went into the next store, which was a tobacco store. There he purchased an expensive Italian pen along with a bottle of ink. These in tow, he crossed the street, reentered the park, and took a seat at one of several stone tables. Sif’s view of these stone tables was obscured, and though she had seen the other proceedings, she could no longer see what was passing. After perhaps five minutes, the officer reappeared beneath her tree. A small boy was with him. The officer handed the small boy an envelope. The boy shimmied up the tree to Sif. They looked at each other.

  —Hello, he said. My name’s Morris. I’m very good at walking far and at climbing trees.

  —Do you have something for me? asked Sif.

  —I do, said Morris the tree climber and far walker. He handed Sif an envelope. It was a printed envelope, and said,

  Miles Lutheran

  Officer of the Law

  Tompkins Square Park Task Force

  12 October xxxx

  GIRL in TREE

  Vocation or Title Unknown

  Tompkins Square Park

  Third Tree from the Street, within Fenced Enclosure Opposite East 340 Tenth Street.

  Sif smiled to herself.

  —Thank you, Morris, she said. You can go now.

  —All right, said Morris, who proceeded to descend the tree very rapidly, going headfirst like a squirrel, but without difficulty or incident.

  Sif opened the letter. She admired the penmanship and the quality of the ink and paper.

  Dear Girl in Tree,

  I’m sorry, but I am going to have to ask you to come down. This is principally because I am afraid for your safety, not because you are hard of hearing, but because it is a simple and easy thing to fall from a tree and hurt oneself. Now, I know that you don’t think you are going to fall. You may say to yourself, I have never fallen. Why should I fall? Well, miss, falls are almost always unexpected.

  Please come down. If you need a ladder, hold up two fingers and I will go about getting one. Otherwise, have a fine day.

  Yours Most Sincerely and Assiduously,

  Miles Lutheran

  Officer of the Law

  Sif put the letter back into its envelope. She took W.F. from off her lap and replaced it in its box. She then put envelope and box into her bag and climbed down from the tree. The policeman and boy were gone.

  She walked very briskly up and down in front of the tree three times, and then went to sit in a little unmarked Thai bistro that took up all three floors of a brownstone on a nearby street. There was nothing on the exterior of the restaurant to let anyone know that such a fine and splendid establishment was within. Luckily, enough people knew about it that its existence was not in jeopardy. She took a seat near the back. After a moment a waitress ap
peared. This waitress crossed the floor slowly, not looking at Sif. At the last moment, it was as though she looked up into Sif’s face. She shouted out, SIF! and, untying her apron, pulled a chair up beside her.

  —Dear Sif, she said. How nice of you to come.

  —Shall we exchange confidences? asked Sif.

  —Let’s, said the girl.

  Her name was Claude, just like the Maude.

  —He gave me the W.F., said Sif. Want to see?

  —It was no dream; I lay broad waking, said Claude.

  —What? asked Sif.

  —Where is it? asked Claude.

  —Here, said Sif. She took the little box out of the bag, slid the W.F. out of the box, and handed it to the waitress.

  —How nice! said Claude, feeling with her hands the thin, expensive paper. Does it say, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind?

  —I’ll read it to you, said Sif. For though I am not deaf, it is after all true that you cannot see ordinary things like letters and books.

  —Not letters or books or tables and chairs. Everything has to be precisely in the right place for me, said Claude. But this restaurant is a special place. I can find my way around here.

  —Here, said Sif, you are the best waitress there has ever been.

  —I know that, said Claude. There’s no need for you to say it.

  —I’m not saying it for your benefit, said Sif. I just like to say things that are true.

  Claude snorted.

  —You? Say things that are true? Why, you’re the biggest liar ever to go uncaught! But as for me, alas, I may no more.

  —That’s not true, said Sif. You lie too. And Selah catches me all the time. I like to let him catch me lying. It’s a game we play.