Gene Wolfe - There Are Doors

“I don’t know,” he told her. “But don’t worry. I don’t think this little girl really exists. If she has a doll, it probably isn’t real either.”

He hung up the phone, went to the crate, and took the edge of the middle board in both hands. It felt as though it were cutting his palms, then as though his shirt—no, the muscles of his back were tearing, ripping themselves to shreds of effort and pain. Nails started to give, protesting like mice as they were drawn from their holes, the last surrendering with a jerk that nearly sent him flying backward.

Tina whistled like a tiny teakettle. “I didn’t know you were so strong.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted. He peered through the wider opening he had made. The object within looked rough and nearly black.

“Are you going to pull them all off?”

He shook his head. “I had that one in me. I don’t think there are any more.”

“Don’t lay it down like that,” Tina advised him. “You’ll step on a nail. Stand it up against the wall.”

“You’re right,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen. I’ve got a screwdriver in there.”

“I want to show you something first. Will you come over here?”

He sat down on the sofa beside her.

“I’m going to do magic. Put your hand in here.” Here was the pocket of his overcoat. “What do you feel?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s empty.”

She raised one tiny arm dramatically. “Now watch as the Amazing Tina goes inside for a minute!” She crawled headfirst into the pocket as a full-sized girl might have dived beneath the covers of a bed. A moment after her feet had disappeared, she was climbing out again. “Now put your hand in.”

He did, and drew out a thin packet of bills. Tina laughed and clapped.

“How did you do that?”

“Well, you couldn’t put me in another drawer because you were talking. And I knew after that you’d want to look at the magic mail. Me, too.”

“Magic mail?”

“Yes,” Tina told him firmly. “Magic mail. But never mind, there wasn’t a lot for me to do, and your coat was lying here on the sofa.”

As patiently as he could, he asked, “But why was the pocket empty the first time I put my hand in it?”

“Open it and look at it under the light, and you’ll see.”

He did, sliding to the end of the sofa next to the table lamp, putting the coat on his lap, and turning the three-way bulb to its maximum brightness. A thin panel of fabric, of the same material as the lining of the pocket, divided it into two chambers.

“It’s a double pocket,” Tina told him delightedly. “Only the middle thing had gotten pushed up underneath the flap. When I got in, I could feel the money on the other side, so I looked to see what it was.”

He nodded slowly. “I should have felt it myself.”

“You were looking for something at the bottom, probably, not off to one side.”

He nodded again. “Thank you, Tina.”

“Is that the money?”

“It must be.” The packet was secured with a rubber band, now gone weak. He pulled it off and tossed it toward the waste basket before looking at the bills. There were five hundreds, three fifties, a ten, and two singles, all quite similar to the designs with which he was familiar, but all bearing the faces of women. He had a fifty in his wallet; he got it out and compared it to the ones from the packet. Neither the scrollwork nor the style of the lettering was precisely the same. The fifty with Grant’s picture read FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE. The fifties from the packet said GOLD CERTIFICATE REDEEMABLE FOR FACE VALUE.

He laid the money down, struck by a thought. “Tina, you could go inside that crate just like you went into my pocket.”

She looked at the crate dubiously. “I guess I could.”

“Of course you could. It might have been a little tight before I pulled off that slat, but now there’s a big space.”

“All right,” Tina said, suddenly decisive. “Lift me up.”

He returned the Grant fifty to his wallet, put the rest of the bills on the end table, and stood Tina on the board beside the opening. She said, “It’s awfully dark in there. Have you got a little flashlight or something I could use?”

“I don’t think so, but I can move the lamp so it shines into there.”

She nodded. “I think you’d better.”

He did, noting as she lowered herself into the opening that her skin was smooth plastic. She’s just a mechanical doll, he thought. I’ve been playing with a programmed doll.

Yet he missed her as soon as she was out of sight.

Tina might tell him what was in the crate; but he would have to open it himself, unless he wanted to wait until tomorrow evening and have the custodian do it. That would be the sensible thing, certainly.

He discovered that he had no wish to do the sensible thing, and it took only a moment of self-analysis for him to find the reason: he would see Lara tomorrow, and he wanted to be able to tell her all about this crate and whatever was in it. He most definitely did not want to have to tell her he had been unable to get it open. What would Lara think of a man who could not open a simple wooden crate?

He went into the kitchen and equipped himself with the screwdriver he had mentioned to Tina and a big utility knife that had come with the set from Chef’s Shape-Up. Studying its cruel curve, he tried to remember whether he had ever used it before. Probably not; it seemed intended for butchering large hairy animals that were not quite dead. He could hardly start stabbing and slashing at the crate with it until Tina was safely out of the way.

“Tina!” he called. “Are you okay in there?”

There was no answer. He put his ear over the opening and listened, feeling sure that if Tina was moving around inside he would hear her. After a few seconds he could make out the whir of the electric clock and the faint noises of someone preparing for bed in the next apartment, but there was no sound from the opening; it was as silent as a grave.

“Tina, are you playing a joke on me?”

He grabbed another board and tried to pull it off. Whether because it was more tightly secured or because he had exhausted himself on the first, it yielded not the smallest fraction of an inch.

Yet it was slightly cracked. He jammed the big blade into the crack and worked it back and forth. The crack enlarged in a satisfying way and soon reached the edge of the board, depriving one end of the strength of one nail. He drove the blade under that end and pried—he had heard that you were not supposed to pry with the blade of a knife, but he found that he did not give a damn. If the blade broke, he would pry with what was left.

The remaining nail gave instead, shrieking and bending. He threw down the knife, grabbed the board, and tore it off.

The opening was doubled, so that the light from the table lamp he had positioned for Tina shone into it more effectively. The rough dark surface, which he had imagined to be that of the object contained, was revealed to be only some sort of packing material or wrapping. He felt it and pushed against it; the object beneath seemed smooth and unyielding. There was no sign of Tina.

With the knife, he started to work on the third board, then realized he was neglecting a more powerful tool. He slipped the narrow end of the board he had just pulled loose under the third board and threw his weight on the opposite end, using the edge of the crate as a fulcrum. Though its nails complained like the rest, it came up fairly easily. So did the next, and only the board on which the table lamp stood remained.

He tried to grasp the rough packing material and tear it, but it was too tough to tear and too tightly stretched to afford him an effective grip. The big utility knife would cut it, he felt sure. But the knife might also damage whatever the packing sheet was protecting, might even harm Tina. He called to her again, softly, and tried to tell her how worried he was. There was no response.