The Door (28 page)

"Let's stop this," I told her. "If you've come to hate me so much because I didn't leave you to die, I can accept that. But don't keep on covering your head. Tell me straight, because this can't go on any longer. I wanted to help. It didn't work out the way I'd planned, but I meant well, even if you don't believe me."

She never once took her eyes off me. It was like facing an interrogator and a judge in one person. And then, unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. I knew what she was weeping for — her secret which was no longer a secret, her animals whose fate she dared not even ask about, the hideous parody of her former impeccable conduct, the hatchet, the death of her legend, and my betrayal. She said nothing, but I understood all the same that if I could have accepted that in her impotence she had chosen death, and had I not made her degradation public, while she was still alive, before the street which had held her in such high esteem, then she would have felt I loved her. Emerence didn't believe in Heaven but in the present moment. When I made her open her door her whole world was overturned, and she had been buried under it. Why had I done it? How could I have been capable of doing it? Not a word of any of this was said, but the unspoken sentences hovered between us.

"Emerence," I began again, "if it had been the other way round, would you have let me die?"

"Of course," she replied, drily. Her tears had ceased.

"And you'd have no regrets?"

"None."

"But even if I hadn't managed to save you, it would still have all come out: the fish, the cats, the filth."

"And so? You could have left me to die, and then it wouldn't have mattered what came out. What does a dead person know, or see, or feel? It's only you who imagine that they'll be waiting for you up there, and that when Viola dies he'll go there too, and your home and everything else will be just as it is now, an angel will bring you your typewriter and your grandfather's desk, and things will continue. What a fool you are! To the dead, it's all one. The dead person is a zero. Why on earth haven't you worked it out? You're old enough."

So it wasn't just shame, but anger and hatred too. So be it. But don't expect penance from me. I'm not Adélka.

"Then what's the point of the tomb, Emerence? Why gather up your mother and father and the twins in that fairy-tale crypt? Wouldn't the wild mallow beside the ditch be enough? And the weeds."

"For you, but not for me, and not for my dead. Your family can lie among the mallows. The dead may not feel, but they do expect to be honoured, you owe it to them. But what do you know about honour? You think if you toss me a nice juicy bone from Parliament I'll put my hand on my heart and be your slave, like Viola? Well, don't bank on it. You know how to make grand statements, but to stay when you're needed, when you're saving my life, to cover my misery from the eyes of the world, no, you didn't have time for that. Get out of here, go and make another pronouncement. You actually had the nerve to say you had me to thank for the prize?"

She knew what she was doing, saying all this to my face. We knew each other. I stood up. I hadn't gone through the door when she called after me.

"Did you at least pick up the rubbish? Are you taking proper care of my pets? Did you patch up some sort of door?"

For a single, tantalising moment I thought I would tell her that only half her flat remained, the door had vanished and the animals were lost. Had I yielded to the temptation I should perhaps have never got over that night, but luckily it was one mistake I didn't make. I replied that no-one, apart from me, had set foot in her home. The instant the doctor hauled her out my husband and Mr Brodarics had put the door back together and nailed her pastry board over the gash, so no animal could get through. By the time they'd settled her in here I had seen to everything — that same night. All I'd had to do the next day was deal with a few finishing touches. Cleaning up hadn't been easy, but I managed it. I took the rubbish away in a bucket, but not to her bins. Instead I divided it among the ones out in the road, on the opposite side of the street, so no-one would realise it was my doing. The words flowed like water from a spring; it was like the public reading of a novella. The cats were well, except of course for the one who'd died. I had buried him under a wild rose. They were being fed on meat because I didn't have time to cook. And now I had to dash off home, because we hadn't eaten yet — only the cats had — and I was afraid I'd get caught in the rain.

I was on my way. It had been more than enough for one day. But she stopped me with a single word: "Magdushka!"

