Four Doors and Other Stories (9 page)

I am in the girl’s palm and I am good. I feel like climbing on one of her thick, plaited tails, up to the top of her head.

“I needed a companion for my walks,” she speaks to me while she lifts me to her face. She has such big and blue eyes, with black middles as large as doll buttons.

“I would like to take you to…I would like to take you to…”

She could not be more undecided. As if the postman had infected her with indecisiveness. She bites her lower lip—a dry, chapped lip—narrows her eyelids, and wrinkles her freckled nose.

“Yes, I know. I’ll take you to the saint!”

As all other girls of her age, she wears a two-pocket apron. She puts me in one of the pockets. I take advantage of being out of her sight to have a snack. It has been a while since my last meal. I take out of one sleeve a hazelnut chocolate. I hold it in one hand while with the other I grasp the margin of a tiny hole, through which I can see outside. The tiny hole appeared when the girl tore the apron in a thorn hedge, while hurrying to hide from the mailman. She had this habit of following him and collecting the caps he was losing. Without him knowing, of course. That is why she had learned to turn into a bird, a bush, or a willow.

We kept on walking and walking. We passed the one-storey houses. The road travels up to the ridge and then down to the bottom of the hills. From the top, one may see the vast valley underneath a blue sky with white clouds that seem to have been put there by a carefree hand. The girl goes hippety-hoppety and hums all sorts of songs. She suddenly composes herself when she gets to the stone wall and the high, towered, gateway.

“Welcome, my dear,” the old woman sitting on bench at the entrance tells her. I reckon that it is the first time I have seen such an old, old woman. She makes me think that there must be such creatures, as there are stones and water and fire. Born old, for guarding such entrances.

“My respects to you, dear mother! I’m glad to see you are in good health!”

On the other side of the wall, the road splits in two. One part goes to the left, the other goes up, passing by an edifice under construction and surrounding a small church. The girl continues on her way, by the woods. The road hurries to catch up with her and go ahead. It is panting a bit because it has to climb. And to struggle against the tree roots that come out, above the ground, standing in its way. One can hear just the shadow and ouzel’s trills.

“Here we are, finally,” says the girl and takes me out of her pocket. The air smells nice. Beautifully coloured flowers grow on the nuns’ tombs.

“It’s such a beautiful place, isn’t it?” she asks me as if she knew I could answer. “Wait until we get to the saint and you’ll see. I’ll share a secret with you: you can ask him anything you want and it will come true.”

I am all eyes. Until now, I have only seen a picture of a saint. Dressed in a long habit, growing a white beard, carrying a stick and all the rest.

“Here he is…he is here all the time,” whispers the girl and stops in front of a bed of imperial lilies that are oozing a suave odor. “This is saint stuff,” I tell myself when, without getting sight of him, I feel him. I am about to become a little fellow in tears—God knows why, to show a sensitive heart and this must not happen. Because the girl would get scared, she would drop me off, I would tumble and tumble and lose my sunglasses. A fox would find me and abduct me. She would hide me in her den and force me to clean it up and comb her furry tail. I admit I panicked. “Help me, help me,” my eyes would beg. However, nobody pays attention. Nor the three women, two slim and a chubby one, sitting on the benches in front on him. They have tears in their eyes as well. Nor the man, who genuflects. Nor the lady with bright red hair who seems to be searching for something she cannot find here.

The girl kneels on a cushion, near the bed of lilies.

“Here I am, Saint, as I promised you,” she murmurs. “Yes, I behaved myself. I have a hard time doing this, I admit. However, I am doing my best. He is doing fine as well. He came by today and brought me a tiny, tiny man. You like joking, dear saint. It could not be possibly spying on me. It is just a gift. I love it. I told him to ask you whatever he wants and you would take care of it. I will pay attention. I shall not forget. You know, dear saint, I have no idea how I could manage without you. Yes, I do trust you. I love you, too.”

I was nothing more but a tiny, tiny man in the palm of a girl, facing a saint. I could figure his shape now, as a haze made of light. This saint bore such a resemblance to my late grandfather, so gentle, so good, but without his pipe, it made me want to hug him. I reached out for him and, instead of vanishing, the shadow grew denser, into the flesh and blood human, whom I still cherished so much. Can you imagine that?

