The Door (20 page)

I was dismissed. Viola looked up at her for his orders. Emerence put her hand on the dog's forehead, and he closed his eyes dreamily, as if there was no other way to respond, receiving a benediction that flowed from those fingers, so gnarled and twisted by work. I walked away, slowly and with difficulty, like an old person. The events of the day, and everything leading up to it, weighed on me like lead. But it wasn't only the dog who followed me. Emerence came along too. I had become absorbed in the hedge of jasmine beyond the fence, and hadn't heard her footsteps — whenever she could, she wore cloth shoes with felt soles to ease her heavily-veined feet. I thought, with some bitterness, why is she coming after me? She's painted my portrait. She thinks I'm a hypocrite, that I'm stuffy, a snob. She doesn't understand how I've distracted my husband from thinking of death all the time; and if he was seriously ill, would I be likely to sit calmly at my work day after day? She finds fault with the one bit of me that is most utterly pure, the warrior who wrestles with the Lord.

"Now come back here, like a good girl. The master will have the radio on, he'll be listening to his music and enjoying the fact that Viola isn't home yet. Come on, I won't hurt you. In truth, I never want to hurt you. You're just slow, a bit of a thickhead. Why pay attention to my grumblings? Don't you see? You're all I've got left. You, and my animals."

We stood there. Soft sounds filtered out from behind the closed windows of the villa. The tenants who lived above Emerence were very quiet. They had turned the evening broadcast down low, but I could still make out the black and gold vision of the Mozart
Requiem.
There was no possible reply. After all, she had said nothing new. She didn't understand that it was because of our mutual love that she went on stabbing me till I fell to my knees, that she did it because I loved her, and she loved me. Only people truly close to me can cause me real pain. She might have grasped that long ago, but she understood only what she wanted to.

"Please come back in. There's no need to be stubborn. You've got the same cursed nature that I have, because we're both from the plains. Come on, don't stare at me. I've a reason for asking you."

Why? What more did she want? She'd finished the painting, she'd held the mirror up to my face, but for all her wisdom, she couldn't see the silver lining on the back, she'd simply used it to beat me over the head.

"Come on, I've got a present for you. A bunny rabbit laid it — the Easter Bunny."

Her tone was of one charming a child. When she spoke like that to anyone in the street I would turn round or stop where I stood. Children swarmed around and clung to her, just as Viola did. The Easter Bunny, on Good Friday. She hadn't cooked the plums, she mocked my mourning for Jesus, but of course she'd bought a present for me. She was allowed to give, I wasn't. For me, it was forbidden.

"I'm not coming, Emerence. We've said all we have to say to one another. I'll telephone your instructions to your nephew. You can keep Viola here for the night if you want to."

I could no longer make out her face. The sky had suddenly clouded over. All day I had been expecting rain and so far it had held off, but it is almost always windy on Good Friday, with driving rain. Now, towards the end of the day, the tears of lamentation for Christ were arriving once again, if rather late. I couldn't go back. They were falling in fat drops, and the legendary wind had sprung up afresh, signalling the outbreak of a storm, as if the universe were panting for air, or had begun to breathe in our ears. I knew the one thing Emerence dreaded was a storm, and that there was no point in resisting. If I didn't go with her she would drag me back in. Viola had drawn his tail in and was whimpering. He was already on the porch, scratching at the eternally closed door, wanting to hide. The lightning had begun to slash the sky and thunder rumbled between the howls of the dog. It was all pure electricity, a sudden sheet of pure blue flame, then nothing but pure water and perfect blackness.

"Quiet, Viola. It'll be over soon, my boy. Very soon."

The sky turned deep blue, then silver. The thunder raged. The lightning lasted long enough for me to see her fish the key out of her starched pocket. The dog whimpered.

"Shush, Viola, shush!"

The key turned. We looked at one another in the flashes of light. Emerence didn't take her eyes off me. I've got this wrong, I thought, I
must
have got this wrong. That door never opens. It can't be opening now. It's impossible.

"Now, pay attention. If you tell anyone, I'll put a curse on you. Anyone I curse comes to a sticky end. You're going to see something no-one has ever seen, and no-one ever will, until they bury me. But I've nothing else you would value, and today I hit you harder than you deserve, so I'm going to give you the only thing I have. You'll see it one day anyway — in fact it's yours. But you can have a look at it now, while I'm still alive. So come on in. Don't be afraid. Step inside."

