Four Doors and Other Stories (2 page)

“I have to go back,” the girl told herself. By some miracle, just like that, she was back in the hallway with many doors. Which one was the right one to her time? Maybe it was a good idea to mark those she had already opened. She discovered a lipstick in the back pocket of her trousers. And she put a tiny “X” next to the handle of the door she was about to enter. “Who knows, maybe this is the right one,” she thought.

She easily recognized the surroundings. She was in Paris. The pedestrians were wearing clothes that had become fashionable around the 1800s. She was enjoying the sight of men wearing hard tops, high collars and pants so tight on their legs, like a second skin, and of women in long, ample dresses and bonnets. Without expecting it, she kept pace with a young lady, almost her age, who had long, dark hair combed in a ponytail with a red bow. The Parisian seems to be a younger, fresher version of the same woman she met during the two other travels. She is walking joyfully, her face lit up with inward happiness. She holds carefully to her chest a small package wrapped in paper. The girl doesn’t appear to belong to the nobility—if so, she probably would have had a carriage, but her clothing shows good wealth. After a while, she turned left to a side alley in Faubourg Saint Antoine, entered an interior courtyard and took a staircase that lead to the storey under the roof. Her knocking was determined. A young man, heavy with sleep, opened up. The sight of her put a large smile on his face, changing his composure at once. He invited her in. The room was small but cozy. It didn’t have much furniture but it is filled with books and schooners in miniature. The bed is a little untidy. An open Stendhal’s
The Red and The Black
lay on it as if he fell asleep reading.

“I finished it,” she tells him happily while handing him the package.

“I’m so happy,” he answered, taking her into his arms and spinning her around the room. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long!”

A manuscript appeared from under the paper cover. It was her manuscript, her first book, the result of several months of hard work. Everything was just perfect now, that she got accepted to Sorbonne’s Faculte des Lettres. She would be free, she would have a new life and she would be able to travel all around France. All these, due to her best friend, who trusted her. Who encouraged her whenever she felt down, whenever inspiration was fading away. She was different from the women of her age. Unlike them, she was going to marry for love.

“I would love to stay longer,” she told him. “But I have to get back to college. I’ll see you tonight, all right?” she promised. Left behind, the boy was kissing the manuscript pages. Unfortunately, the author forgot to come back. He waited for her in vain.

It was not until long, long years, had passed, when the cozy room became just a refuge where he could work at his schooners in miniature, that an important lady paid him a visit. At first, he didn’t recognize her. Fashion had changed and so had she. She was calmer, quieter. She seemed happy although some kind of unfulfillment was dimming her bright and open smile.

“I came here to ask your forgiveness,” she uttered before he could speak.

“I’m happy to see you again. There’s nothing to apologize for, you have done nothing wrong…”

“Yes, I have. I’ve betrayed you, your trust. Because of me, your effort was in vain. I wanted to come and see you so many times but I was ashamed.”

She told him her story. Ten years ago, that day, she had panicked the moment she had set foot outside. What if she had no talent actually? What if she ended up marrying for money, a chubby bourgeois? What if she was to live her whole life, in the same small house, on the same street? What if she was never to leave Paris? Fate or not, the same day she had met the Count. And she had married him shortly after. He was a handsome and good-hearted man, who loved her dearly. He had a chateau and a large estate somewhere, in the south, he had to attend to. Consequently, she had dropped her studies and become a provincial. Of course, she had stayed a passionate reader. He was buying her all the books she wanted but he had one request: give up writing and everybody who encouraged her to pursue such weird activities, unsuitable for a woman and a Countess. She had fulfilled his request, without much regret. What were the odds of being successful in a man’s territory, anyhow?

“Despite this, not a day had passed by without me thinking about you. Especially during the last years, when I felt that something was missing from my life,” she ended her tale.

“I think that what is missing, is you…I believe you when you say your husband is a good man. But I’ll take the risk and say he’s not good for you if he doesn’t allow you to be yourself.”

“What can I do now?”

“It’s never too late. You may start all over again. Start writing. See where it leads you.”

“If I was to do this, I should leave him. And this is beyond my control. We love each other, we have a child together. Our life is smooth and settled. Moreover, I haven’t written anything in ten years. It’s been too long.”

“If you don’t believe in yourself, I cannot help you.” His voice had turned bitter.

“I only wanted to see you. I have to go now. My little one is waiting for me, in the carriage.”

The girl was waving her hands, in a desperate attempt to make the woman listen to the man. We’re grown-ups so stupid? Couldn’t they feel when they were unhappy and let go of their unhappiness? They both went down the already familiar staircase. The girl was back in the hallway. Two of them were marked with lipstick. There were only three left. She chose one, randomly.

“I’m back,” she thought as soon as she recognized the alleys of the botanical garden, which she knew well. The sky was a bit cloudy and the trees had no leaves. Neither the heat nor the cold had any effect on her. She was wondering how she was going to explain to her teacher her sudden absence and return. She had to get to the house in the park as fast as possible. She was heading to the exit in quick steps, when a group of visitors made her stop in amazement. The men were wearing German military uniforms. The women were dressed as the forties dictated. This was too much. Had she become a prisoner of the hallway with doors? What if she couldn’t go back to her time?

The girl headed to the sun house, abashed. She looked at the tropical plants, trying to get her courage back. For the first time, she passed beyond the protective fences, climbed into the trees and caressed the leaves. She was as light and invisible as thought was. From the top of the highest tree, she saw a woman. Hence, she was not the only visitor. Curious, she came closer. And she cried with surprise. Of course, nobody heard her. Right there, in front of her eyes, in tears, holding a black-and-white picture and piece of torn paper in her hands, stood her teacher. A younger, more beautiful version. The paper said that her husband had been killed in battle. The photo pictured them together during the happiest day of her life: her wedding day.