 The girl stood there, mute, her eyes clasped at her chest, apparently unaware of anything. Family business should be kept private, indeed!

The smell of lilies was stronger now, and so was the saint’s fleeting embrace. I was feeling again as the child that once, years ago, had grabbed Santa Claus by his beard to see if he was real or not. However, this man was not Santa. He was a saint who looked a lot like my grandpa. And saints were renowned for performing miracles and skipping meals, not for their sense of humor.

“Come on, I know you are dying to grab my beard, see if it’s real,” he said in a whispered voice, like a gentle wind, while pulling a ebony pipe out of his long tunic and lighting it up.

“Am I dreaming? I asked. “Is it you, grandfather?”

I was bewildered with his stunt, although strangely enough, transforming myself into a tiny person and travelling in an envelope had seemed, so far, rather common. “I am whoever you want me to be,” he said back with a grin.

“You keep on being my grandpa,” I said. “It works for me.”

All kinds of silly questions were crossing my mind. Like why you never wrote to me and how are you over there, where you live now? Do I have to come here to see you? Do you want me to say anything to Mother? He kept nodding and beaming, as if he heard it all. Still, I was having a hard time finding that one, unique, most important question to ask him. As minutes passed, his image faltered. The more I was racking my brains, the faster his humanly silhouette was turning in fumes.

“What is the right address? Is there such a thing for me?” I finally uttered remembering the beginning of my journey, a little uncertain.

“All addresses are right,” he said. “You will always get where you are supposed to be. Just have faith and will.”

The girl opened her eyes, caressed my hair, and headed back home, with a happy smile—that meant I knew it, on her face. As for me, I decided to stay for a while. After all, she was such a well-behaved damsel.

What happens later on? Well, the girl sewed up the hole in her pocket. Anyway, she outgrew the apron and she offered it as a present to a cousin. The postman finally got hands on the manual of good behavior with unearthly creatures and took a week off to learn it by heart. Just in case he lost it. As soon as he delivered all the ten thousand seven hundred and twenty-three letters, he and the girl got married. They had a beautiful wedding, exchanging not only vows but also wonderful gifts. He offered her a set of seven bicycles painted in different colors, one for each day of the week. She offered him a barn full of caps. All the caps he had lost while delivering ten thousand seven hundred and twenty-three letters. As for me, well, it was time to move to a new address and the girl, now a married young lady, was very helpful. The day after her wedding, she put me in an envelope and sent me to her best friend as a good luck charm.

They were in the Lebanese restaurant on the corner, sitting in front of each other. The TV set was spitting Arabian words. A yellowish stain, barely visible, decorated the white tablecloth. A tiny waiter, wearing a white shirt tucked into his slightly too large trousers, brought them two menus with worn-out margins. The woman took off her long gloves slowly, pulling one finger after another. Her bright red painted nails had a perfect oval shape.

The man lit up a cigarette. His hand was shaking a little. What was he thinking when he asked her out here, to this dive bar? He had seen her pictures, he knew she was different. Turning into a woman, a sophisticated, stylish one. Was he expecting her to put on leggings and spiked boots just for him? She was swinging her hips now. Back then, her stride was brisk and heavy. Her thick eyebrows were now beautifully arched. The hair, once rebellious, was falling onto her shoulders in a calm cascade. The woman wore stilettos and a dress that clung to her body. Her perfume, well, it was that kind of perfume that haunts somebody’s senses. He knew there was something more, something he was yet unable to grasp.

They were both silent, but then, they always had spoken little. Communication always broke down after a few phrases.

“You look gorgeous,” he said after a long time. The man was forcing the words out of his mouth.

“Thank you. You haven’t changed much either.” It was true. He dressed the same, acted the same, spoke the same as he did when they met. He had the same life, trying to make ends meet from one month to another, moving from one rented flat to another, from one nice, intellectual woman to another. They had warm souls,
minds filled with information and elbows slightly rugged because of the many hours they had spent reading in the library. He impressed them with his wits, his knowledge, his “no” attitude
—“fuck the system”—his allegiance to the misunderstood. With his alpha male attitude. With his way of turning them upside down. With his need of them.

