Gene Wolfe - There Are Doors

“And that is?”

“Joe’s allowed two handlers in his corner. I’m going to be one of those handlers.”

Lara shook her head. “That would be extremely irregular. The Boxing Commission—”

“God damn the Boxing Commission! I told you what I want. You know what’s going to happen if I don’t get it.”

Unexpectedly Jennifer asked, “If you do, are you going to hurt Joe anyway?”

North shook his head. “Not if I get what I want.”

Lara said, “Then tell me what you’ll do if you don’t get what you want, Mr. North. Again, I prefer to hear it from you.”

“To start with, I’ll tell the police about Walsh. He’s an escaped mental patient. You know that—so do I. He hasn’t been picked up because you’re his lawyer and Secretary of Security Klamm’s supposed to be your stepfather.” One corner of North’s mouth went up. “You think anybody really believes that?”

Lara said, “He and I do. It happens to be true.”

“Then you wouldn’t want to see him hurt. Or the President, and anything that hurts Klamm is going to hurt her politically. The papers haven’t connected the little bald guy who broke out of United with Joe’s manager; but they’ll sure as hell connect Walsh with you, and you with Klamm. With a little help, they might even connect Walsh with Green here, and he’s as crazy as a blue crab.”

He shook his head, thinking how tired Lara must be getting of being threatened with the media. First him, now North.

She said, “Eddie, you were correct to ask me to come. I’m supposed to protect you, and he’s using me to get at you.”

“’At’s not it. I was hoping you could see a way out.”

Lara turned back to North. “All you want is to be one of Joe’s handlers?”

North nodded.

“But we have no assurance you won’t use the same threat again and again.”

“I’m going to give it to you now,” North told her. He took a folded paper from his pocket. “This is a confession of murder, to be signed by me.”

It had seemed that nothing could surprise Lara, but that did; for an instant her eyes opened wide. “May I ask who you murdered?”

North nodded. “A doctor named Applewood. The police were about to get him, and he would have talked. He was a low-level man, but because he was a doctor he knew more than a low-level man should have.” North had taken a pen from his pocket. “That was about four months ago. Maybe you read about it.”

To him, Lara said, “You knew him—Dr. Applewood.”

He nodded. “Years ago.”

Walsh was staring at North. “Ya really going to sign that thing?”

“And give it to you,” North said, “or rather to Miss Nomos to hold in trust for you, when you agree to let me act as one of Joe’s handlers. You’re going to be the other, and do the actual handling.”

Slowly Walsh shook his head.

Lara said, “In other words, you trust us.”

W.F. had finished with Joe’s hands. He said, “But we don’t trust him. No way!”

North shrugged. “Naturally not. That’s why I wrote this. You have to promise me, on your honor, that you won’t use it or talk about it unless I threaten Walsh again. I know you won’t break that promise. But if you do, I’m free to tell the papers what I’ve told you I’d tell them. I might add that some of my friends will see to Joe and Jennifer for me.”

The noise of the crowd above them had become so constant that he had ceased to notice it. Now those thousands of throats fell suddenly silent, so that when Lara spoke her voice seemed unnaturally loud. “I think we should do it,” she said.

Walsh glanced at her incredulously. “Let this guy handle Joe?”

North said, “I’ll do whatever you tell me. You have my solemn word.”

Walsh shook his head. “It won’t be me telling ya. It’ll be W.F.”

W.F. yelped, “Wait up!”

Walsh said, “W.F., ya not losing ya chance t’ second the champ ’cause of me.”

“Hold on—Joe need you. You got strategy for him, all that stuff.”

The big fighter, who had been listening (as it seemed) with no more interest than an ox, nodded emphatically.

Lara asked, “Would you like a ringside seat, Eddie? Close to Joe’s corner? I can get you one if you wish.”

“Yeah,” Walsh told her gratefully. “Yeah, I sure would.” Sweat beading the small man’s head vanished before a yellow handkerchief.

“Perhaps when Mr. North has been seen sufficiently, you and he might change places.”

North nodded. “Perhaps. But the decision must be mine, not Walsh’s.” There was triumph in North’s voice.

“That’s understood. Sign that paper, then, and it’s all arranged.” Lara turned to him. “You look doubtful.”

He asked, “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“What would be the good—”

Someone pounded on the door. A voice called, “Time, Joe! You ready?”

Like a lion, Joe slid from the masseur’s table and drifted toward the door. W.F. followed, carrying a red-and-white kit as big as a small suitcase. “You a handler now?” W.F. asked North. “Okay, you fetch the waterbucket and all them towels.”

“Sure thing.” North signed the paper and gave it to Lara.

She unfolded it and glanced at it. “Jennifer? A seat for you? It’ll be no trouble.”

The blonde shook her head. “I never watch. I’ll wait right here.”

Lara nodded to him. “Then come along.”

He wanted to say that it had not been “come along” when she had left Mama Capini’s. W.F. opened the door for Joe; there was a thunderclap of questions from the reporters and an incessant lightning from the flashguns of the photographers. Walsh was walking on tiptoe and talking rapidly to Joe, lips as close to Joe’s ear as possible. Joe pounded glove against glove.

He was going with them, but Lara held him back. “They’ll ride up in the same elevator,” she said. “Eddie, Joe, and W.F. That’s their privilege. North too, I’m afraid, but that can’t be helped. When they reach the ring, Eddie will have to leave them. That will be hard enough.” After a few seconds, they stepped out into a corridor that was now empty, and she pulled the green door shut behind them.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To join my stepfather. Two of his guards will have to surrender their seats to you and Eddie. They won’t be happy about that, but they can stand in the aisle.”

“May I ask a few questions?”

“Certainly.” Lara sounded preoccupied, and he was as much astonished as delighted when he felt her hand slip into his.

“It was lunch time—almost one—when we left Capini’s.”

“Lunch for us,” she said. “Some other people were having dinner. You didn’t notice.”

“My watch,” he glanced at it, “says it’s a little past two. What time is it here?”

“After ten. Why should you expect it to be the same time in different places? If you’d called London after lunch, would you have expected them to tell you they’d just sat down to tea?”

“It’s been years for me.” He tried to count them, but he could not. “How long for Eddie and Joe and W.F.?”

“What does that matter?” They had reached the elevators. Lara pushed the button with the hand that held her purse.

“How long?” he insisted.

“About four months, or so North said.”

“You’re a goddess.” It took an effort for him to force the words to his lips; he made the effort, and they came. “You live forever?”

As they entered the elevator, Lara turned to look at him. For once there was no hint of mockery in her eyes. “There are many forevers,” she said. The elevator rose.

He took her in his arms, not suddenly or violently, but enfolding her as a flower would enfold a bee, if the bee were indeed its lover and no mere go-between. Her kiss stung his lips, smooth and sunwarmed.