by Nydam, Anne
The Extraordinary Book of Doors
By Anne E.G. Nydam
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2014 by Anne E.G. Nydam
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without permission.
ISBN 978-1496076823
www.nydamprints.com
Cover photograph, design, and
all illustrations by Anne E.G. Nydam.
Dedicated to my Midwest Agents,
whose legwork and love were essential
to this book, as to so much else.
I. Three Important Events
On the morning of Tuesday, July 8 three important things happened, although no one was to realize their importance until later. This is often the way with Important Things. Some arrive with trumpet fanfares or ceremonial hats, but many Important Things are small and don't reveal their importance right away. That was how it was on this particular Tuesday.
1. At 9:46 AM a nondescript man in a grey suit and fedora paused in a park in Cleveland, Ohio, and glanced over his shoulder. This in itself is not unusual, of course, as men in suits hurry through parks in every major city in the world, even in July, and fedoras are not especially ceremonial. But this particular man did something that was to prove Important. After looking around hurriedly, he reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out a flat rectangular package wrapped in a plastic bag, and thrust it beneath a bench. Straightening up quickly, he was already walking away when, moments later, a policeman dashed into view. The first officer was followed by three more, all shouting, "Stop! Police!"
The man in the grey suit fixed a polite smile onto his nondescript face, turned around casually, and said in his most innocent voice, "Oh, did you mean me? What can I do for you, officers?"
2. At 10:02 a large moving van pulled up at the delivery dock of Goggin Antiques, Appraisals, and Auctioneers of Wellesley, Massachusetts, bearing assorted valuable bits and pieces belonging to Ambrose P. Hinkelman III. Ambrose III was the great-grandson of Rutherford J. Hinkelman who had been one of the ten richest men in America when the railroads were king, and who had countless libraries, museums, and universities named after him. But Ambrose III, who had inherited everything, wasn't a big fan of art and books, or of giving his money and things away to museums or libraries. He'd had all those useless antiques packed up and sent off to Goggin Antiques to make as much cash as they could on the auction block. He had no interest in any of that old junk.
The Hinkelman collection was of much more interest to the three people who watched the van drive up. One was Ms Miranda Goggin, who would receive a very nice commission for appraising and auctioning off these assorted old and dusty objects. The second was Mr Raphael Green, Ms Goggin’s calm and competent assistant, who would help with everything from unloading the van to displaying the art for wealthy buyers. The third was Ms Goggin's thirteen-year-old daughter Polly, who was sitting on the edge of the loading dock, swinging her feet in their polka-dotted sneakers, and humming a rather tuneless tune under her breath.
Polly always enjoyed watching the unpacking of a new load. Who knew what odd or beautiful treasure might emerge from the back of a delivery truck? Once when she was little there had been a dramatic painting of a sailing ship at sea, a stormy black sky behind it, rough waves smoothing themselves beneath its hull, and ahead of it a glowing red sunset over a peaceful harbor. She had stood in front of that painting before bedtime every night for months, until it had eventually been sold to a Japanese collector. Another time a van driver had unloaded a magnificent collection of twenty-three taxidermy crocodilians of all different sizes and species. And yet another time there was a huge gilt clock with a picture of a stark naked Apollo driving the sun-chariot across the face, and a fantastic secret cubby on the left side of the base.
This time, although Polly didn't know it yet, of course, the most Important thing on the delivery van was to be a certain old book, leather-bound, a little crumbly, and altogether extraordinary.
3. At 11:54 a boy sat on a park bench with a sandwich in one hand and a library book in the other. He closed the book with an involuntary grin and turned his attention to the sandwich, which had only two bites out of it because it hadn’t been nearly as exciting as the book. Chen looked around, chewing, his mind still on the story he had just read and the ingenious way in which the clever scullery maid had outwitted the evil emperor and, with the help of the wizard’s apprentice and the friendly flying laundry basket, reversed the spell that would have destroyed them all… But the grin faded from his face as he remembered that he wouldn't be able to sit down with his best friend to savor this latest development in their favorite series. Because his parents had made him move to this stupid new city.
Here it was, not even the middle of July, and he wouldn't meet anyone until seventh grade began at the very end of August, and probably even then he wouldn't like any of them, or none of them would like him, and he’d be a miserable social outcast forever, and all his mother could say about it was, “Remember, Chen, when one door closes, another opens.” As if that was any consolation.
He scowled at the scene around him with something approaching loathing… the gently curved shore of the artificial lagoon, the fountain sparkling in the sunlight, the broad line of marble steps rising to a building like a splendid Greek temple beneath a pure blue sky… Actually, Chen quite liked the Cleveland Museum of Art where his parents were now the curators of the Department of Prints and Rare Books, but now that he'd finished reading his book, he felt bored and lonely again.
He stooped to pull a carrot stick from the lunch bag at his feet and suddenly noticed something odd about the plastic bag lodged under the bench. It was taped - taped up neatly like a package, not like some random scrap of litter blown there by the wind. For lack of anything better to do, Chen reached for the plastic bag.
