Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— Better not to think about it, said the guess artist.

They continued down a short stairwell to a lower level, then along a ramp, through a double door, into a right-angling hallway, through a sort of auditorium, and then up to a large locked door. Beside it was a bell.

The guess artist stopped in front of the bell.

— I think it’s important that you ring the bell. We don’t want to mess this up.

— You’re right, said S. Do you remember what Ref the Sly said to his mother when he returned from killing Thorbjorn?

— It was a riddle, but I don’t remember what, said the guess artist, unhappy that he had been caught forgetful of his sagas.

— He says that he probed the path to his heart. Also he says that he was offered a knife and a whetstone. I think Thorbjorn had it coming, don’t you?

— Probably, said the guess artist.

S. pulled very hard on the bell cord. The resulting sound was quite loud, but neither of them stirred an inch. The municipal inspector was thinking about the girl and how she had lost her memory because of being hit by a taxi. The guess artist was thinking that the municipal inspector was thinking of the Thomas Gray poem that goes

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,

Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

The guess artist was touched very much by this. He thought it wonderful that the municipal inspector should admire also a verse of which he was so fond.

But, of course, he was wrong. The municipal inspector was thinking about how it was strange that Mora had managed to land entirely upon her head, and did things like that happen to her often? Perhaps they did, and if so, was she a good person to know? Perhaps not.

A little metal window slid open, and someone’s eye was looking at them.

— What do you want?

— Is this the dead-letter office? asked S.

— Are you asking me? asked the dead-letter clerk.

— I suppose, said S.

— Then come back tomorrow. At this hour, we only deal with implacable demands, particularly those enforced with fists and knives.

He shut the metal window, and his footsteps were audible as he walked away from the door.

S. rang the bell again. After a moment, the footsteps could be heard again. Again the window slid open.

— What do you want?

The man’s voice was a little whiny.

— Let us in, said S. I’m an Inspector.

He showed his badge again.

The metal window slid shut, and they could hear locks being unbound. Slowly the door swung open.

— Well, come on in. You’re the first visitors in a long while, said the dead-letter clerk.

He was a tiny man, with a long face, long fingers, and a keen gaze like a lamp.

— We’re looking for— began the guess artist.

— Don’t tell me, said the clerk. You’ll see why.

He led them down a low hallway, so low that S. and the guess artist were forced to duck their heads as they walked. At the end there was a step down and a turn. As they came around the turn, they beheld an enormous room the size of a gymnasium. The entire room was piled high with letters of every kind. One huge pile of letters, perhaps two stories tall. Up above, on the ceiling, there was some kind of aperture that opened and closed. Through it, the guess artist surmised, the letters were dropped by some kind of machine.

On the far side there was a bed, a table, some chairs, a little bookshelf, a single burner, and a sink strapped to the wall.

— Do you live here? asked S.

— We do, said the clerk. My wife and I.

A woman came out from behind the pile of letters. She looked identical to the dead-letter clerk except that she had long hair.

— Hello, she said.

Her voice was very pleasant. As soon as she said hello, both the guess artist and S. wanted very much for her to say something else.

— How are you? they asked.

— All right, she said. We have the devil at our necks down here. If we don’t get something done with these letters, our home will be crushed.

And indeed it was true. The letters were already encroaching on the area where their little home was situated.

— Whose idea was it to put your things there? asked S.

— The director’s, said the clerk. It’s to boost productivity.

— But what are you supposed to do with the letters? asked the guess artist.

— We have to get rid of them somehow, said the clerk’s wife. I often put them into other envelopes.

She took some out of her pocket.

— And then I mail them to other places.

— What do you do with them? the guess artist asked the clerk.

— I like to cut them up into bits and put them in the tube.

In one wall there was a large tube mouth. The clerk held up a set of cunningly fashioned shears. They looked like they would cut through almost anything.

— Those look like they could cut through almost anything, said the municipal inspector.

The clerk picked up a metal pipe that happened to be lying on the floor. He nipped at it with the shears and cut it in half.

— Pretty neat, said S.

— Thanks, said the clerk, blushing.

The clerk’s wife came over and patted him on the shoulder.

— He’s very proud of his shears. He just got them a week ago.

— A week ago? asked the guess artist.

— Yes, just a week ago, she said. It was his birthday.

At this the dead-letter clerk blushed even more.

— Well, happy birthday, said S.

— Thank you, said the clerk.

He looked down at his feet for a while and then managed to regain his composure.

— Was there anything you wanted down here? he said.

— We’re looking for any letters having to do with a girl, said S. carefully.

— Hmmm, said the clerk’s wife.

It was a really wonderful hmmm, and the other three smiled gently at the sound of it.

— Do you know her name? she continued.

— No, said S. She lost her memory and I’m in charge of finding it.

— A special case, then, said the clerk. I wonder if…

— Good idea! said the guess artist.

— What? said the dead-letter clerk.

— He’s a guess artist, said S. Sometimes he can guess what you’re thinking.

— Really? asked the clerk’s wife. Would you try to guess what I’m thinking? she asked softly.

— Sure I would, said the guess artist.

He looked at her for a while.

— You want to take a trip to the country, but you’re afraid that if you say so your husband might be sad because he loves it so in the dead-letter office, and doesn’t really want to go anywhere else, and besides, you know that if you left, the work would pile up and you might come back and have nowhere to sleep and what would you do then?

— How did you know? she said, aghast.

— You want to leave? said the clerk to his wife. His eyes got very large and began to fill up with tears.

— Just for a few days, she said. Just for a weekend. You know, a weekend in the country!

Her face was radiant. She really did look not at all like him sometimes, and just like him other times.

— But, he said, the letters…

— I know, she said. Don’t worry. We’re not going anywhere.

There was not a trace of resentment in her voice.

— Now, she said, turning back, what are we going to do about your girl’s lost memory?

— I had an idea, said the clerk, but I seem to have forgotten it.

— It was, said the guess artist, that you were going to use the dog to sniff the letter out.

— Dog? asked S.

— Whirligig! called out the clerk.

From the top of the pile of mail came bounding a miniature German shepherd. He was perfect in every way, but very tiny. He ran up to the clerk, who knelt down to receive him. The two exchanged greetings.