Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— But I get three tries, said the guess artist.

— Three tries, agreed Sif.

She lifted herself up onto the counter, crossed her legs, and leaned against one of the booth poles. Her eyes were very keen and sharp, and she fastened them on the guess artist’s temples. Let’s see how good he really is, she thought to herself.

The guess artist stood up and came around the counter. He leaned against it and peered at her. She inclined her feet and let her sandals fall onto the boardwalk, one, two.

— If you think you’re making it harder for me, you’re not, said the guess artist.

— Stop stalling, said Sif. What am I thinking?

— You’re thinking, said the guess artist, that this whole business of there being only seven days to the week is a big lie, and that there are actually eight, but that one is hidden, and that if you can discover it, your life is lengthened by that exact proportion, but better even than that, you get one day a week when only the people in the know are out and about, and it is on that day that all the best conversations happen.

— I think you’re still stuck on that calendar expert, said Sif. I wasn’t thinking anything like that at all.

— All right, said the guess artist. You’re thinking about the fact that the cage and its canary were in the trunk of the cab by chance and that it was only by chance that you thought to tell the cabdriver to open the trunk and that you lied to him about it, and should you feel bad about lying to him? Because you don’t, but you wonder if a regular person would.

— No, said Sif. Not me. Try again.

The guess artist gave her a searching look. He nodded to himself.

— You’re thinking that the pamphleteer whom you are in love with maybe doesn’t love you as much as you would like, and perhaps you should put some kind of truth serum into the Tunisian food at supper tonight so that you can ask him questions about what he does when you’re not around.

— Geez, said Sif. You are the real guess artist. Do you know where I can get truth serum from?

— Sodium Pentothal? asked the guess artist. There’s a Russian guy several blocks that way, on Avenue Y. He supposedly sells old Soviet army gear. He’s the one to talk to.

He wrote the address of the store down on a piece of paper.

— Well, said Sif. Thanks.

— No problem, said the guess artist.

— One more thing, said Sif. You don’t get the canary until you tell me what he’s thinking. And don’t lie, because I can tell when people are lying.

— I know that, said the guess artist. Give me a minute.

He looked intently at the canary. Then he reached out and rattled the cage a little. The canary leapt from one spot in the cage to another. The guess artist began to cry.

— Shit, said Sif. I was afraid that would happen.

— Don’t worry about it, said the guess artist, wiping his face with a handkerchief. However, I refuse to tell you what he’s thinking. It’s too sad. Nothing so sad has ever been said out loud.

Sif shrugged her shoulders. She opened the cage and let the canary out. He flew up and landed on her shoulder.

— Later, she said.

— So long, said the guess artist.

Sif walked off down the boardwalk, canary clinging to her shoulder. The guess artist sat down behind his booth. What a day, he thought. Just then a kid ran up to the counter. It was the guess artist’s apprentice, Gustav.

— Hey, Gustav, how are you? he asked.

— I’m all right, said Gustav. My frog died.

— That’s too bad, said the guess artist.

Someone came up to the booth. A very heavy man with a large briefcase. The guess artist made a signal to Gustav to come around the counter.

— Hello, he said to the man.

— Hello, said the man. Quite a day.

— Yes, said the guess artist, a day for painting eyes onto the eyelids of the dead.

— I haven’t heard anyone say that in a long time, said the heavy man. Anyway, can you guess what I’m thinking?

— I can, said the guess artist. And so can my apprentice here.

He pointed to Gustav and smiled proudly.

— But it takes him more tries. Do you have a minute? he continued.

— Sure, said the heavy man. Go on, then.

— By the way, said the guess artist, leaning over the counter and whispering: His frog just died, so take it easy on him.

— All right, said the heavy man.

Very quietly, then, to the guess artist, he said,

— I’ll think of something historic.

He closed his eyes and then opened them.

— Go on, he said.

Gustav made little fists and hunched over. He growled a little bit like a dog and then straightened up. His eyes had gotten very big.

— It was in Russia, many years ago. Perhaps it was the reign of the empress Elizabeth. Her palace in Moscow was as grand a palace as had ever been, and all her courtiers were beautiful and elegant, and any one of them was wiser than the wisest man could ever be today. Now, Elizabeth was a virgin empress. She had never taken a lover, and once she came into her majority, she began to look around for an appropriate man upon whom to fasten. Before her gaze, then, the Count M.

M. was a renowned man. An accomplished horseman, a deadly duelist, a killer of bears, a tried soldier, and an excellent dramatist; whatever he turned his hand to flourished. He had been at court when the empress was a young girl. At that time he had gone away to make his reputation. Having made it he had returned, and she longed for him to think of her not as the girl she had been but as the woman she was. And so she lavished every reward she could on him. She gave him a great estate in the western marches; she gave him servants and a large house in the city. She brought her gifts to bear upon his friends and acquaintances. To those whom he showed favor, she showed favor. In short, the star of the Count M. rose as never any star had risen before.

And for these gifts of favor, all the count had to do was make attendance upon the empress, and bring her things that she desired. She loved, for instance, the tiny flowers that bloom only at dawn on the wayward side of hills that have not seen human step in six generations of man.

For these flowers he would hunt, on his splendid charger, galloping with his Cossack guard up and down the broad plains.

Her joy upon the reception of these little nothings was boundless, and she longed to throw herself into his arms. However, she was the empress and he a mere count. Things had to be done properly, and that would take time.

It was at this moment in the empress’s reign that a certain grand duke came to court, and along with him his daughter. This girl was unremarkable in any way, save that for some reason, the count was riven by her, and could think of nothing else, could stir to no action but to go to the grand duke’s house, day and night, and pay court to her hand. The girl was sensible of the great honor being done her, but was frightened by the possible anger of the empress. The affair was hushed up for a fortnight, but when it became obvious to all that the count no longer was coming to see the empress, all wondered where he was going instead. And in that time the Count M. was married to the daughter of the grand duke. So soon the truth came out.

The empress, needless to say, was pierced to the heart. She wept and cast herself repeatedly onto the ground in her opulent dressing chambers. She looked into the mirrors there surrounding her and could find no reason in her own appearance and grace, for there had rarely been a woman born in the world so lovely as the empress.

Then her sorrow turned to rage. She called to her ministers and convened a council of which it has been said no council ever bore so particularly upon a single hatred as this of the empress Elizabeth.