It was a package all right, but without any name or address. He turned it over in his hands. A book, definitely. You couldn't mistake that shape. After a moment's hesitation, he tentatively ripped open a corner of the bag and was surprised to see that the book was bound in leather. Old leather. This was a book that would interest his parents. He shoved the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, gathered his lunch bag and library book, and headed up the marble steps to the museum, with the mysterious plastic-wrapped book under his arm.
He was gone just as a nondescript man in a grey suit came strolling casually across the street moments later, heading for a bench that no longer had a very Important Book beneath it.
II. The Extraordinary Book
Chen waved to the museum guard as he came out of the bright sunlight into the museum entrance. He passed right through the lofty armor court and the glass-walled hallway to the atrium. He rode the escalator down to the atrium floor and the corridor that led to the offices, where he burst through the door of the Department of Prints and Rare Books.
“Mom, Dad, check this out!” he called, “Look what I found outside by the lagoon!”
His mother, Dr Robin Burr, looked up from the computer at her desk. “Goodness, Chen, it must be important to warrant such a ruckus.”
His father, Dr Paul Connelly, gently set down a small book with a dark red cover. He was wearing white cotton gloves and working at the brightly lit table in the center of the office. “Whatever it is, don’t bring it over here if it’s dirty,” he said.
“It’s a book,” Chen replied, tearing open the plastic bag. “Look!” He handed the book to his mother. It was about twelve inches tall and seven inches wide, and less than an inch thick. It was bound in light brown leather with decorative embossed panels on the cover, and the image of a key stamped in gold on the spine.
; Chen’s mother turned it over in her hands, examining it on all sides. “You found it by the lagoon? This is no library book sale leftover. Look at this, Paul. Sixteenth century, wouldn’t you say?” She handed the book to her husband.
He lifted the cover gently and inspected the endpapers. “List of names,” he murmured, “All different names… Might be past owners.” Turning to the title page he continued, “Serlio’s Extra Book. This must have come from some academic library or serious collection.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. This is strange.” He pointed to the title page. “First of all, the title written here would actually translate as The Extraordinary Book of Doors. People often call Serlio’s book that in English, but he didn’t. The title really ought to be translated as something like The Extra Book or The Extra Book of Architecture. And the date here is 1549, not 1551, like it should be.”
“So it’s a forgery?” asked Dr Burr.
“Maybe, but I’d be willing to swear that everything about this book – the paper, the binding, the printing, everything – is consistent with a mid sixteenth century date.”
“Pirated edition perhaps?” Robin Burr took back the book and flipped through it, holding it up to the light and peering carefully at the pages. They were all full-page pictures of different doors in ornate frames. “Hmm… some of these doors are odd, did you see? I mean, this one’s thirteenth century Gothic. Serlio would have considered it hopelessly old-fashioned. And then look at this one; it looks downright modern, doesn’t it? Not at all consistent with Serlio’s usual Renaissance Mannerist style.”
Looking between his parents, Chen said, “I don’t know what any of that means.”
His mother took off her glasses, letting them dangle on their black cord, and smiled at Chen. “Sebastiano Serlio was an Italian architect during the Renaissance. But he was most influential not because of the buildings he actually designed and built, but because of his books. He wrote seven books about different aspects of architecture, and the thing about them that everyone loved was their illustrations. They were chock-full of these wonderful prints that turned out to be a huge inspiration to architects all over Europe for centuries.”
“So this is supposed to be one of his seven books?”
“No. He also wrote two extra books. One was on military camps, and the other was an entire book of nothing but designs for doorways. This one. Except, as Dad pointed out, there are some anomalies here. The book of doorways was published in 1551, one of the last things Serlio did before he died in 1554. There were many later editions printed all over Europe, both authorized and pirated, but why does this one give a date of 1549, two years too early? And with the wrong selection of doors, too? It’s a wonderful mystery and I look forward to investigating a bit more when I get a chance.”
Dr Connelly added, “We’ll have to find out where it came from, too. Who would leave something like this under a bench by the lagoon? Unless it really is just a modern forgery. But that binding…” He shook his head, puzzled, then glanced at his watch. “We have about fifteen minutes before our meeting, Robin. Chen, you can walk around the museum while we’re gone or stay in the office, okay?”
“Okay. Can I look at the book?”
Dr Burr nodded. “Just make sure your hands are clean before you touch it, and for goodness sake be gentle with it. We still don’t know whether it might be something really rare and valuable.”
“Okay.” Chen washed his hands at the little sink in the corner of the Department of Prints and Rare Books, then he brought his find over to another table by the office windows and settled down to take a good look.
The title page was in French, with a fancy border all around. “Extraordinaire” clearly meant “extraordinary,” and “portes” must be “doors,” as in “portals.” But that was about all Chen could feel sure of, although there was plenty more, presumably describing what the book was about. Squeezed below the printed words were several lines of handwriting, in very fine, scratchy brown ink.
