Four Doors and Other Stories (10 page)

“You could make a saint a sinner!” he exclaimed.

That night, for the first time, they had one another. Except her soul was now empty. And empty it stayed even when he was inside her. The shabby place suffocated her. Despite his airs, this guy was a loser. It was a pity! He had brains. She had left, telling herself that it would be the last time they saw each other.

Another time, different goings-on, new lessons. Here they were again, together in a restaurant as shabby as the apartment she had seen the last time. Nevertheless, the food was good.

“I never told you before. I wanted to see you because you aroused in me a vivid, visceral way. I strongly believe that some human interactions need no words. There are many forms of communication. I am myself when I am with you. You are yourself when you are with me,” she broke the silence. Life had shown her that it was impossible to run away from who she was. The best moments were those when she expressed herself. She was a fire that burned in many ways. He was the first to make her burn with desire. Still did. Or maybe it was her imagination. She wanted to find out!

They got up before the waiter took their order and left.

They both had big black eyes, long chestnut hair, almost identically curly, and everybody believed they were sisters. At all of the places they went together, there was always someone congratulating them for their parents who had managed to produce two such beautiful girls. At the beginning, either out of an innate sense of rightness, or lack of imagination, they would precipitate to deny and reveal the truth: we are just friends that’s all. Little by little, the girls started enjoying the idea of being blood relatives and playing along with it, becoming known as “The sisters.”

“Are the sisters joining the party? Do invite the sisters!” were sentences that their friends and acquaintances uttered often.

The young women had met by pure chance, during a vintage and handmade jewellery clothing fair. They had stopped in front of the same shop display and reached out for the same ring. It was a silver ring, with a black, round gem. Their arms had frozen mid-reach as their eyes met, invitingly. However, neither of them had dared to take it, and their palms went obediently down to their sides, in perfect synchronicity.

“If I may say so, I think it suits you better,” said the salesgirl, taking the jewel and handing it to the less curly one. “I’m sure you’ll agree to lend it to your sister anytime she wants to wear it.”

“Are you the artist?”

“Yes, I am. All the stuff you see here is made by me and my family who lives in Mexico. Each piece, including this ring, is absolutely unique,” she added with a touch of pride in her voice.

“Superb,” whispered the young woman, putting the jewel on her finger. It was a slender finger, neither long nor short, harmoniously carved, that ended with an oval bright red–polished nail. She lifted her hand up in the air, catching the sunlight and making the stone throw sparkles, only to stretch it out to the other young woman.

“I’m Isabella! I’ve always fancied having a brother but a sister could do as well,” she said to the Mexican’s astonishment.

“I couldn’t agree more. I’m Mathilda but friends call me Mattie. Anyways, you should buy this ring. It suits you well. In my case, it would be an oddity.”

Isabella was wearing a long, khaki, bare-back frock and golden Roman sandals. A matching sophisticated bangle ornated her left arm above the elbow. Her deep eyes, outlined with black kohl and her dark, tanned skin, added more mystery to her exotic appearance. On the other hand, Mattie looked like somebody who had just ended a workday in the office: white, short-sleeve shirt, knee-length navy blue skirt, pointed flat shoes, a black synthetic handbag. Such seriousness would not fool someone who knew his way around the world, who would have noticed right away her innate yet curbed proclivity for coquetry hidden in the inconspicuous make-up and the matching of the necklace with the skirt.

“Um, maybe some other time,” replied Isabella melancholy. She sat silently for a few seconds and then, suddenly cheered up:

“I am very thirsty. Would you care for a lemonade?”

Mattie nodded enthusiastically. Whenever she liked something or someone, her gaze became intense, bright, and engaging as an irresistible, catchy tune. She mesmerized people—especially men, who would take to her as to a life water spring.

