Four Doors and Other Stories (11 page)

“Let’s get in here,” Isabella said as soon as she noticed it, pulling Mattie under it. She took the cell phone out of a small purse and started touching the keypad, nervously. Every attempt was in vain. The cab’s office lines were busy. Mattie’s cell phone was dead.

“This is it. We stay here until the rain calms down and then we try to reach the boulevard and hail a cab,” Isabella suggested and Mattie agreed. She was feeling safe now. Isabella turned on her cell phone light and started looking at the statues. They were dressed differently. Their countenance was different. The one next to her was holding the balcony with her left hand while the right one was lifting up the rich folds of her long frock, showing a delicate leg. She had a firm and determined expression on her harmonious face. Her attitude was that of a person about to move forward but who had stopped for a second only to allow an artist to immortalize her quickly in a drawing meant to become a sculpture. The other statue seemed to have found comfort in staying there and carrying the balcony for as long as it was meant to last. The sculpture had been so gifted in portraying her suffering and submission, that the statue looked alive.

“I can see that you like my daughters!” The deep voice that uttered these words startled them. Neither of the girls had seen this strange creature approaching. The sound of the pouring rain must have been so loud that hid all other noises. The creature lifted up to their heads an old–fashioned lamp. It was an old man.

“Don’t worry, I‘m a good person.”

So must have said Jack the Ripper! The girls clung close to one another. They had seen too many bad things happen to good people on the evening news. Moreover, they both agreed that great boast usually meant small roast. Isabella and Mattie would have shown a clean pair of heels but the old man and his lamp stood in their way. He was surely crazy. Escaped maybe from a lunatic asylum. Isabella was racking her brains trying to remember if there was any in the neighbourhood, when she felt her friend easing her grip. It was only then she had the courage to look at the stranger. His grey, bushy hair made him look silly. He had thick, still dark eyebrows that seemed glued to his face, to a skin as scorched as a leaf in October. Only his eyes were lively, soothing and familiar.

“Have we met before?” asked Isabella, hypnotized.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he answered playfully. “You’re sitting in front of my house and it would be impolite of me not to invite you in, for a cup of coffee and find out the right answer. Anyways, it is the best thing you can do right now!”

Isabella wanted to reach out for the man’s face, grab him by his cheeks only to convince herself it was not a Halloween mask.

“Let’s go in,” Mattie said. “He’s just an old man. What harm can he do? I’m cold, pretty frail and I’m sure I’ll get ill if I stay outside in the wet.”

“All right, we accept your invitation. But bear this in mind, old man, we have strong lungs and powerful voices.”

He smiled, took a big key out of his sleeve and unlocked the gate. They entered a slightly sloping courtyard, with a fountain in the middle. He led the way up to a wooden staircase, to a veranda that surrounded the first floor. He unlocked a glazed door. They entered a large room, with a ceiling so low that they could have touched it with their fingertips if they stood on tiptoe. The old man pressed a hidden button and light flooded in, revealing unexpected glamour and luxury. Isabella and Mattie stopped in front of the Persian carpet margin. To step on it with their wet shoes would have been a sacrilege. Their host urged them to move forward. He disappeared behind a folding screen and brought them two cashmere robes, one in pink, the other red.

“Nothing could be better right now than some dry clothes and a tea made of fresh ginger. Please, make yourselves comfortable while I’m going to the kitchen to prepare it.”

The girls looked at one another, not knowing what to do.

“I leave the door unlocked. If you need anything, just give me a shout.”

“And how we are supposed to call you? You haven’t introduced yourself!” Isabella confronted him.

“But you know, lovely lady. Old man, you called me that before. Although I’d much rather have you calling me...father.”

His words and attitude appeased their suspicion.

As much as she loved adventure, Isabella had never imagined that she would travel into a fantasy. As she was sitting there, in the middle of the cosy room, preparing to put on the precious garment, she was feeling like a wayfarer into a story that was about to be written. Mattie was feeling as if she was awakening from a long and deep sleep, into her real life. Being here, dressed in a robe provided by a stranger was natural.