She went ahead and I followed. Viola had slipped through the gap in the door. For the first few moments, while my feet picked their way step by step through the pitch black uncertainty, she left the light off. Viola was panting heavily and moaning. Along with his familiar voice I could hear tiny noises, as soft as that of a mouse scurrying across the floor in the deep of night. I stopped, afraid to take another step. I had never before trod in such total blackness. Then I remembered the shutters. In all the time we'd lived here, no-one had seen them open. The light that flooded around us was harsh and raw; not yellow but a wintry white. Emerence didn't economise: the bulb must have been at least a hundred watts. The room we stood in was a large one, wide and white as snow, and looked freshly painted. It held a gas cooker, a sink, a table, two chairs, two large cupboards and the little sofa under an enormous violet-coloured cover which was frayed and had clearly seen better days. Its velvet upholstery had been shredded to a fringe. It was a "lovers' seat", of a type once in vogue. Emerence's home was as spotless as the row of glasses behind their translucent curtain in her old-fashioned sideboard. There was even an icebox, though it too was very old-fashioned. I stared at it, trying to think where she bought the ice for it, since the man hadn't been this way for years. Viola crawled under the lovers' seat, signalling that the storm was approaching its climax. The smell in the room — the familiar chlorine and air freshener — made me want to cough. Apart from that, it struck me as a lovingly and carefully furnished kitchen-dining area, one that held no secrets, even if it was hidden from curious eyes. There was nothing particularly odd about it, apart from the unusual arrangement by which the interior, which should have been the living room, was hermetically sealed off from the kitchen. An extraordinarily large, steel safe had been dragged in front of the door. Unless the thieves organised themselves into brigades, they were unlikely to move it. Former property of the Grossmans, I thought to myself. Beyond it must lie the furniture she had inherited. But who would ever manage to get past the safe, and how? Not even Emerence would manage it without help. Outside, the thunder roared and the rain poured down. She was deathly pale, but controlling herself. I discovered later that the safe was full of ceramic mugs.

Somewhat disconcerted, I gazed around. There were some flowers in a vase and several small pieces of carpet on the floor, as if someone had carefully cut up a tattered oriental rug and salvaged the pieces that could be used. Then my glance fell on what Emerence most wished to conceal from the eyes of the world: a line of bowls and trays of sand, essential requirements for cat hygiene. Under the sink, in the corner of the wall next to the sideboard, were nine small enamel plates, empty apart from a few leftovers, and nine little bowls. Between the two cupboards, like a statue, stood my mother's dressmaker's dummy, pinned all over with pictures, like a stark-naked female marshal clad in nothing but her medals. Among the pictures was a faded photograph, taken from a newspaper, of a rather intense, somehow old-fashioned, young face.

"Yes, that's him," she replied, to the question I had not asked. "When he left me I found the cat, the multicoloured one; the one that was hanged. There's no need for pity. I don't deserve it. You should never love anyone, or any animal, that much."

Viola whimpered in response to each clap of thunder.

"Anyway, I found another cat. There are always more than enough round here. People throw them out and chase them away. At first they're kept as playthings for the child, then when they start to grow up they're taken a little way off and chucked into someone else's garden. So, as I told you, I got another to replace the one that was hanged, and then that one was poisoned, obviously by the same person who strung up the first. This time I kept quiet. I'd realised that a pet doesn't have to go outside. It could stay indoors, the way Dobermann pinschers do, with the aristocracy. I could only keep them alive inside these four walls. I didn't have all these at the start — I'm not mad. I only wanted the first one, the old cat. I had him doctored straight away to calm him down. The second one was sick and moped around, and by the time I'd got him better I didn't have the heart to chase him away. They were dear little things, very gentle, and so happy when I came in. If there's no-one to show pleasure when you come home, then it's better not to live. I couldn't for the life of me tell you how there came to be nine. I found one screaming at the bottom of Devil's Ditch. He was trying to claw his way out, but he kept falling back in. The rubbish bin presented me with another two. As you know, the usual thing is to put the poor things in among the rubbish, inside nylon stockings. I didn't think they'd live, but they grew up to be the prettiest of all. The grey one was abandoned when the stove-fitter left. The three black-and-white ones were sired by the Devil's Ditch cat; they're like circus clowns, very odd. I destroy every new litter, what else can I do? But I couldn't bear to do it to these little clowns. They have stars on their chests. You couldn't push ones like that into the ground."

I stood there, stock still. The storm was receding, the thunder was much less and the lightning had almost stopped. The only blaze was from Emerence's huge light bulb.