“I can understand you. I am here for you. You do not have to run from yourself anymore. Put that bottle away, leave it!” Then, tears in her eyes, a bottle smashed against the wall, neighbors’ shouting, disgusted look on his face. Disgusted with himself and with her, so gorgeous, so wonderful and yet, so thick. All those women were cowards—all of them wanted stability, they wanted children, they all did only missionary in bed. They wanted to change him, to help him become a responsible man. To dress him in uniform. Castrate him. They all thought they might. Until the day, he left. He changed his address, his phone number, became untraceable.

They continued to stay silent. Both sharing an aversion for commonplace, complaisance conversations. Besides, what happened beyond words was becoming far more interesting and intense.

In the beginning, he had been nothing more than a voice on the radio. Maybe not the best she had heard. Certainly, the manliest one. A voice that was sometimes cheeky, provoking, that seemed unaccustomed with sweet words but found itself at ease speaking about post-modernism, Bauhaus, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nazis, industrial music, poetry, history’s abject forgery, Tarkovsky, consumerism shallowness, Lou Reed, woman’s inferiority compared to man, David Bowie. So many things left out of the high school curriculum. At this moment, the voice had a face and body. A face made with minimum of means. A strong, well-built body, with an unusually soft and sleek skin for a man. It happened like this: she had written him a letter and won a contest. She had gone to the radio station, accompanied by her best friend, to pick up her prize. The other girl had pulled a wry face finding him uncouth. She was still a virgin but she desired him. Right there. On the spot. His show was over. They had left at the same time and traveled together for a while because all three were living nearby. It was winter. The bus was gliding, playing with the passengers inside. With unexpected kindness, he had offered his assistance.

“Lean on me, if you want,” he had said.

He had also gotten off two stations earlier, just to walk her to the door, and invited her to have tea in his apartment. She had accepted, eagerly seizing the hour and the day.

His blood was running wild even though it would have been hard to describe her piece by piece. The only thing he knew for sure was that the girl was limitless. She was driving him crazy, making him want her with an urge that even the most experienced women rarely aroused in him. She had something that was missing in his tepid relationship.

What about her? Well, she was crazy with joy. Especially as he was the man she looked up to. She had bought the recordings he listened to. She had borrowed books written by his favorite authors. She wanted him to fancy her, completely. She wanted to be taught by him. However, she had to prove she was worthy. Yet, how much can one assimilate in a couple of days? As soon as she crossed his threshold, everything faded away. She let him take her in his arms and taste her lips passionately. She even let him caress her breasts. But as soon as he would try taking her clothes off, she would grasp his hands. He kept provoking and teasing her, in vain, until he grew tired. She was just another hypocrite, a woman who did not know what she wanted. Typical for a high school girl! For a woman! He felt like bursting out while she lay motionless on the bed, with bitten, dry lips, her hair and clothes helter-skelter. This time, he left her to walk home alone. He just sat there, on the threshold, watching her going away to the elevator, down the long, dark hall with brown doors.

He was wrong. She had entered his blood. He needed to feel her, to have her. However, she was sturdy and she would not give in. Besides, she had started to feel a grudge. He knew more than her, that was sure, but he had no right to humiliate her. It had happened several times. He had invited her over while his male friends were there. She had stood incongruously in a corner for hours, waiting for them to finish their drinking and chattering. One of them had tried to draw her into the conversation but she had refused to speak. It also happened that during one of her visits, a woman came knocking at his door. He had hid her in the kitchen until he made the other one, his official girlfriend, go. At one point, she’d had enough and stopped it. She was tired of waiting to be treated as an intelligent human being. To tell the complete truth, she had started seeing somebody else.

A few years later, when she was already a woman and a student at a prestigious university, they met again. It was winter, like the first time. Being alone and a little down, she had accepted his invitation to a glass of wine. Her black underwear and perfect curves made him dizzy.