The Way Through Doors (18 page)

—Good Lord, he said. That’s far.

The guess artist also looked down.

—How can that be? he asked.

Hundreds and hundreds of feet below there was some sort of landing. It was too far down to distinguish really what lay there.

—I could tell you, said Morris, but my father has been waiting some time for visitors, and I shouldn’t ruin his fun.

—How can no one know about this? mused the municipal inspector.

To this Morris said nothing.

He began down the stairs. They were broad and carpeted in the middle. The steps had a fine width and were not too steep or too large for easy walking. The banister on the right was a gorgeous mahogany. It was shaped much like a slide.

The municipal inspector’s eye darted to Morris when he saw this.

—Yes, said Morris. You and I are of the same ilk. I have thought often of sliding down, but I have not yet mustered the courage.

The municipal inspector moved slowly to the banister. He looked down. It curved in a great sweeping circle around and around all the way out of sight. The wood was perfectly polished and smooth. He began to lift himself up onto it. Then he thought better and stood again on the stairs.

—It is the same with me, said Morris. But one day…

They began their walk down. The steps were easy to manage, and the carpet had a fine degree of springiness. The guess artist noticed that Morris was not wearing any shoes. He sat down on a step and removed his shoes also. He set them side by side on the stair.

—Is this the only way out? he asked Morris.

—This and a pine box, said Morris.

—How old are you anyway? asked Selah.

—Nine, said Morris. And a half.

Selah thought about removing his shoes, but if he did then his pant cuffs would trail slightly on the ground, as the tailor had taken the shoes into account when testing the length that the pant legs should be. He worried over the notion of his cuffs trailing over even such a fine surface as that provided by the richly carpeted stair. Well, he thought then, I could roll them up. He took off his shoes, set them beside the guess artist’s, and rolled up his cuffs. He took a few steps down the stairs, then returned to his shoes. Out of his pocket he took a small black notebook. He opened it. On the first page it said,
World’s Fair SHORTHAND.

—What is that? asked the guess artist.

—It’s all my ideas for the
World’s Fair 7 June 1978.

The municipal inspector tore out a page from the middle. He wrote a short note on the page and stuck it in his shoe. It said:

These shoes are poisonous. Beware. If you touch them or wear them, the death you will suffer will make every death you have ever heard of or seen seem easy in comparison.

Morris was very impressed with this note. He said so.

—Thank you, said the municipal inspector. I am often leaving notes. I have had much practice.

On then again down the broad and limitless stair. They walked at first for what seemed like hours, but was really not, and then afterwards for what were hours. All the light was provided by mirrored ducts in the wall. As it became dark outside, the stair too grew dark. However, the carpet was of such soft kindness, and the mahogany wood so pleasing to touch, that they found their way easily downwards through the nigh complete dark.

When they had been walking for six hours they reached the first landing. Both Selah and the guess artist had supposed that it was the bottom. It was in fact only the first landing.

—I had hoped, said Morris, that we could get much farther. Evidently this will take longer than I supposed.

He shared out the sandwiches and also the coffee.

—We can’t hope, said Morris, to reach the second landing by nightfall. Do either of you walk in your sleep or move about overly much?

—I do, said the municipal inspector. Always.

—Then we had best stay here tonight, said Morris. If we have to sleep on the stairs, you might fall and roll for some extraordinary distance before striking your head against a wall or wounding yourself against the struts of a balcony.

—Balcony? asked the guess artist.

—Yes, said Morris. There are balconies beneath.

The three lay down on the various couches that sat in attendance on the first landing. The couches were very comfortable, and the travelers were tired from their walk. They decided to have a contest to see who could tell the best story.

THE STORY CONTEST WON BY MORRIS

First, the guess artist told a story about a man-faced fish that lived in a green pond on a large estate during the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon’s army happened to pass through that part of the world, and he used briefly that estate as a command post before one or another of the famous battles in which he refused to take anyone’s advice and went his own implacable way.

While out for a walk on the estate, considering the best way to array his troops along the lines of battle, Napoleon passed by the pond in which the man-faced fish lived. Being a man who was fond of green ponds and of private moments before battle, Napoleon lingered by the pond and stared down into its depths. The man-faced fish saw him and swam up to the surface.