"They know that they have to lie low, because they all remember that moment of danger. They can also sense death. Don't think that when you come with the injection they won't already know what's going to happen. But you needn't feel sorry for a single one. Being put down is more merciful than being cast out and going stray, with all its perils. Feed them full of meat before you finish them off. None of them are used to meat, and if you add a little sedative, you won't even have to chase them. Now, hold your tongue about all this, because nobody knows about them. You're the only one. They were all snatched from the jaws of death, and they are closer to me than my little brother Józsi's boy. If people in the building found out how many there were, they'd force me to get rid of seven, because we're only allowed two, and the Health Department would be let loose on me. I can't give you anything more than to entrust them to you, and let you see my home. Have a good look at them, but don't move. They're very timid. They don't know anyone but me, and Viola. Viola, where are you? Stop fooling around, the storm's over. To your place!"

Viola crawled out and jumped up on to the lovers' seat. I noticed the dip in the middle he'd made for himself over time.

"Supper time!" she called. At first nothing happened, so she spoke again, this time very quietly. The room filled with movement, and once again I heard those peculiar noises, and saw Emerence's family, all nine cats, emerging from their hiding places behind the armchair and under the cupboard. They didn't even glance at me. The only sound was the thumping of Viola's tail. They stood next to the empty bowls and turned their jewelled gaze on Emerence, who was at the stove, ladling out a sort of pepper and tomato stew from a large dish. She gave some to each in turn, the smile never leaving her face as she bent over them. The improbable vision didn't seem at all improbable, but rather like a circus act — this was real training. Viola, greedy as he was, didn't move a muscle, though he must have been ravenous. He just signalled with his tail that he was there too. The cats showed no fear of him. It was a long time since they had last thought of him as a dog. Last of all, he got his. He had a huge dish. It stood on the window sill, and — something he would never do at home — he wolfed down the stew, licked the bowl clean, and then looked at me defiantly, as if to say, see what a good boy I am here? "To your place," said Emerence. He jumped back up on to the lovers' seat, and the cats leapt up beside him and surrounded him. Those who didn't find a place either next to him, or on him, attached their graceful forms to the back of the sofa, clinging to the wood in charming, classical poses. Two even perched on the shoulders of the dressmaker's dummy, above the photographs, my own among them.

Suddenly she announced that she didn't have another minute. The basement had apparently flooded and she had to go and sweep up some water. She kept Viola back, saying he should be allowed to talk with the others, but she packed me off home. We stepped outside and walked a little way together. The only perceptible fragrance was that of the rain. Once again, it was like
Book Six
of the
Aeneid,
as we made our way through the shadows, swathed in mist. Above us the moon hid itself only to deceive; soon it would pour down its rays. When I opened the door to our apartment, the tears began to flow. For the first time in my life I could not and would not explain to my husband why I was weeping. It was the only occasion in all our years of marriage that I refused to give him an answer.

Viola is long dead, but I retain many images of him. Often, at dusk, I am tricked by the play of light and shadow in the street, and seem to discern a tiny, rhythmical pattering in the deep silence. I imagine I can hear him running along behind me, his claws clattering, and his quick, hot panting. But his image also comes to me on certain Sundays in summer, when the aroma of a meaty soup or pastry baking wafts out from behind the jars of pickled cucumber on the sill of the open window. No-one could gaze at the kitchen with such utter devotion, watching what was taking shape from the raw ingredients, as he. It was impossible to keep him away from the cooking area, though in fact no-one ever wanted to, because at such times he became a devotee, perfectly disciplined, but always waiting for some special morsel. His longing had its own peculiar sound, as if he were sighing, and always, in response to this doleful note, the person standing at the stove would throw him something. These sighs too are often brought back to me by the stream of memory. More often than not, the face of Emerence that looks out at me from the past is the one she wore as she asked me, in a voice empty of all emotion, whether I wasn't bored with forever offering to help her and then gazing dreamily at her, as if she had asked for my hand in marriage. What did I want from her? Friendship, or to be fondled like a close relation? "Your ideas about everything are very different from mine. You were taught how to do a thousand things, but not to be aware of what really matters. Can't you see that there's no point in trying to dazzle me? I don't want anyone unless they are completely mine. You like to put everyone in a box, and then produce them whenever they're needed: this is my girlfriend, this my cousin, and this my elderly godmother. This is my love, this is my doctor, and this pressed flower is from the island of Rhodes. Just let me be. Once I'm no longer here, visit my grave now and then, that's quite enough. I rejected that man as a friend because I wanted him as a husband, but don't pretend you're the child I never had. I offered you something, and you accepted it. You've a right to a few of my things, because we got on well even if we had our little tiffs. You'll get something when I'm gone, and it won't be just anything. That should be enough. And don't you forget that I let you in where I never allowed anyone else. Beyond that, I've nothing else to offer you, because I've nothing else in me. What more do you want? I cook, I wash, I clean and tidy. I brought Viola up for you. I'm not your dead mother, or your nursemaid, or your little chum. Leave me in peace."