Authors: Jesse Ball

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary

The Way Through Doors (7 page)

He took a little bottle of rubbing alcohol from a cabinet that was hidden behind the counter and poured a little over the handbill. Letters emerged. The handbill now said:

Pier 12, four a.m. Look-alike contest.

—Did you go back the next night? asked the guess artist.

—Yes, there was a different contest. Everyone then also looked vaguely similar, but not to anyone I knew.

—Well, there’s only one thing for it, said the guess artist. Let’s go to the dead-letter office. There may be more correspondence for you there.

The guess artist came around the counter, turned, pulled the curtain to, and the new comrades headed off down the boardwalk in the direction of Manhattan. It was a fine night, and the people passing them all seemed happy in general about some unverified thing. The municipal inspector thought to himself that it was good in many ways that he did not know what this thing was, for perhaps in himself he carried the disproof of it, and that perhaps his knowing the falseness of their happiness would make it no longer real, whereas now it was real, real for them, and for him, protected by a veil of not-knowing. Meanwhile beside him the guess artist knew very well what it was about which the people were happy, but he did not let himself think about it. In his head were many obscure structures for protecting himself from the thoughts of others.

They reached the subway platform and boarded the train, when it came, in silence. The municipal inspector sat beside the guess artist, and they looked out the window over Brighton Beach as the train sped west.

—What should I call you? asked the guess artist.

—S. is fine, said the young man in the gray-blue suit.

—S. it is, then, said the guess artist. Why is it that this girl needs to be found in the first place?

—Because, said S., she has lost her memory.

—Ah! said the guess artist decisively. Ah ha!

Across the way, a large building slid by. There was an open window on the third floor. A girl was leaning out of it and waving at the train. It was almost certainly the girl whom S. was looking for. But S. was looking elsewhere. Only the guess artist saw her.

—What? asked S.

—Well, if she has lost her memory, then I think I know how she can be found.

—Do tell, said S.

—By reconstructing her entire past. But first, let’s look at the dead-letter office. There may be something there.

The train continued on its rambling way through Brooklyn and into Manhattan. The pair alighted at Thirty-fourth Street and made their way down to the enormous post office that sits like a behemoth in that section of the city.

Crossing Eighth Avenue, the guess artist asked the municipal inspector how they would manage to enter the post office at this late hour. To which the municipal inspector laughed and explained that he was a municipal inspector. To which the guess artist explained that he knew that already, but nonetheless, did there not exist the chance that his badge would not be taken seriously? To which the municipal inspector said that it was better not to think of that, at least for the moment.

By that time they were up the steps and knocking on the front door. A guard came up with a flashlight.

—Who are you? he asked. What do you want?

S. held up his badge. The guard examined it, and unlocked the door. Opening it, he said,

—All right, well, come on in.

S. did a slight bow in the guard’s direction, then continued past him into the post office.

—Do you know where we’re going? he asked the guess artist quietly.

—Not really, said the guess artist. Give me a moment.

He looked in the direction of the security guard, who was examining the lock mechanism on the door. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them.

—This way, he said.

—Did you just…? asked S.

—Better not to think about it, said the guess artist.

They continued down a short stairwell to a lower level, then along a ramp, through a double door, into a right-angling hallway, through a sort of auditorium, and then up to a large locked door. Beside it was a bell.

The guess artist stopped in front of the bell.

—I think it’s important that you ring the bell. We don’t want to mess this up.

—You’re right, said S. Do you remember what Ref the Sly said to his mother when he returned from killing Thorbjorn?

—It was a riddle, but I don’t remember what, said the guess artist, unhappy that he had been caught forgetful of his sagas.

—He says that he probed the path to his heart. Also he says that he was offered a knife and a whetstone. I think Thorbjorn had it coming, don’t you?

—Probably, said the guess artist.

S. pulled very hard on the bell cord. The resulting sound was quite loud, but neither of them stirred an inch. The municipal inspector was thinking about the girl and how she had lost her memory because of being hit by a taxi. The guess artist was thinking that the municipal inspector was thinking of the Thomas Gray poem that goes

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,

Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

The guess artist was touched very much by this. He thought it wonderful that the municipal inspector should admire also a verse of which he was so fond.

But, of course, he was wrong. The municipal inspector was thinking about how it was strange that Mora had managed to land entirely upon her head, and did things like that happen to her often? Perhaps they did, and if so, was she a good person to know? Perhaps not.

A little metal window slid open, and someone’s eye was looking at them.

—What do you want?

—Is this the dead-letter office? asked S.

—Are you asking me? asked the dead-letter clerk.

—I suppose, said S.

—Then come back tomorrow. At this hour, we only deal with implacable demands, particularly those enforced with fists and knives.

He shut the metal window, and his footsteps were audible as he walked away from the door.

S. rang the bell again. After a moment, the footsteps could be heard again. Again the window slid open.

—What do you want?

The man’s voice was a little whiny.

—Let us in, said S. I’m an Inspector.

He showed his badge again.

The metal window slid shut, and they could hear locks being unbound. Slowly the door swung open.

—Well, come on in. You’re the first visitors in a long while, said the dead-letter clerk.

He was a tiny man, with a long face, long fingers, and a keen gaze like a lamp.

—We’re looking for— began the guess artist.

—Don’t tell me, said the clerk. You’ll see why.

He led them down a low hallway, so low that S. and the guess artist were forced to duck their heads as they walked. At the end there was a step down and a turn. As they came around the turn, they beheld an enormous room the size of a gymnasium. The entire room was piled high with letters of every kind. One huge pile of letters, perhaps two stories tall. Up above, on the ceiling, there was some kind of aperture that opened and closed. Through it, the guess artist surmised, the letters were dropped by some kind of machine.

On the far side there was a bed, a table, some chairs, a little bookshelf, a single burner, and a sink strapped to the wall.

—Do you live here? asked S.

—We do, said the clerk. My wife and I.

A woman came out from behind the pile of letters. She looked identical to the dead-letter clerk except that she had long hair.

—Hello, she said.

Her voice was very pleasant. As soon as she said hello, both the guess artist and S. wanted very much for her to say something else.

—How are you? they asked.

—All right, she said. We have the devil at our necks down here. If we don’t get something done with these letters, our home will be crushed.

And indeed it was true. The letters were already encroaching on the area where their little home was situated.

—Whose idea was it to put your things there? asked S.

—The director’s, said the clerk. It’s to boost productivity.

—But what are you supposed to do with the letters? asked the guess artist.

—We have to get rid of them somehow, said the clerk’s wife. I often put them into other envelopes.

She took some out of her pocket.

—And then I mail them to other places.

—What do you do with them? the guess artist asked the clerk.

—I like to cut them up into bits and put them in the tube.

In one wall there was a large tube mouth. The clerk held up a set of cunningly fashioned shears. They looked like they would cut through almost anything.

—Those look like they could cut through almost anything, said the municipal inspector.

The clerk picked up a metal pipe that happened to be lying on the floor. He nipped at it with the shears and cut it in half.

—Pretty neat, said S.

—Thanks, said the clerk, blushing.

The clerk’s wife came over and patted him on the shoulder.

—He’s very proud of his shears. He just got them a week ago.

—A week ago? asked the guess artist.

—Yes, just a week ago, she said. It was his birthday.

At this the dead-letter clerk blushed even more.

—Well, happy birthday, said S.

—Thank you, said the clerk.

He looked down at his feet for a while and then managed to regain his composure.