The Way Through Doors (2 page)

Senior Inspector, Seventh Ministry

Mars Levkin

I set the paper down. By the window I found my tea. It was quite cold. In fact, it looked like someone had been ashing a cigarette in it.

—That wasn’t for you to drink, said Rita, opening the door again.

She had a tray this time. On the tray was another envelope, and a cup of tea. She brought it over and set it down gently.

—I’m Rita the message-girl, she said.

—I’ve been told that, I replied.

She adjusted the hem of her skirt.

—Any messages to send? she said.

—Could you tell Levkin that—

—No! she said. Only written messages. What sort of message girl do you think I am?

She stalked off, leaving me with the tea and letter.

I took a sip of the tea. Irish Breakfast, with just the right amount of milk and sugar. Thank you, Rita. I opened the letter.

Seventh Ministry

21 July xxxx

M.I. Selah Morse,

I do hope you’re settling in. Things have been dreadfully strange around here ever since Maude ran away (the gray tabby). I think you are quite handsome and pleasant to talk to, and you mustn’t get the wrong idea about me. I am excited to see if you can do the work, and if you like it. Also, I had a cousin named Selah who died when he was very young. He died right after he learned to read. The doctor said some people aren’t meant to read. No one knows if he was joking or not, but we have to assume so. Was it a funny joke? I have never been in a position to tell. Anyway, good-bye for now,

Rita Liszt, M.G.

Seventh Ministry

I closed the letter and smiled to myself. On an ordinary day, I would be reading in the park or working on one of my pamphlets in my cramped apartment. Was it true? Had I really come up in the world? I inspected my clothing for secret pockets and found several more, including a rather clever one that went all the way down the pant leg, starting beneath a false belt loop. Or, I suppose, the belt loop was a belt loop truthfully. But it also had this other business of being the start of a secret pocket.

HOWEVER, the true business began later, and about that we will now speak.

Several months, perhaps six or nine, had passed since I had begun work as an inspector. I was quite used to my schedule and to my responsibilities. It was late in the day, when afternoon has begun quite visibly to crumple around the edges and one can smell rather than sense that evening will soon be upon us. Quite the opposite is true in winter, when one sees night approaching from afar on spindly noiseless legs. But now it was the spring, and I was heading towards a noodle shop happily situated between a sort of pretend-dadaist gallery and an old movie theater named the Grand Corazon. Whenever I was in that neighborhood I made a point of stopping by the noodle shop.

As I walked, a girl came out of a doorway ahead of me and paused in the street. She was very happy, perhaps as happy as a person could be; one could tell this at a glance. She looked up at the second-story window. It was closed. Presumably she had just come from the apartment to which it belonged. The girl was quite fine-looking, with bare shoulders and a beauty that I have always ascribed to the Han dynasty of ancient China. Not that she was Chinese. No, I didn’t know what she was, Slavic maybe, and elegant.

Out of nowhere, a taxi came speeding. There was a great honking of horns, a shouting. The girl made as though to jump back onto the curb, but instead went the other way, out into the street. With a dreadful thud, the braking taxi smashed full into the girl, sending her flying up into the air to land flat on the pavement some twenty feet away. The whole thing was rather like a geometry problem. Except that one could see immediately how truly injured the girl was, and one oughtn’t to say such things or even think them at such times.

I dropped the brown paper parcel I was carrying and ran to where she lay. One isn’t supposed to lift or move people who have been struck by dynamically heavy and fast-moving objects; however, I couldn’t help but lift the girl off the street. She was completely unconscious. All her gladness had paused a moment.

—Driver! I shouted.

The cabdriver approached reluctantly, looking away and mumbling things to himself. I could see he would be of little use in the fast-approaching solution. Nevertheless,

—Driver!

—Sir, and—I didn’t see her, and—She came out of nowhere.

—We must get this girl to the hospital. Pull the cab up here.

In moments the cabdriver had pulled the cab up beside the struck girl. We lifted her into the back of the taxi. I climbed in the front with the driver. Away we went.

An orderly came and took the unconscious girl away down the hall on a gurney, leaving me standing before the emergency desk. I started to go after, but the clerk called out to me.