Only my parents had ever called me that. No-one else. I stood rock-still, waiting for what came next. My heart was thumping; conflicting emotions clashed inside me — the shame of having lied, hope, guilt, and a flooding sense of relief. She raised her hand slightly, summoning me to her bed. Once again, she pronounced my name. The word seemed to hold something else, something more, something hidden, a secret tremor, like an electric current. The tone was low, almost rasping, but not unpleasant — like the drawing back of a curtain, or a soft husk splitting open. I sat down again beside the bed, and she took my hand, examining my fingers minutely as she spoke.

"All that horrible stinking mess? All that rotten filth? With these useless little hands? And all on your own, so no-one else would see? At night?"

I turned my head away. I couldn't bear her look. Suddenly she opened her mouth and caught my hand in her toothless gums. It was the most astonishing, most truly shocking, moment of my life. Anyone seeing us would have thought us perverted or insane. But I knew what it meant, just as when Viola was unable to express himself through sounds — I was so familiar with his nibblings, the ecstatic dog-language of boundless happiness. Again and again she thanked me. She had been wrong, I hadn't betrayed her, in fact I had saved her. She hadn't become an object of ridicule. The neighbourhood knew absolutely nothing, had not seen the filth. She hadn't lost face. And now she could go home.

There aren't too many moments of my life that make me shiver with horror when I think back on them. But this is one. Never before or since have I so palpably felt this blending of horror and ecstasy. All was well at last — Emerence's cats running around us playing chase, the shutters guarding the reassuring gloom, the lovers' seat — the whole empire of Emerence that had long gone up in smoke. I pulled my fingers away. It was too much to bear. I became aware that my tears were flowing. She caressed me around the eyes and kept asking what could be wrong, because now she could go home without shame, and she promised she'd get well quickly.

I tidied up my face before leaving. She gathered up the cakes and bars of chocolate and instructed me to take them to Viola.

Her recovery proceeded smoothly. The thick tresses around her finely-formed, unlined face had grown back strongly after their cropping at the time of the decontamination. Everyone noticed that some sort of weight had been lifted from her mind — the doctors, visitors from the street, the Lieutenant Colonel; but the more relaxed and cheerful Emerence became, the more my anxiety grew. I had become inextricably tangled up in lies from which there was no escaping. So I had another conversation with the doctor who was treating her. He was less than delighted by the way things had turned out, but he too was unable to offer an alternative. We would have to delay telling her the truth till the last possible moment; meanwhile the Lieutenant Colonel would have the kitchen painted and new fittings installed, and a new door delivered. I didn't waste my breath explaining to him that even if the flat was fitted out with a suite from Windsor Castle it wouldn't satisfy her, because what she loved was irreplaceable. Had she wanted to replace her furniture she would have done so long before, but God knew what sort of memories were linked to her kitchen. There were no two items in it that matched. And there was another problem. It wasn't just that she'd disapprove of everything, but that her health would be put at risk. If there was new furniture then something must have happened to the old, and if that was the case, she'd know exactly what I had lied to her about. "You must understand," I said to the doctor, "this old woman is being kept alive by the belief that I kept her secret, that I put everything in order, and she wasn't shamed before the entire street — so she can go home with confidence, and she won't even be alone because the cats will be waiting for her." "She'll survive," he comforted me. I looked at him without hope. He hadn't understood. Nor did he understand Emerence.

Meanwhile the entire neighbourhood was on the lookout for the cats, in the hope that she might get them back at least. But I couldn't even provide a description of them, having seen them only once. I remembered that there had been black-and-white ones among them, and some with stripes, and we actually found the corpse of a grey, run over in the main road, which no-one had claimed and which might have been one of hers. There was no trace of the others. By now we were all dreading what, sooner or later, was bound to happen. Emerence's porch was once again crammed with people, the circle growing steadily as one after another they came, with footstools and kitchen stools, to talk over her problems. And their business was serious. Sutu had apparently become their leader. Even the stray cats were brought before her for inspection. Adélka was her zealous assistant, though she had never set eyes on the animals. The only one who refused to step on to the porch was Viola. He could sense an unfamiliar odour, some hostile emanation, and he hated it.

