Maria Tenace - The Fourth Door

Maria Tenace

The Fourth Door

Translated by

Fatima Immacolata Pretta

Publisher: Tektime

Copyright © 2019 MARIA TENACE

All rights reserved.

maritena75@gmail.com www.facebook.com/mariatenaceautrice

This book is a work of fantasy.

Characters and situations are the result of the author's imagination and have the only purpose of giving truth to the story.

Any similarity or reference to events, places or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Each reference to the Cuban people and folklore, especially of Yoruba origins, wants to be a tribute to this extraordinary land, rich in historical, cultural and religious references, present and past.

Dedicated to…

This novel is dedicated to brave people who despite the dark manage to grasp all the nuances of life.

And to all those who want to continue to be the bright shade in someone's dark life, despite everything.

To my father who never told me how to live, but he lived and made me observe how he did it.

With an open mind.

- I think I've been here before. -

The girl, walking along the corridor, touched the white wall and followed the path with two fingers of her right hand.

She remembered the feeling of the cold floor, the feeling of his bare feet coming off and rising slowly, alternating in steps.

She also felt the long white nightgown, lightly brushing her ankles, as well as the light weight of the dark braids that fell on her shoulders, just as she wore them as a child.

She sensed the presence of a person by her side, but could not understand who it was.

All that white bothered her a lot.

The reverberation of the cold light of the neon lights attached to the ceiling did not allow her to have a clear vision but she continued, dazzled and confused, with her gaze fixed on her.

- Have you ever had recurring and detailed dreams, so realistic that you cannot understand if you are sleeping or are awake? - Asked the girl.

- I think you shouldn't make confusion between dream and life. -

The calm and reassuring voice answered. Then she continued:

- I will ask you another question and I know you will forgive me: have you ever been on a train and from the window see the one next to it move? -

The girl nodded with a nod.

- Well see, we've all had at least once, the distorted perception that our train is leaving. Instead it stands there, motionless.

We are still and also our train.

It is a bit like life, we believe it is something personal in constant movement and evolution, but only when the empty tracks are revealed, beyond the glass, do we end up realizing that we are still stuck in the same place.

In the same way, only when we perceive the emptiness that we have in the soul, can we realize how deeply we are bogged down in our pools, made of fears and regrets, disappointments, anger and all the ballast of negative feelings that we carry with us.

We take for ourselves some episodes stolen from the life of others, we put them together with crumbled parts of ours and we have the illusion of an authentic experience.

But that's not our life.

It is the life that we would like but that we do not have, and it is this lack that creates that emptiness.

Perhaps there is not even a remedy for that black hole in the soul and the human being, too greedy and curious about everything, should not waste precious time looking for it. -

- What do you mean? I don't understand ... –

The girl stopped to think.

- I mean, basically, if every person, man or woman, looked inside, deep inside, who would ever admit to being completely satisfied or happy, one hundred per cent, of the life they lead?

A car, a job, a family, a full fridge, a new sofa, a dog or a cat.

It doesn't matter if you have all this, all you need and even the superfluous. Man will always feel that something is missing, there will always be a hole, large or small that he will not know how to fill. For some it is the evil of existing, others will call it psychic pain, others with still different names. The time has come for you to understand how to fill that void. Try Stella, maybe it's the right time. -

At the end of the corridor, in front of the fourth door, the presence handed her a small golden key which she grasped with some hesitation.

Open and look who or what is inside, just like you did with the other three doors before. -

So, as if she were projected onto a screen, she found herself living someone else's life.

Looking at her figure reflected in the large mirror in her room, standing in front of her, Martha asked her: what do you want, what are you missing?

But she already knew that she would only move her lips and eyes in sync.

She stopped looking, she understood that all she needed to pass the time was a new canvas, a brush, tempera paints and Valium's bottle of her mother.

That bottle, that modern elixir that allowed her to appear so perfect and socially "acceptable", so much so that she too was a drug addict.

And this was the ritual of the evening, before the shadows entered their room. She looked out the window and thought it hadn't been long. She would have liked to feel the metallic smell of the rain that, at that moment, was drawing fractures on the glass that seemed to be sending it to pieces, at any moment.

Many asked her why she painted only still lifes. People were convinced that it was desperation, death or other shit like that, but she didn't have the answer and didn't pretend to have it, no more. She only knew that she liked to paint woven baskets of rattan, with dried fruit and autumn leaves inside, using the shades of colors that most relaxed her, especially the brown, warm, orange ones.

The sliding of the brush on the canvas, after imbibing it in the color, gave it a serenity difficult to explain. It was the most similar to the ecstasy there is, perhaps it was precisely that creative ecstasy that all painters have experienced at least once in their lives and that only in the older ones, originating from inner motions, in the end generated masterpieces.

She spread the colors on the figures at regular intervals, creating a rhythm, an alternation of full and empty spaces and the empty surface became a score.

Time was dictated by the moment: it could be the chirping of a cicada as the tinkling of wind chimes on the window opened in summer.

In that instant, the sound of the rain on the glass acted as a metronome, a fortuitous sequence of beats that followed one another and gave life to the sound. She heard thunder and this made her think of her grandmother who smelled of a good and clean old woman, thanks to her jasmine colony.

She always told her a story, when in the bed she jumped at the sound of thunder, looking for the cold and flourishing hands that held hers to give her courage.

“It all started with Saint Peter's mother, a stingy and flawed woman. Passed to a better life, the woman was relegated to hell to pay for her sins. One day Peter, grieved for her, asked Jesus to bring her up to Heaven.

Jesus replied that the woman had made too many mistakes in life, but if he had found even one good deed, for love of Peter, he would have made her go up. The saint then consulted his mother's book of life and discovered only one good deed: she had given to a poor man the skins of the potatoes she was peeling.

With those peelings the angels made a rope that was lowered into hell.

The rope was very fragile, but sufficient for the light transport of a single soul.

The woman, happy, grabbed it immediately, but at that point other souls of the damned surrounded her to climb up behind her. The woman screamed, warning the others to stay back.