—What’s her name? You have these forms to fill out.

—I don’t know, I said.

—But you
are
the one who brought her in, no?

—Yes, but I don’t know her. I only saw the accident.

—All right, well, do you think she would want you to stay with her?

—I suppose so, I said. If I were in an accident, I would want someone to stay with me.

—Me too, said the clerk.

—All right, I’ll go down there then.

—Third room on the left, he said, and gave me an approving nod.

These sorts of nods, from complete strangers during trying circumstances, help to cement one’s self-worth in a way that a compliment from a friend never can. All-embracing, they confer a general air of approval upon one’s movements for a brief time. No price can be put on them.

The third room on the left was not really a room. It was just a screened-off area of a big room. The girl lay, still unconscious, breathing softly. The orderly looked up when I came in.

—Are you her boyfriend?

—Yes, I said.

—What’s her name?

—Mora Klein.

The orderly wrote that down.

—And your name? he asked.

—Selah Morse.

—You know, she doesn’t have any identification on her.

—I’m aware of that, I said. She doesn’t like to carry identification. She never wants anyone to know who she is.

—Inconvenient, isn’t it? asked the orderly.

—You have no idea, I said. When will she come out of it?

—Any minute, he said. I gave her a shot.

—What kind of shot? I asked.

—Just a shot, he said.

And just at that moment, she began to stir. Her eyes opened and she looked dazedly around. She started to sit up, but the orderly held her down.

—Where am I? she asked.

Her voice was very fitting. It sounded like the comforting noises that faraway things make in morning.

—Mora, you’re in the hospital, I said. You were in an accident.

—It’ll be all right, the orderly told her. Your boyfriend’s here. He brought you.

—Yes, I said, I’m here.

She looked at me, smiled, and closed her eyes.

—Stay here, said the orderly. Keep talking to her. Try to keep her awake. The doctor will be here in a moment.

I looked down at Mora. Her face was a bit pale, but she seemed remarkably unhurt. I didn’t see any bruises or lacerations on her face, arms, or hands. She must have landed entirely on her head.

—You’ve got to stay awake now, Mora. The hospital doesn’t want you to fall asleep. If you do, you’ll sleep forever, and that wouldn’t be any good for any of us.

Mora opened her eyes again. They were gray. She looked up at me.

—Who are you? she asked.

—Selah Morse, I said again. You don’t remember me?

—No, she said. I don’t remember anything.

—Well, don’t worry, I said. Things will be sorted out shortly. The important thing is that you’re okay.

She smiled again and closed her eyes. The doctor came in.

—Mr. Morse? he asked.

I did a half bow.

—I’m Dr. Platt. You’ll have to leave while we examine the patient. Someone will fetch you afterwards.

—Good-bye for now, Mora, I said, bending over the gurney and kissing her on the cheek.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to do it, and then I had done it. Her skin was very soft.

—Good-bye, she said.

After fifteen minutes or so, an attendant came out to call me back in. He was a large man, quite hairy.

—Morse! he called out.

—Here, I said, and hurried after.

As we walked down the hall, the doctor emerged from a side room.

—Well, he said, she had quite a blow to the head. Strangely, her body is largely unhurt where the taxi hit her. The only damage is due to the concussion. She seems to have entirely lost her memory. It will come back, probably, but these things take time. It would be helpful for you to construct a book for her, detailing her past circumstances. Such memory aids can help patients regain what they’ve lost.

—I see, I said.

—The important thing for the next eighteen hours, he said, is to keep her awake. She can be discharged tonight, as long as you’ll take her somewhere quiet and stay with her.

—I’ll do that, I said.

We had paused in the hall. The hairy attendant had gone on. The doctor’s expression was kind. He gave the impression of being in the process of doing a hundred things at once, yet having truly and certainly a moment free in which to stand here quietly speaking with me.

—I’ll do that, I said again.

—Good, good. There’ll be some papers to sign. Insurance, etc. You should go in now and see her. She’s been asking for you.

I shook his hand.

—Thanks, Dr. Platt, I said.

—No trouble.

The doctor paused a moment longer. He looked on the verge of asking me a question.