“Hey, did you notice someone wrote something in this book?” he said to his parents.
“That’ll give us another clue about its history,” his father replied, “Handwriting can often be dated by style and spelling and so on. But we’ll have to look at it later.”
His mother said, “Our meeting should be over by two o’clock, so that’s an hour and a half. Are you all set?”
“Yeah, thanks. Have fun!” Chen gave his parents a grin. As they left he turned back to the book and squinted at the scratchy handwriting.
The Extraordinary Book of Doors by Sebastiano Serlio, Architect and Special Services to the King, Containing thirty doors to diverse locations. And space for twenty additional doors.
“That must be the translation,” thought Chen, “So I guess that tells us that an English speaker owned the book at some point. A long time ago, I bet. That writing looks old. I wonder what kind of special services an architect does for a king. Builds palaces, I guess. Except I would think that for a king that would be a normal service, not a special service.”
Below all the writing was an image of an ornate key. Chen remembered that the image of a key was stamped on the spine, too, and he turned the book to compare them. Yes, it was the same key, with the same intricate bit down at the bottom. He wondered what lock would fit a fancy key like that.
The light glinted off the golden printing on the spine, and Chen frowned and blinked. He had just had the oddest sensation that the key was actually three-dimensional, like a hologram. He tilted the book back and forth, staring at the key. He knew he was looking at something simply stamped on the leather, and yet he couldn’t shake the illusion that the key was fully real. He ran his thumbnail across the spine to assure himself of what he was seeing. His heart gave a thump as the edge of his thumb caught against the shank of the key and he felt it move.
Involuntarily Chen looked around his parents’ office, reassuring himself that he was still in the real world. Then he grabbed at the image of the key. He expected his fingers to close on nothing as if he were trying to pick up a mirage, but instead he felt his fingertips meet on metal, and the ornate key was in his hand.
It was about three inches long, dull gold, and heavy. Chen stared at it rather blankly, wondering whether he would be able to put it back onto the leather spine, and if so, how? And if not, would he be in trouble for damaging the book, after his mother had especially told him to be careful? Still, he didn’t want to try putting the key back just yet. It felt good in his hand, with its warm, solid weight, the intricate smooth curves at its top, and the precisely-worked angles of the bit. He closed his hand around it and hefted it gently as he opened the book again, flipping at random to one of the pages toward the middle.
Like all the other pages, the right-hand side showed a full-page wood block print of a door. Chen liked the way he could see in the image the look of the actual carving from which the picture had been printed, and the slight embossing of the paper from the pressure of the press more than 450 years ago. The door in this picture was in a fancy frame that looked as if it would be built of stone. It was much too grand a doorway for an ordinary house, but might have looked okay as the entrance to an ancient palace, or perhaps a rustic woodland temple. But what caught Chen’s eye was the keyhole. It was an actual hole, right through the page, and through all the pages of the book beyond. Chen was sure he hadn’t seen holes in any of the pages as his mother had flipped through the book just a few minutes earlier. Yet there was a hole here now, just where the keyhole ought to be on the door, and Chen had a key in his hand.
Who in this world, with a keyhole at one hand and a key in the other, would resist the urge to see if they fit together? Certainly Chen hesitated only a moment before he put the key into the hole drilled through the page, and turned. As he heard the faint click, something seemed to click behind his eyes and he blinked.
His hands felt the book: right hand on the edge, thumb against paper and fingers against old leather, with his left hand on the
key. But his eyes saw something completely different. His right hand rested on the frame of a full-sized stone doorway, and his left hand held the iron knob of a door that opened toward him. As he pulled the knob, he felt the page turn in the book but he saw the door open in the door frame, and beyond it, instead of the next page of the book, was a dark room.
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the office of the Department of Prints and Rare Books. He looked forward again and saw the mysterious doorway standing open. He breathed deeply, exhaled, and stepped through.
When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Chen found himself standing in a small room made of stone. One high window let in a greenish light through a curtain of ivy, and behind him was the door, looking rather older and mossier than the picture in the book, but otherwise the same. The room was empty, with a scattering of dry leaves across the stones of the floor.
Chen’s heart was racing. The characters in the books he read always seemed to handle this sort of thing with poise and presence of mind, but he felt completely dumbfounded. This was clearly magic. Magic, for goodness sake! He’d just walked through the pages of a mysterious book and come out in a mysterious room in a mysterious place, which was clearly impossible…
“What is this place, then?” he wondered, trying to pull himself together. He went to the window and, by standing on tiptoe, was able to peer out. He was looking into what appeared to be a garden, with flower beds and a number of unnaturally conical evergreens. Their triangular shadows stretched long and dark across smooth lawn. It might be a public park, of course, but it seemed much more likely that Chen was trespassing on private grounds, and he didn’t know how he would be able to explain his presence if someone found him here. He felt thoroughly unnerved by the fact that he knew neither where he was, nor exactly how he had gotten here. Perhaps it would be wiser to get back to his parents’ office and examine the book there, in safety.