Around this time he embarked on a course of behaviour that went on for months. Luckily it didn't end in tragedy, thanks to the Lieutenant Colonel, who sent a circular with his details round all the police stations, local councils and dog wardens stating that a stray dog who answered to the name of Viola had taken to wandering and was looking for his owner, so please take him home to me. Shortly after our return from Athens, Viola began to absent himself regularly for days on end, scouting round the neighbourhood, sometimes as far as the woods, looking for Emerence. On one occasion he came for me, summoning me with his bark. He was in a fever of excitement, frantic and obviously wanting to show me something. He ran across two streets, leading me to a fence, then looked at me guiltily as if asking me not to be angry — the thing he'd dragged me out for was no longer there, but he had seen it. I knew why he had called me. He must have found one of Emerence's cats in that garden. It hadn't run away from him because it knew him, but while he was fetching me it had hidden further off. Later, we had our suspicions about another corpse, found by the women near the market. It was a black-and-white cat with a star on its breast, which had been savaged by a dog. Such an end was comprehensible, given that Emerence had brought all her cats up not to fear their ancient enemy or think dogs would harm them. The rest had vanished, as if they had never existed.

By now I was no longer going to the hospital every day. I didn't have time, and I didn't see the point. At first I tried to hide from my cares and concerns, but it was no use. I would have loved to write, but as I've said, creativity requires a state of grace. So many things are required for it to succeed — stimulus and composure, inner peace and a kind of bitter-sweet excitement — and these elements were missing. When I did think of Emerence, I had no sense of relief that she was still living. Instead I was confused and helpless, with a persistent feeling of shame.

One day Adélka ran across to call me over to the porch. The neighbours were there and we needed to start talking again.

Sutu came straight to the point: what did I think would happen? What would become of Emerence when she was strong enough to come home? I said that, as far as I knew, it was as we had agreed. She wouldn't be allowed to work at first, and while she was recuperating she would be our guest. Her mind and her hands were functioning normally, but she couldn't walk unsupported. But the doctors were very reassuring, it was only a matter of time. I was holding forth like a bad actor, acting worse than usual, in a bad play. Sutu stopped me with a wave of the hand.

"But you see, she'll never be able to work, and there's no question of a full recovery," she stated, almost cheerfully, as if she were trying to persuade me of the exact opposite. "Emerence is finished, dear writer lady, if not now, then within a year, and this is a service flat. The building has to be seen to. The entrance and the stairway have to be cleaned. This place needs a new caretaker. You can't go on sharing out the chores among the tenants till Judgement Day. It wouldn't be possible even if Emerence hadn't taken on a workload that's more than enough for five people."

The handyman's wife snapped back at her, as if her own reputation had been attacked. "That's not the way to talk," she shouted. In the name of everyone in the villa, she declared, they would never abandon the old woman. And yes, they would carry on sharing out the chores, and wait for her to get better, however long it took. Everyone was doing something. It was what they had done up till now, and what they would do in the future. What was Sutu thinking? They weren't going to put Emerence out on the street.

"Who said anything about the street?" Sutu gave her a look. She was like Fate herself, the classical Moira. But she was only being realistic. As I now know, Sutu was the only one amongst us who had thought every possibility through, in a responsible way, and she alone had the courage to face up to them. "She needn't end up on the street; if the Lieutenant Colonel helps her they'll get her into a nursing home, or one of the better old people's homes, or her nephew might take her in; or, if she really means it, the writer lady will. But the building must be attended to, the snow swept, and not just from here but from the other houses as well, according to the contract she signed. The writer lady has no help of her own. If she can't manage for herself, how does she think she can take on anything more?"

Silence. Then everyone started to talk at once. It was like the Pentecostal outpouring of tongues, but in reverse — suddenly no-one understood anyone else. I was the first to speak up: of course Emerence could live with us. Someone would step in to take over the houses. She'd be happy with us, she liked us. Sutu burst into laughter, and there was nothing good-natured about it.