“I’d love to. Especially that I love this place. It’s so peaceful…”

The place was, in fact, an ancient garden transformed into a summer terrace. The dirt had been covered in big, square stone slabs, in symmetric patterns broken here and there by old trees with rich, shadowy top crowns. The terrace belonged to a famous bookshop. It had glazed-wooden chairs and forged iron tables. According to each table capacity, two, four, or six books stood permanently on their top. Many of them had worn out, faded, covers and dog-eared pages. Sometimes sand would fall out of them because everyone who stopped by for a drink or a tasty dessert was allowed to borrow one, on two conditions. The number of books on the tables had to stay the same so the borrower would have to replace it with another one. And, of course, he would have the obligation to return it after reading it. Thus, these books travelled a lot, sometimes a dozen of miles in distance, to the nearest beach, sometimes to a mountain top, often enough, to the other end of the world, bearing inside them the marks of their journeys. In summertime, as soon as the final semester examinations were over, students would spend a whole day at a table, sipping one drink after another, not being able to tear themselves away from a book that fascinated them. The sun would move in the sky, from one end of the horizon line to the other, the gig lamps would turn on, but it would take someone else, usually a fellow student on a summer job at the terrace to pat them on the shoulder and let them know it was closing time. The thick brick walls around the terrace, kept the noisy city downtown at a distance and, at twilight, the humming birds would make room for live smooth jazz music.

The young women sat at the only free table, being greeted by a strange party: Murakami, Saint Exupery, Kafka and Kinsella.

“Look, here it is one of my favourite books!” said Mattie in delight, touching with her delicate fingers the cover of
The Little Prince
.

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye,” Isabella replied.

“I can’t believe it! It’s your favourite, as well.”

“Yes, I admit it is one of them. I like the writings that make you look inside your soul. See your own beauty. That leave a good taste in your mouth. Like an almond and chocolate ice cream. The kind of literature I hope to write, one day...”

“This is wonderful! So far, I am unaware of any artistic talent. However, I do love cooking, inventing dishes. Sometimes, I spend hours and hours in my kitchen, surrounded by ingredients, plates and pots and other cooking gear until I come up with something really tasty.”

“At least, you have results. For me, it is only wishful thinking. I can feel it inside me but I never get to grab the pen and the paper.”

“But why?”

“I do not know. More important things to do right now. Not feeling inspired. Somebody told me it might be fear. Fear of failure. But I don’t think so. The truth is that the PR projects I am currently involved in draw each and every bit of energy and creativity out of me. You should put up a culinary blog, by the way. They are huge right now...”

The conversation was running smoothly, as if they had known each other for years. At moments, they would interrupt one another, take the words right of each other’s mouths, complete each other’s sentences in a way that old friends or sisters usually did.

Mattie discovered that Isabella particularly disliked working in an office, and was strongly against being a slave, that was to say, being an employee on a payroll, with a card to punch. She deeply believed that life had a higher purpose than social prestige, having a family and becoming rich. No longer than a year ago, the young woman had decided to unveil her own purpose and abandoned a well-paid job. As she confessed to Mattie, who was listening to her in awe, there were only glimpses of it for the moment. But she stayed confident, lived by her savings and made experiments: a blog dedicated to the city, a weekly online radio show, some basic ideas for a novel inspired by a trip to South America. Isabella enjoyed going out and seeing beautiful places, meet beautiful people and be part of beautiful happenings.

Mattie confessed that her biggest wish was to find the man of her dreams, to marry him and have a child. Two maybe. Professionally speaking, she was happy, taking pleasure into her position as an assistant at an important financial company. She felt very lucky having a steady job during these precarious times and, despite the sometimes long working hours and not so good wages, she didn’t think about looking for something better.

“I think, for once, my mother is right: if I stay here long enough, I may get promoted. And, in my thirties I can even get into management,” she admitted. “Having all these, maybe a bigger apartment as well and I wouldn’t ask anything more from life.”

Isabella dreamt about travelling around the world, Mattie would rather stay near home. One of them looked for a man who would enjoy taking long journeys with a backpack and a camera hung round his neck. The other preferred a guy dressed in a suit, serving a powerful company or brand, coming to pick her up from work in a big car with an automatic gear box.

As many the differences, as many the resemblances. They found out that, without knowing each other, they had attended the same concert and shed tears hearing the same song. They both enjoyed dancing salsa, reading romance, going to the theatre, riding bicycles. Having a good laugh. With roars, until the muscles of their tummies hurt. And, above all these, something more profound that could not be named yet.

