Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— Yes, said S., that’s you. Do you know how déjà vu occurs?

— No, said the guess artist.

— Well, said S., when you are a child, somewhere between two and four years of age, a night comes that you have a dream. In that dream you dream your entire life, from start to finish, with all its happinesses, its disappointments, its loves, its hates, its pains, its joys. Your entire life. The dream should have to last an equivalent amount of time, but somehow it happens in just one night.

The guess artist said nothing, but only stared at S. with a look of great and involved interest. This pleased S. He continued.

— Most people forget their dream. In fact, everyone forgets most of it. However, I was a precocious child. That morning I was left alone by myself with a large sheet of paper and a bucket of crayons. While my dream was still fresh in my head, I constructed a map of my life, using symbols and writing down what I could. Somehow I realized that to write too much would ruin it, and would make me sad in the end. Therefore, what I wrote down were mostly clues as to how to manage the difficult parts.

He closed the map up and returned it to his sleeve.

— Doesn’t that make life rather complicated? asked the guess artist.

— I don’t think it can become more complicated than it is. I think it has already inherently reached the ultimate level of complication.

— What does it say about our search? asked the guess artist.

— We’re coming up to a tricky part. I think we may end up in a bit of trouble for a little while.

— All right, said the guess artist. I don’t mind that. I don’t have anything else to do. And I can always go back to my booth.

— Yes, said S. You can always go back to your booth.

Just then the train pulled into a station. The municipal inspector and the guess artist got off. They went down to the street level and walked for a while in the direction of Beard Street. The night had been passed in great industry and first false, then true exaggeration of circumstance. Both men felt this, and it was a pleasing feeling. The sun was coming up behind them to the left as they walked, and they could feel it warming their backs. The guess artist thought of his booth, and how the light would be warming the curtain that hung over it, how an old man might be walking along the boardwalk just at this moment, and how he might look at the guess artist’s sign and think, I wonder if he can guess my thought. The guess artist tried, just to try.

— He is thinking of his late wife, who used to love to drink tea when the sun was rising. All the rest of the day for her was naught. Just drinking tea at dawn and having a bit of a walk to look for signs that the seasons were changing. And also there was the picture of her when she was a young woman and all the young men were after her for a date. And how she had asked him, she had asked him, if he wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and how fine it had been that night, with all the lights of Manhattan far away on the horizon, and the feel of his own body, young in his young man’s clothes.

— What are you talking about? asked S.

— Nothing, said the guess artist. Here we are.

Up ahead there was a sign.

BEARD STREET

it said.

— It’s that way, said S., pointing to the left.

They walked along for a little ways. It was a Victorian house, quite a large one, standing all by itself on an overgrown block. There was a high stone wall around the premises. Farther down the street, S. could see the warehouses where ships would leave their goods, and the wharves. He could see in the distance Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty. Lower Manhattan sat quietly too, behind a veil of Brooklyn buildings. He thought then of the Seventh Ministry, of Rita sitting behind her desk, delicately writing out messages to bring up to him upon his return. He thought too of Mars Levkin, who might be wondering at that very moment just what the young inspector was up to.

Well, Levkin, thought S., I think you would approve.

— In we go, said S.

Up to the gate he proceeded. A metal plate was stamped and set upon the gate: 14 BEARD STREET, it said. He unbolted the gate, and passed through. The guess artist followed after. Up the stone stair they went to the door. S. knocked upon the door. There was no answer. However, there was certainly the hush of something about to happen, and the hush of a large number of people suddenly deciding en masse to keep quiet.

— What on earth? asked the guess artist.

S. closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. The interior of the house was somewhat dark. All the windows had been covered over, and lamps gave what little light there was.

— Hello! he said. Is there anyone here?

The guess artist came to his side.

— Many people are thinking, he said. But they are being very quiet, even about that.

A loud noise of bolting came behind them. S. spun around. The door had been shut. A large man stood in front of it, barring their way.

— So you thought you’d come to Fourteen Beard Street? he said in a booming voice. Many people come, but no one has ever left. It is a sort of trap. We let people in. Anyone can come in. The door is often open. But once you are in, you are in. You may live here, happily. People have lived happy lives within the confines of this house. We have a small population here. Imminently, you will be introduced around. I myself will perform this service for you.

He was wearing a scarlet dressing gown, and his fists were the sort of fists an oak tree might have if it balled up its roots and decided to hit you.

— I’m surprised, said the guess artist.

— Where is the girl? asked S.

— All your questions will be answered, or unanswered in time. For now, come and sit in the study. We shall have a cigar and talk of old times. If I am not mistaken, we know each other.

— I don’t remember that, said S., but let’s get along. The sooner we learn the facts of the matter, the better.

— Facts of the matter! snorted the man. You can’t leave; that’s the only fact. Haven’t you read Dumas? Haven’t you heard of the mousetrap ? Everyone who enters the building is held there indefinitely. This is the only real mousetrap there’s ever been.

— Clearly insane, whispered the guess artist in S.’s ear.

— What is he thinking? asked S. quietly.

— He’s thinking about flying a plane over a broad and tumultuous sea.

— Really? asked S.

— And the strangest thing is, the plane is shaped just like this house.

They came to the study. The man ushered them in. They sat in comfortable chairs. On the wall were many fine paintings, mostly impressionist.

— You like the French? asked S.

— I like vague things, said the man. The vaguer the better.

He turned to the door.

— You can come in now! he bellowed. It’s safe!

Dozens of people, it seemed then, came running into the room, and as they did, the room grew larger to fit them. Or had the room been that large from the beginning? That was the only explanation. The people were all dressed as children, in odd nineteenth-century clothing. They had shrill voices, and made braying noises with their throats as they ran.

S. and the guess artist looked at each other in horror and drew back in their chairs.

— Just my little joke, said the man.

He clapped his hands and all the children went away. The room was empty again and small.

— Caroline, he called. We have guests.

A finely dressed woman in her forties entered the room.

— Patrick, she said, you should have told me we were having guests.

She gave him a sharp look.

The guess artist leaned over and whispered in S.’s ear.