Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— What I like best, said the guess artist, is when at Coney Island on the boardwalk the farthest distances of the sea come up very close and quietly to the edge of the sand to surprise me. HELLO, they say, and I greet them with a small shyness of smiling and inclining of my hand. Also, then the slanting of the light in deference to the occasion and the sudden and impulsive gladness of the bathers. Naturally they are insensible to the reason for this business of the waves and myself and the sunlight. However, effect always supersedes rationale, and they themselves, basking in the junction of the various elements, grow large in the world’s esteem and are therefore suffused with the pleasure that is at the core of the sweetest and most delectable fruit.

Meanwhile, the municipal inspector was examining the door that was at the bottom of the ladder. It was a very ordinary door and had no molding or other ornament to help it put its best foot forward. Only a key-sized lock and a small gap where it met the floor. Not even a knob awaited them there.

— As I see it, he said, either we have the key to the door or we put something underneath it, a message of some sort. Or we knock. Or we break it down.

— I don’t know, said the guess artist. Perhaps if we wait here someone will come and open it.

Instead, the municipal inspector set his hand upon the door and gave it a little push. It swung gently open, revealing a very fine wood-paneled room. Whereas above there were many different rooms, and the narrow hall down which they had walked, as well as a section including the bottom of the stair, here there was only the ladder’s terminus and one broad room beyond the door that took up the entire space.

It was well furnished in a nineteenth-century American style and looked much like the sort of club that a robber baron might have frequented when in search of a cigar, a whiskey, and a good sit.

— Finally, said the guess artist. I’ve been waiting my whole life to find a place as comfortable as this.

He sat down in one of the chairs and let out a great sigh of pleasure.

Selah sat also. At the far end of the room was another door.

— Do we go there next? he said out loud.

— I wonder why he sent us here, said the guess artist.

— What was he thinking when he said it? asked Selah.

— Nothing much, really, said the guess artist. Something about cornfields and mausoleums.

They sat in silence. On the walls were paintings of the American presidents all the way up to Theodore Roosevelt. The quality of the paintings was very high. Just then they could hear the sound of steps. Then the sound of a key in a lock. The far door opened, and a boy stepped through. His name was Morris. He was concerned with the events that were passing and wanted a part in them very badly. Thus, once before, his father had let him out of the tower in which they lived and which they had sworn never to leave. Now, again, the father had dispatched him on an errand of much importance.

— Hello, he said. My name’s Morris. I’m very good at walking far and at climbing trees.

The guess artist and municipal inspector gave the boy encouraging nods. They both felt very strongly that these two occupations as a boy could lead only to a happy and proper future.

— My father said that you should come down to the bottom. It is a very long way and will take you some time. I brought sandwiches and a thermos of coffee that we can have after a few hours’ walk. Then we can walk awhile more, and sleep for the night. If we get up early we should be able to reach the bottom by midday tomorrow.

Disbelief was evident in the faces of the two visitors.

— No, said Morris. It’s true, as you will very well see. We had best begin now. This way, please.

Morris the far walker and tree climber crossed the room and reopened the far door. He passed through it. After him, then, the two comrades. On the opposite side was a sort of closet with another ladder. Morris was already at the ladder’s bottom. They followed him down. This next story was taken up by the beginnings of a huge circular staircase. Selah went to the edge and looked down. Almost immediately he wished that he hadn’t.

— Good Lord, he said. That’s far.

The guess artist also looked down.

— How can that be? he asked.

Hundreds and hundreds of feet below there was some sort of landing. It was too far down to distinguish really what lay there.

— I could tell you, said Morris, but my father has been waiting some time for visitors, and I shouldn’t ruin his fun.

— How can no one know about this? mused the municipal inspector.

To this Morris said nothing.

He began down the stairs. They were broad and carpeted in the middle. The steps had a fine width and were not too steep or too large for easy walking. The banister on the right was a gorgeous mahogany. It was shaped much like a slide.

The municipal inspector’s eye darted to Morris when he saw this.

— Yes, said Morris. You and I are of the same ilk. I have thought often of sliding down, but I have not yet mustered the courage.

The municipal inspector moved slowly to the banister. He looked down. It curved in a great sweeping circle around and around all the way out of sight. The wood was perfectly polished and smooth. He began to lift himself up onto it. Then he thought better and stood again on the stairs.

— It is the same with me, said Morris. But one day…

They began their walk down. The steps were easy to manage, and the carpet had a fine degree of springiness. The guess artist noticed that Morris was not wearing any shoes. He sat down on a step and removed his shoes also. He set them side by side on the stair.

— Is this the only way out? he asked Morris.

— This and a pine box, said Morris.

— How old are you anyway? asked Selah.

— Nine, said Morris. And a half.

Selah thought about removing his shoes, but if he did then his pant cuffs would trail slightly on the ground, as the tailor had taken the shoes into account when testing the length that the pant legs should be. He worried over the notion of his cuffs trailing over even such a fine surface as that provided by the richly carpeted stair. Well, he thought then, I could roll them up. He took off his shoes, set them beside the guess artist’s, and rolled up his cuffs. He took a few steps down the stairs, then returned to his shoes. Out of his pocket he took a small black notebook. He opened it. On the first page it said, World’s Fair SHORTHAND.

— What is that? asked the guess artist.

— It’s all my ideas for the World’s Fair 7 June 1978.

The municipal inspector tore out a page from the middle. He wrote a short note on the page and stuck it in his shoe. It said:

These shoes are poisonous. Beware. If you touch them or wear them, the death you will suffer will make every death you have ever heard of or seen seem easy in comparison.

Morris was very impressed with this note. He said so.

— Thank you, said the municipal inspector. I am often leaving notes. I have had much practice.

On then again down the broad and limitless stair. They walked at first for what seemed like hours, but was really not, and then afterwards for what were hours. All the light was provided by mirrored ducts in the wall. As it became dark outside, the stair too grew dark. However, the carpet was of such soft kindness, and the mahogany wood so pleasing to touch, that they found their way easily downwards through the nigh complete dark.