“I shall never love another man, this much I promise you,” she was whispering while big teardrops were rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll carry on living, although I don’t feel like it, because I know you wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll continue studying and dedicate my life to knowledge. So that one day, I may find out why you went away so soon my darling, darling!” Taking a good look at her, the girl noticed that her teacher bore a striking resemblance to the other three women, only this time her hair was shorter and lighter. Was it possible that she had travelled through the centuries, from the Orient to Europe, following the same person, like a detective? And being back to her country meant that she had reached the end? There was only one way to find out

She was back in the hallway with doors. Without taking out the lipstick in her pocket, she pushed a handle. She was back in the living room with ceiling-high bookshelves. The glass was half empty. She could hear the happy voice of the little boy outside, who had discovered the girl hidden against the pillar: “I found you, I found you!” The teacher ended her phone conversation and returned to the chamber, throwing her a knowing glance.

“Now, that you know all there is to know, let’s start our work!”

All the households on the street, guarded by high fences and linden trees, were very clean and well looked after. It was obvious that this titivation was not perfunctory, but came as the result of a specific attitude that its inhabitants transmitted, unaltered from generation to generation. The young ones often stayed in their parents’ house long after they married or returned to live here when their parents passed away. The houses always had fresh paint, sparkling roofs and swept yards. A line of black and pink moist muses appeared from under the gates as soon as a stranger’s steps sounded on the cobblestone. The branches of the fruitful trees were stretching beyond the fences and above the pedestrian walkway, implying a great sense of responsibility.

To cut a long story short, they were all beautiful but Mother’s was special. Not that she had the biggest garden or the highest building. Yet, any guest who passed beyond the entrance was swept away by a wave of peace and clearness. Like inside of a nun’s convent. Her warmth and merry heart was everywhere. In the apricot tree, blooming but fruitless, that was stretching out its branches over a piece of land where roses, tulips, hyacinths and a silver fir tree in its teens were growing all in a cluster. In the small details that made this place so charming: an ancient cuckoo clock, hung on the fence, the drawings she had made on the garbage bin, the window frames painted in orange, the shells and river rocks adorning the well in the middle of the yard. It was an April day, but hot as a summer. Yet, Mother was wearing thick clothes and no perfume. Her hair was slightly ruffled. She gave to her daughter a weak embrace and a sad smile that looked more like a grimace.

“I don’t feel so well,” she said in that soft voice that drove her angry even when she was in high spirits.

“If I knew you would act like this, I would have stayed home,” replied the guest, raising her voice a little too much.

Mother cast down her eyes and reached for the plastic bag on the table outside. Her daughter felt sorry for being so harsh.

“Think about us, of those who love you. Let alone time and energy, we ache when we see you suffer.”

“You are right,” Mother murmured, her mind far away. It was her way of protecting herself, withdrawing the same as a snail entered its shell as soon as someone touched its sensitive antennae. She had developed a heart condition years ago, when her husband had died. In the beginning, the seizures were frequent, but as time went by and she learnt how to live without him, they reduced. Nowadays, only a bad dream, or an argument with one of the neighbours, made her begin the day pale and frail.

“I’m a sensitive person, I cannot control myself,” she would stubbornly reply each time she got advice to ignore small matters.

The daughter was looking to her mother in an attempt to discover her. She knew so little about this woman. They had always communicated poorly. She remembered her in childhood years, always busy with the household and the job. Mother did her best to cook, clean, iron and educate her, but she was a tough nut to crack. The fact that the disorder on her desk might show up in her life did not scare her at all. She was avoiding domestic activities as a lion avoided a cage. Mother would put on a sad face and cater to everything. As years passed, she preferred to keep to herself the thoughts and ideas she would have liked to pass on to her daughter, and went to church and prayed instead.

This time, as always, the daughter had promised herself to stay calm. As usual, she had failed. May have been the planetary alignment or the number of the day in the calendar, but she finally realized that she was holding it more against herself than against the creature who had brought her to life. In an unconscious manner, Mother was initiating the victim and the perpetrator game and she was responding to it. She became aggressive, withdrew into herself and left, disappointed with herself, thinking about the next time when she would refuse to let things just happen.

She unfolded the camping chairs in determination. Mother pushed one of them aside, into the shade.

“The sun is bad for me now,” she said, fearing her daughter might interpret her action in some other way. The girl wanted to ask her where she got all these wrong ideas but restrained her words, remembering the way her mother has supported her, from the sidelines, her whole life. She particularly remembered the big, hardback dictionary her mother had bought her when she was a college student. The girl never told her she needed it but the woman had figured it out by herself. Words started pouring from the daughter’s mouth, like a river from its bed in flood season.

“Do you know, Mother, that I brag about you everywhere I go? I mean, in front of friends and acquaintances. I’m so proud of you.”

Mother’s eyes gazed even farther into the distance.

“You are the reason that enables me to contradict all those people who think family has a crucial influence upon the individual. I give you as an example.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Mother mumbled, unaccustomed to such long speeches uttered by her daughter.

“No, it doesn’t,” the girl went on, lively. “I mean, look at you! My grandparents were plain, ordinary people, with no education. There were no books, no radio or TV set in your house but you enjoyed reading, theatre and opera at an early age. You wanted to study, to acquire knowledge. And now, while other women of your age have trouble moving their legs and arms and lock themselves up in their houses with three locks, you have the guts to travel around the world. You are a super mum!”

“I am a super mum, of course I am,” the woman answered, sounding a bit doubtful. “It’s perfectly true. I enjoy filling my life with things that give me pleasure. Reading, travelling, killing time. On the other hand, it is hard for me to believe I am so old. Sometimes, I forget about my age. I do many things, go from one place to another, and take effort. Every now and then, there are bad consequences.”