Several months had passed by and their casual encounter at the Book Terrace had turned into a strong friendship. Everywhere they went, they were like fire and breeze. With every move, gesture or word, Isabella, confident yet playful, burned like a torch. Mattie was more like a pale of wind, which varied from a strong gust to a gentle breeze. It would start off impetuously only to die out, scared away out of nothing. Her gait would falter, her gaze would be stuck down to the ground and her luminous beauty would fade, turning her face into a tired and common one, as many other millions fell into oblivion. This metamorphosis occurred whenever, out of retort or for fear of saying something stupid, she would turn into a spectator of the conversations Isabella and other friends brightly held. Whenever a boy would pass her by, as if she was invisible, taking another girl to the dance floor. She would usually hide in a corner waiting for somebody in her group to leave. However, that night, she had rushed outside on her own, taking big steps, without watching the road. Isabella hardly had time to grab her coat and had to run to catch her.

“Did anyone upset you?” she asked, grabbing her arm.

Mattie startled but did not stop. Only her stride became slower. She gave Isabella a silent, sad look. She wanted to confess, because she had grown fond of her, but she felt ashamed. 

“Is there anything I can do for you? At least—watch your step!” Isabella screamed.

That very moment, the distressed girl found herself up to her knees into a large pothole hidden by water. Many small drops of water rushed up on her fabric coat sleeves, into her curly hair, mixing with her tears and the rain that, all of a sudden, started pouring heavily.

Mattie began laughing. Everything reminded her of a childhood holiday at the seaside. She was only a few years old and enjoyed walking by the sea, playing with her feet into the water, stepping into every little pond made by the waves. Until one day, when, just like today, she simply fell into one, up to her neck, dressed in her bathing suit.

“I shall tell you but promise me you will not be angry about it...” Mattie took heart.

Isabella nodded and helped her out.

“Well, the evening started just fine, I enjoyed it. I danced with a bunch of nice guys. After a while, everything changed, I bumped into one who made me feel very uncomfortable. I got off the rhythm, stepped on his feet. He patronized me, told me I should practice more...”

“If I were you, I would have given him a piece of my mind! Or I would have rather turned my back on him and given him the slip right in the middle of the dance floor.”

“Right! However, we are different. The truth is that it made me feel bad. I wanted to disappear, to hide. Then I thought such an attitude would be unworthy of me. I thought about you, about what you would do in such a situation and I pulled myself together. I had another mood swing when I saw you dancing, all shiny and happy, while people were watching you in admiration. I realized I could no longer be in the same room with you. As if, you were the cause of my unhappiness. I ran away...”

Isabella kept silent and let go of Mattie’s arm.

“Please, forgive me, there is no logical explanation for it and it is crystal clear that it’s not your fault. You have always been so kind to me. I feel guilty.”

 “Take it easy.” Isabella finally opened her mouth, giving her a warm embrace. She enjoyed hugging dear people, pressing them close to her chest. Although she did not want to admit, she had also mixed feelings. Sometimes, she loved Mattie as a real sister, from the bottom of her heart, that she wanted to protect her while, at other times, jealousy urged her to break their friendship and never see her again.

Neither of the girls had an umbrella. Rain was having its way with them. They were soaking wet. The mascara had spread on their cheeks, down to the chin, the curly locks of hair had glued to their faces so that they looked like two spectres, lost on that long and dark street. They advanced carefully, looking for a hiding place to rest and be able to use the cell phone to call a cab. It was one of the city’s oldest areas, with narrow alleys, no vegetation and two-storey houses. Isabella would usually pass by this kind of place in a hurry because it made her suffocate. Although she had passed by many times, going dancing, she had never taken the time to look around. Or up, as she did now. If so, she would have been aware of the fact that all the roofs were equal and barely surpassed the walls. She would have also noticed the small balcony, surrounded with forged iron, decorated with storksbill pots, leaning on two marble caryatids, beautifully carved.