Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— Sure I can, said Sif, tossing her hair. That means nothing, and you know it.

The two sat quietly, drinking their iced tea.

— Was there pinot noir in this bottle before the iced tea? asked Sif.

— Bingo, said the pamphleteer. Boy, you’re good at that.

— Can’t help it, said Sif. I just like wine. Next time you should try a young cabernet. I think that would contribute better to the taste of the iced tea.

— I’ll put it under advisement.

— Oh, so did you hear about the guy who’s down at Coney Island?

— No.

— The guess artist, there was a piece on him in the Times. Supposedly, he can guess what you’re thinking in three tries.

— Most people think about a very limited number of things, said the pamphleteer. Especially when they’re at the beach.

— No, you sap, said Sif. He can tell you exactly what you’re thinking. I’m going to go down today and see. You want to come?

— I’ve got some things I have to take care of here, said the pamphleteer. But we’re supposed to have supper later on. The Tunisian place on Third, right?

— Yeah, said Sif. Seven o’clock.

— I’ll see you then.

Sif stood up, straightened her skirt, and, leaning over the pamphleteer, gave him a long and lingering kiss.

— That’s so you remember me all day.

— Wow, said the pamphleteer. You need to leave right now.

— See you ’round, said Sif.

In a blur of Nordic grace and khaki, Sif disappeared out the door. The pamphleteer sat, and looked at the bottle of iced tea. Cabernet, he thought to himself. Cabernet next time.

Sif left the pamphleteer’s building and hailed a taxi with a peculiar and effective gesture known only to her and the people to whom she had confided it. This gesture was so effective that with it one was able to steal taxis from people who were upstream. One can imagine how valuable a technique this was in the devil-may-care world of New York City.

She got into the taxi.

— Coney Island, she said, and step on it.

Out of her bag she took a booklike object. First there was a thin card-stock cover. Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method, it said in neat black letters. Out of this cover, she slid the pamphlet of the same name. She opened it and began to read.

Upon coming to a threshold one should always consider the possibility that there may be something hostile awaiting one within. Also, there may be some great pleasure, which, with its sudden and implacable onset of joy, may disarm one even more than the deepest hostility. Sometimes one must be more careful of being seen in happiness than in grief or anger. A great deal may be told from the expression of a happy man or woman. In any case, one must be prepared for the worst, and ready. Therefore, pause a moment before passing through a door, unless, of course, one is being watched on the outside, or one’s approach to the door is being timed, as in a situation when one is buzzed through an exterior door. In that case, one does not have the leisure to pause, for that pause would in its turn be noted and interpreted in a variety of ways, some of which would be harmful. Therefore, perhaps we should say, make the pause a mental pause, a sort of inner unveiling of precaution. It should last barely a second, and immediately preface the entering of the room in question.

Now, when one enters a room one should consider all the angles that are now present from which one’s person may be approached. One should instantly scan the room, looking not with a particular gaze, but with a gaze in general. This second sort of gaze is a more comprehending gaze, and allows the faculty of the mind a greater freedom.

Gunfighters, when entering a hostile situation, have a vague eye that assesses the room at once with a piecemeal faculty, and at once in a coherent vein. They arrange in a flashing second the hierarchy of shooting ability on the part of every man, woman, and child there present. Thus when the gunfighter begins to shoot, killing the various inhabitants, he kills them not from right to left, or left to right, as we often see in films, but according to the prescriptions of his established hierarchy, from strongest to weakest. First he might shoot the old man half-hidden by the bar. He knows the old man was a captain in the Mexican cavalry and that, furthermore, there is a shotgun behind the bar that must not under any circumstances come into use. Then next he spins and takes out the wealthy rancher on the stairs. He has been guested several times at the ranch and knows the rancher’s prowess with the silver-touched pistols he keeps at his side. These two gone, the gunfighter may continue, shooting down first the youngster with the Winchester, leaning against the faro table, and then and only then the cowboy on the near side of the bar. Now, you may say, why wait that long to shoot the cowboy? Alone among the people in the bar, the cowboy has two pistols, and one drawn already at the gunfighter’s approach. Well, it is true that the cowboy may be able to get off two or even three shots before the gunfighter can attend to putting a bullet through his hardy skull. However, the gunfighter relies upon the fact that the cowboy is a terrible shot, this fact gleaned from the state of his pistols, which have obviously not been cleaned or attended to for some time.

So you can see, the proper method of entering a room has more to do with observation than with any particular grace or finesse. A girl who is a real knockout and carries herself with verve and élan must necessarily…

— Coney Island, said the cabbie. That’ll be seventeen dollars.

Sif reached into her wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, folded it twice, and then handed it through the portal.

— I have to get my luggage out.

— All right, said the driver.

They got out of the cab and went around to the back. The cabdriver opened the trunk. Inside there was a birdcage with a canary in it. The birdcage was finely crafted, made from some exotic wood that matched in its texture the feathers of this rare canary.

— Did you put that in there? asked the cabdriver. I don’t remember you putting that there.

— I called ahead, said Sif.

She took the birdcage out and walked up the steps to the boardwalk. It was a very sunny day and there were many people walking arm in arm. Damn that man, thought Sif to herself. This would have been such a fine day to be in love.

She observed in the distance a booth that resembled the picture from the Times, and she walked in that direction. When she arrived, the booth did indeed say, GUESS ARTIST, but the man did not look like the man she had seen in the article.

Must be a copycat, she thought to herself, and continued down the boardwalk. After a few hundred yards, about six hot-dog stands, and nine crying babies, she came to the booth of the real guess artist. A very carefully old-fashioned man was speaking to the guess artist quietly.

It must be hot, thought Sif, in all that black clothing. But the man looked very happy standing there speaking to the guess artist. When the man was done and had left, Sif approached.

— And the Maccabean Revolt? she asked.

— A little, said the guess artist. But mostly we talk about the phenomenal calendars of the Aztec civilization. That man is an expert on calendars of all kinds. Probably the foremost calendar expert in the world.

— Does he have the one with the cats dressed up like people? asked Sif, who liked always to say things both carelessly and with a touch of sarcasm.

— No, he appreciates cats for what they are and hates it when their owners dress them up.

— Good, said Sif. I like him already. So, I brought you this.

She set the canary down on the counter.

— If you’re right, you get the canary. If you’re wrong, I go and give the canary to the fake guess artist down the block. She gave the guess artist a merciless look.