“If you want your clothes to dry up faster, put them next to the fireplace,” he said before leaving the room.

It was this fireplace, and the orange dancing flames, that made the room so pleasantly warm. The whole decor was exquisite. The silky window curtains, the sofas covered with precious fabrics, the silver fruit baskets, the crystal glasses, the soft pillows on the floor, they all made their expensive clothes look shabby.

“This is incredible. It is a different world. Too bad that the old man is so old,” said Isabella, sitting down in front of the fireplace on one of the large pillows.

“This place looks familiar,” Mattie uttered in a dreamy voice.

They stopped talking. The crackling of the fire was the only sound that broke the silence. The perfumed air and the heat were making them feel drowsy.

The old man returned to the room carrying a silver tray, with three crystal tea cups with silver handles, as well as a small teapot. He sat down next to the girls, pulled nearer a coffee table and poured the ginger beverage.

Mattie grabbed a glass and inhaled, greedily, its pleasant aroma. Her sight grew dim until she saw nothing. She felt like she was sliding down into a chasm of darkness. At some point, it stopped and she started seeing again. Bits and glimpses, a powerful light and, finally, full images.

She was in the same room, only the people looked different. Yet no, it was a wrong impression. She knew both of them in the room. The young lady was blonde, had voluptuous curves and a perfect nose. She has Isabella’s eyes and gaze. The man looked like a much younger relative of the old man.

“That’s enough my girls, stop fighting,” he was saying. “Yolanda, you are the eldest and you should have taken care of your sister, make her happy instead of stealing her betrothed. And you, Michaela, bear in mind that if he were meant for you, no woman on this planet, your sister included, could have taken him away. Sometimes, the universe knows best what is good for us or what brings us real joy. You are my daughters, I love you both and I wish you to have the courage to follow your dreams. Have the life you want. I have faith in you and in your dear mother—as she watches over you from up there in the sky, helping you make the right choices.” Michaela threw herself into her father’s arms while Yolanda stood tall and asked:

“Therefore, I have your blessing?”

“You do, my child. After all, it’s God’s will.”

Yolanda gave them a patronizing look, making Michaela hold on to her father even tighter. What did she do? Where did she go wrong to make her sister hate her and act like this? Yes, she was deeply hurt by the loss of her beloved, yet not being loved by her sister created an even deeper pain within her. As for Yolanda, she was convinced that what had happened had more to do with her beauty and wits, with her silvery voice and her gift of charming men.

Michaela remembered it all. Their unplanned encounter, while she was strolling down the riverside, observing the plants, the insects and the animals that went by her without fear. How they started spending long hours together. They enjoyed talking philosophy, imagining how the Earth would look like in a thousand years. Their first kiss, chaste and shy. The day she had brought him home, to introduce him to her family because he had implied a more profound relationship. The moment she saw him, Yolanda did her best to charm him. Each time she knew he was visiting, she would put on her most beautiful garments, draw him into the most absurd dialogues, tease him only to overwhelm him with praise a few seconds later, sing with her most mesmerizing voice. Any woman would have seemed flat and boring compared to this swirl of ice and fire from Yolanda. Any man would have lost his head. And he did. One day, he confessed to Michaela that he had fallen for her sister, that he had asked her to become his wife and that she had accepted.

“Stop crying, my girl. You have no idea what beautiful things await ahead, I promise you. Have a cup of tea, it will soothe your pain.”

Michaela sipped the flavoursome drink, pleasant vapours going into her eyes and nose. Her vision blurred a little and then cleared up. She was inside a monastery, dressed as a nun and felt calm and happy. She was sitting on a bench, next to a stout woman, whose ageing beauty was fading away. Michaela had made peace with herself and the world, experiencing nothing but compassion for her own sister Yolanda, who was now complaining about how tired she was of being beautiful and witty, about living a life with a husband she had grown tired of, shortly after their marriage, of concealing her lovers and her affairs.

