Four Doors and Other Stories Page 2

  “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!”

  A MOTHER

  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 sp
eeches 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.”

  “Pay more attention...”

  “You are right but I do not know when to stop. How can someone distribute one’s effort when nothing is wrong?”

  Mother seemed to wait for a solution to her problem.

  “I think you should make peace with yourself, Mother! And all these problems will disappear. There are people who are cured of cancer, you know. Why won’t you cure your heart?”

  “But I am at peace with myself! I am an honest person, without frustrations,” Mother rushed to deny her affirmation as if being frustrated was the most shameful thing in the world.

  “Come on Mum, admit it. All people are frustrated. Especially those who do not accept themselves. That does not change what I told you earlier. You make me very proud.”

  There were things in her past that had hurt her, Mother thought. For example, not being the preferred child out of the two in the family. Despite being morose and unattractive, her younger sister got all the attention.

  “All these sorrows gather in your body and surface from time to time because they need to be healed. This is why you are having these mood swings and heart problems,” continued her daughter.

  There were days when Mother carried on with life, hanging out with her friends, going on trips, without showing she cared for her daughter. Other times, Mother phoned her out of the blue only to scold her for not calling.

  “Don’t fret; there is no need to say I am right. Just think about it and it will do,” the daughter said knowing that, despite her kindness, Mother had much pride.

  Mother winked a lot and mumbled something, implying that she was going to look into this matter. It was the first time the daughter allowed herself to give advice to her mother. She would not do it even when Mother, helpless, would completely rely on her. Times were different now. Daughter was different too. Although Mather was unable to grasp all of her daughter’s ideas and actions, she trusted her. And, secretly, took pride in her child’s similarities. Daughter resembled her mother in beauty, stubbornness, courage, capacity of bringing things, people and places, to life. Well, maybe not as good as she did.

  For the first time during that day, a contented smile grew on Mother’s face. They were a breed of strong women, that was what they were. Mother was only a child when an elegant woman had knocked at the door of the same house she was now living in, saying,

  “Hello, it’s Grandma!”

  She could not wait to play with the nice toy brought along by the stranger. While looking at the ensemble, her mouth opened in awe, her mother appeared out of the woodshed, chasing the visitor away with insults.

  “What a nerve, to show up like this, after so long! She got rid of me, throwing me into a poor family. What does she want now? And why do you cry? You need toys, ha? Get back to work or you’ll get punished!”

  If there was something Mother’s mum could not forget, it was treason. Abandonment was a sort of treason. Better a poor life, next to her good-looking but drunkard husband, than rich and humiliated. Despite all, Mother had loved this woman with all her might. She had been harsh, she had sent her away to marry when she was eighteen, all her things packed in a small suitcase; she wanted to turn her into a tailor, against her will. And when, almost thirty years ago, Mother wanted to divorce her much older and easygoing man, her own blood had sent her away from home saying she was too poor to take her in. But Mother had spoiled and taken care of this woman until her last breath. And had waited all her life for affection. The baby sister seemed to suck it all up and always slept in bed with their mum whenever the drunken husband was losing his way back home.

  Mother had also silently endured other people’s mocking looks, whenever they saw her together with her older husband and the gossips generated by the birth of her only child. Mother had gotten the apartment. Mother convinced her husband to buy a car and their first colour TV set. Mother could move mountains when she decided to.

  A sparrow landed in the yard and started hopping until it reached a small pond of water. It ruffled up its feathers and started washing. The sun had moved and started to put some colour on Mother’s face zealously.

  “Mother look, a sparrow!”

  Mother turned her head in slow motion.

  “Mother, mother, I’m hungry!”

  Mother got up from the chair. She might have said, “Do it” or “help yourself,” but then she would not have been Mother. Mother who was so courageous, Mother who was so beautiful in her youth that, although she wasn’t gifted at all when it came to driving cars, she had mesmerized the police officer and had her driver’s licence after passing her first examination. However, this Mother would sometimes get scared and soften up. As she did during a holiday in Paris. They were having breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Mother was about to put a muffin into her purse for later when daughter gave her a bad eye saying she was embarrassing her. Mother had placed the muffin back on the plate, smiling awkwardly although she would have loved to share it later with Daughter. Both of them remembered.

  “Mum, do you remember that thing with the muffin that happened in Paris? Please, forgive me, I didn’t want to be mean,” Daughter said whilst sipping the noodle soup.

  “Mother always forgives,” answered the woman with a wave, but the girl was determined not to fall into the trap.

  “I don’t know what is going on with me when I’m acting like this. But I’ll do my best to keep it under control.” In fact, she knew, but was sceptical about Mother being able to understand.

  “This is great. I try to keep myself under control but sometimes, I miss it...”

  The girl smiled happily. A pleasant breeze was starting to warm the coolness that had dwelt between them for years. Of course, there was work to do. But it was a piece of cake for two such powerful women, who could move mountains, if they wanted.

  “Mother, what would you say if I stayed a little bit longer and we had a nap together? We could sleep in the new bed you bought recently.”

  Mother nodded in approval.

  “Wait just a second, I want to finish doing the dishes,” she answered.

  Colour had returned to Mother’s cheeks.

  DREAMING

  Just like that, hocus-pocus, she had written her application for holiday leave and placed it on the human resources manager’s desk. She had longed for a week at the seaside for quite some time now, for being there during that particular time of the year when beaches are still deserted and bodegas remain latticed. At this very moment, the shores and the water were inexpressibly pure, like a woman who turns back into a virgin after a prolonged chastity. She had longed for some time to live in that beautiful villa, up on the seawall. A villa that had gravel alleys and a short, blackened fence and only God knew why it was named “La Prison.”

  Anyway, it was better to dwell in “La Prison de la Mer” instead of “La Prison corporatiste.” This idea must have been building inside her mind for years but became crystal-clear only now, one morning, when she woke up from an agitated sleep. She had had such a bad dream that she had screamed and kicked her legs. The man, who was lying next to her, probably over tired, did not hear a th
ing. Or faked it, pretending to be sound asleep. It did not matter, anyhow. After two years of being a couple, sluggishness was the best word to describe their relationship. They interacted in the same way a car with an empty tank would slowly go down the road, rolling at only a few miles an hour and only because the road is slightly sloping. She had changed her position, lying on her belly and went back to sleep. When she woke up, she had puffy eyes. The corners of her mouth sunk. She felt a terrible urge to take action although she had no clue what she was supposed to do.

  You must do it, this is the right time! You’re running out of time! These thoughts were spinning around her head.

  She had made breakfast off-hand, given him a quick kiss—muah, muah—and jumped into her car. It was getting terribly late and it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be on time for her own activity assessment meeting. The general manager and the human resources manager were expecting her, already pissed off, in the Red Conference Room.

  Following an apparent benevolent introduction, during which they allowed her to brag about how smooth things in her department were going, the man showed his teeth. As sharp behind those pursed lips, as her intuition had fortold. “I’m afraid that the situation doesn’t look so good!” he said making a pause for the dramatic effect.

  Why on earth did they let me talk so much about it? the woman was thinking while trying to remember what had scared her so deeply in her sleep.

  “According to your colleagues’ assessments, you are having difficulties in the strategic thinking department. Communication does not look good either. I can give you some examples, if you want.”

  She nodded. No, she did not want any.

  You are an idiot. We haven’t had a proper talk in a year, she answered in her mind. And now you’re assessing my work relying on judgement made by some idiots whose only purpose in life, beside work, is to buy clothes at Top Shop and get wasted in pubs!