Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— The plane just landed.

— Hello, said Caroline. I’m the mistress of the house. Can I get you something, a cold drink, perhaps?

— Yes, said S., I would like a cup of water, if it’s not too much trouble.

— For me too, said the guess artist.

— All right, said Caroline in an angry voice. If you want some goddamned water, you had best go and get it for yourselves. What do you think I am? Your maid?

Patrick looked very angry as well.

— Who do you think you are, he asked, coming into my house and ordering my wife around? Did I even invite you here? I think not.

S. held up the letter from the dead-letter office. Immediately, Patrick and Caroline grew quiet.

— Where did you get that? they asked.

— It doesn’t matter, said the guess artist. We have it, and we’re here. Where is the girl?

Caroline and Patrick left the room.

— I’m afraid we may be stuck here a very long time, said S. My map indicated something unfortunate was going to happen.

— You may be right, said the guess artist.

Patrick and Caroline came back in. Both of them had changed their clothing. To what purpose, S. could not say.

— I suppose we got off on the wrong foot, said Caroline. Now, do either of you want anything to drink? Something cold, perhaps?

— Nothing for me, said S.

— Nothing for me either, said the guess artist.

— Good, good, she said. Well, let’s get down to business. I want you to have a nice stay here.

She smiled and crossed her legs. It occurred to S. that her legs were on backwards. Or for a moment they had been, but now they were on right again. He looked up at the man, who was carving something out of a piece of wood. He was completely intent on this, and did not seem to notice that S. was looking at him. What was he carving? thought S. It looked like a wolf, but it had a fish body.

The man looked up.

— It’s a seawolf, he said. They are very hungry all the time.

— I would expect that, said S.

— Well, we’ll leave you for a while, said Caroline. The other guests come and go — well, not from the house, I mean, but from the various rooms, so you should be meeting them shortly, or eventually, if you get my meaning. Anyway, good-bye. Ring that bell if you want one of the servants to bring anything.

On the wall beside a bust of Verlaine, there was a bell cord.

— I shall, said S.

Caroline and Patrick left the room. As they left, Patrick asked Caroline what color the seawolf should be, and Caroline told Patrick that seawolves are black with yellow blood, and that they are cowards at heart. At this Patrick became very quiet, even while he was walking. Now, it is not an easy task to become that quiet while walking, but he managed it.

Almost as soon as the couple had left, the guess artist and the municipal inspector became conscious of someone else in the room. A man was sitting in the corner by a lamp, reading a book. He wore a long beard in white, and was dressed as one imagined an old gentleman might have dressed in the year 1927 in the city of Warsaw. The old man noticed their attention, and looked up.

— Good afternoon, he said.

— Is it afternoon? asked the guess artist.

— Only just, he said. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Piers Golp.

— I’m Selah Morse, said S. And this fellow here is a guess artist.

— A real guess artist? asked Piers Golp. I didn’t know there were any left.

— I’m not like the others, said the guess artist.

— I didn’t mean to intimate that you were, said Piers Golp. I only wanted to get across to you my pleasure at your choice of profession, and at the means we now have at our disposal for a fine and elegant conversation.

— You speak well, said S. I like a man who knows how to converse.

— Thank you, said Piers Golp. I once had the pleasure of speaking to the great Oscar Wilde. You know, he was the greatest conversationalist we have yet had among us. We as human beings, I mean.

— I have heard that said, said S. It seemed true then, and it seems true now.

The guess artist stood up and went to the window. He tried to pull up the shutter, but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t move.

— Don’t even bother, said Piers Golp.

— I think I will have that drink of water, said S.

He went over to the bust of Verlaine and pulled on the bell cord.

— Don’t do that! exclaimed Piers Golp. He hopped out of the chair he was sitting in and went behind the table, ducking down behind it so that he could not be seen.

Far away across the house, a bell could be heard ringing. A great sound of shouting could be heard coming closer. S. looked at the guess artist with a question in his eyes. The guess artist returned the question to him unopened. At that moment, the door was thrown wide, and Caroline stood there, in a fury.

— Did someone call for the servant? she asked.

— Not me, said the guess artist. I was just standing here by the window.

Without making any examination of the room, Caroline called out,

— Was it you, Piers Golp? Did you ring the bell?

— Not me, Mrs. O’Shea. It wasn’t me.

He came out from hiding and stood there fragilely holding his hands.

— I can smell him, you know, even when he hides, she said.

At this the old Mr. Golp shrank even more, and seemed on the verge of breaking.

— Leave him alone, said S. I’m the one who rang the bell.

— YOU RANG THE BELL? she shouted.

— That’s right, he said. I rang the bell because I want some water. Now go and fetch it, on the double.

— Very good, sir, said Caroline, curtsying.

She left the room.

The guess artist and Piers Golp looked at each other in shock.

— Not bad, said the guess artist. But how are we to get out of here?

— I have an idea, said S.

He drew his map out of his sleeve again and looked at it a moment.

— The next bit is a little odd, he said.

— Anything has to be better than this, said the guess artist. No offense intended to you, Mr. Golp.

Piers Golp sank into a chair and nodded to indicate that he had taken no offense and also to indicate that he knew very well the undesirable nature of life at 14 Beard Street.

S. came over and knelt down by Piers Golp’s chair.

— Haven’t you something to say to us, Mr. Golp? he asked.

— Well, said Piers Golp, as a matter of fact, I do.

A tiny bit of light came from the out-of-doors around the edges of the shuttered and draped windows. It made its way slowly and carefully over to the three friends and settled on them.

— There is, said Piers Golp, in this city, a certain anonymous pamphleteer whose work I greatly admire.

He held up the book he had been reading. This turned out in fact not to be a book at all but a substantial pamphlet, neatly and elegantly folded to produce the illusion of a book if viewed from a distance of twelve to fifteen feet. On its cover it said, An Inquiry into the Ultimate Utility of the Silly, as Prefigured in the Grave and Inhospitable.

— Is this a particularly good one? asked the guess artist.

— I’ve only just begun it, said Piers Golp. My very favorite is one entitled, Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method.

To all this S. said nothing, but only sat upon his heels, watching very carefully the tides and eddies of expression pass over the face of Piers Golp.

— About this pamphleteer, Golp continued, almost nothing is known. A friend of mine who knows about my predicament here sends me every pamphlet he can get his hands on. He knows how I long for news of the outside world. After all, I was for many years a war correspondent.

— A war correspondent, exclaimed the guess artist.