“I’m jealous of you,” Yolanda confessed. “For this peaceful life, for being true to yourself, for liking yourself. Now I hate myself! I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself...” These words echoed in Isabella’s heads while she was touching her cell’s keypad automatically. The tea, the fireplace, the old man were all gone. She was back in the street, in dry clothes. Only the caryatid opposite her looked like Michaela. All of a sudden, the call to the cab’s office went through.

“I managed to get the operator,” she said gladly, after she hung up. “The taxi would be here in a few moments. Please, forgive me,” she added, giving her a tender hug.

Mattie smiled, happily. Finally, she had a sister who loved her.

The piano player peeked through the tiny hole in the screen at the edge of the stage. The auditorium was full to the brim.

“10, 9, 8, 7…”

As seconds threaded slowly, you could see she was starting to breathe faster by the faint tremble of the soft purple petals of the orchid pinned to her black corset. The orchestra members, all dressed up in tuxedos and evening gowns, passed her by, in a steady confident pace, and took their places on stage, to the sound of the audience’s applause. Then, everybody stood in utter silence, waiting. However, she remained there behind the screen, completely still. The conductor gave her an encouraging smile and urged her out on stage with an almost unperceivable nod of his head.

“ And 1...”

This was it. She had it coming. The pianist rushed out from behind the screen. One step, than another. All that she needed was to get to the rosewood-legged stool by the piano and then she would be safe. The people in the front row could hear the margins of her long silk dress rustle while sweeping the floor. They jumped up to their feet, cheering and all the others followed. The promotion campaign had paid off. Her face, framed by thick, plaited pigtails, bound at the back of her head, with her sleek and lofty forehead and a mysterious and wistful mien, spread all over the big city on larger-than-life posters, some of them as grand as a three-storey building. The short footage taken at the airport, during her arrival, broadcast by the most important evening news shows, announcing the return of the wonder child. Her refusal to give interviews. The promise of a quick dinner party, after the concert, together with those who paid for a VIP ticket. She stopped and bowed, holding her right hand to her heart, as if, she was feeling grateful to the audience. And so she was, indeed. Although the pianist believed that most of them did not dig the tiniest bit of classical music, she blessed their snobbishness for allowing her to live to the fullest a one-of-a-kind love story with the most exquisite partner.

She sat down. The stool had become warm from the bright light of the spotlights on stage, sending pleasant shivers up her veins.

The conductor made a sign. The fiddlesticks started floating on the strings while the brass came to life. Like a caress on the cheek of a sleeping child, the pianist’s fingers delicately touched the ivory keys, arousing velvet sounds only to stop, dutiful, for a rest in her lap, a few seconds later. The woman was as tight as a panther watching over her prey.

The orchestra began a sforzzando and, as if started by an unseen signal, she threw her arms up in the air and then let them fall, heavily, over the instrument. With each note, her fingers seemed to take over all the clavier. From under the piano’s lifted lid, cascades were falling, rain was pouring, and happy birds’ trills were being heard. Merry sunshines and cold moonbeams were glowing. The smell of grass was spreading and insults distorted into love whispers could be heard. The pianist had floated over the keyboard, barely touching it. Her hands were moving swiftly, frantically, as if driven by an invisible, cosmic energy. The time contracted and one hour magically became one second. The music carried her away, into a fascinating journey through the galaxies.

The few moments of calm, followed by standing ovations put a brisk end to her trip. She was back in the auditorium, her cheeks covered in small drops of sweat, her temples pounding. She pulled a tiny handkerchief out of one sleeve and pressed it against her face, then stood up to face the crowd. She had conquered them once more. In fact she thought that she had actually tricked them once more. She smiled, her first smile during that evening, pleased it allowed her to indulge in the wonderful love story she was living. Until she was going to be exposed, of course. Until her faithful audience would realize the truth and nail her. It was enough for one of them to set the tone. The rest would follow.

However, tonight they worshipped her, overwhelming her with ovations and flowers. A tall man, dressed in tuxedo, got up on stage, kissed her hand and offered her a bouquet of orchids, the only flowers he knew she fancied. She felt like she was dreaming. All that she wanted right there and then was to wake up so that she may live again that sensation of utmost bliss and freedom.