—Good day, said the man-faced fish.

—Bonsoir,
said Napoleon.

—Below, said the man-faced fish, it is neither day nor night.

When the man-faced fish said this, Napoleon suddenly realized the thing that he had been trying to realize all day. If he sent the cavalry down a certain road, thereafter to cross an embankment, slip through several cavalry-sized shadows, and appear on the right-hand side of the map, a small distraction would be made such that his massive columns would be able once more to smash the other army. In his head then too the memory of an onion he had eaten once as a boy. He had eaten an onion and a hunk of cheese and a piece of bread. The mistral had been blowing and someone had said to him,

—That wind has an ill will. It can push a man from a horse, or tear the roof from off a house.

But at the moment they were not near the lands over which the mistral sang. And the man-faced fish had gone back into the depths of the pond.

—I don’t know, said the municipal inspector. I think the man-faced fish probably had secret information that helped the little emperor.

Morris nodded in agreement.

—You should check the facts. You might be wrong.

The guess artist allowed that perhaps it hadn’t happened exactly like that. It was then the municipal inspector’s turn to tell a story.

—Three men arguing in a tree. One has a hand, another a leg, another an eye. Who believes as I do? Who can say my name?

—What kind of story is that? asked the guess artist.

—It’s a riddle, said Selah. See if you can figure it out.

Morris got up from the couch and walked over to Selah. He whispered something into Selah’s ear.

—That’ s right, said Selah. That’s the answer.

He patted Morris on the shoulder.

—From now on, he said, we’ll call you Morris the solver-of-riddles.

—I would like that, said Morris the solver-of-riddles.

Then Morris told his story, and it was the best one of all. It was a story about an ambition that sifted through the population of a colony over a period of fifty years until it found the several people in whom it wanted to invest. It was the story of the growth of this ambition and the pain and suffering caused by it, as well as the will behind the ambition itself, and the secret workings of the world of which most men are not aware. Also it included a trip to the moon on horseback, and a secret chamber inside of a ring which would fit on your finger but in which you could also sleep the night safely when surrounded by enemies. Both the guess artist and the municipal inspector proclaimed him the winner, and they all went to sleep.

Selah immediately had a dream. In his dream a girl was standing in a square. It was raining and she was getting soaked by the rain. He knew that it was Mora Klein, although he was so far away he knew he could only have achieved this vantage point by being kidnapped in a balloon and strapped to the outside. Nonetheless, his thought now was not for himself but for the girl, who had begun to cry. The sound of her crying reached him, and he felt a great sadness himself. An old man came out into the square and soon had begun to sing to her a song that was itself very sad. A bird shot down out of the sky and fetched a hair out of Mora’s braid. Just then Selah woke. He was holding the hair-knot rabbit in his hand. He felt a sense of well-being. He
would
find her. He knew it. He sat then on the stairs. A sort of viewing lens was positioned above the banister. He looked through it, and saw beneath him on the stair, perhaps twenty feet down, Mora in a belled coat with trousers and heavy boots. Mora, standing there, ever so still!

—Mora! he cried, and leaped for the stairs.

But she was gone.

He ran back to the lens, and saw it then for what it was, a stereoscope pointed at the stairs with a photograph of the stairs, a photograph of Mora on the stairs. When had she been there? He looked again. Mora was so lovely there, looking up at the camera. Who had taken the picture?

He leaned against the stairs and closed his eyes. The others were still asleep. Soon he was also.

Several hours passed.

Morris woke first and roused the others.

—We’d best begin, he said.

They went on down the stairwell and to another landing. Selah went to the edge of this one and peered down. Again he was greeted by a massive depth and a rising dizziness that sent him reeling.

—How? was all he said.

The guess artist looked also.

—That
there at the bottom…he asked. I presume that is not the bottom but only the second landing?

—And beneath it the third landing, and then the true bottom, said Morris.

—Is there food and drink to be had at the bottom? asked Selah.

—Water may be had now, and at every landing, said Morris. My father should be preparing lunch for us; however, we will be late for that, and he may be cross. He is obsessed with punctuality.

—What does he have to be punctual about? asked Selah.

—Not very much, said Morris. Nevertheless…

Morris opened a little closet by the head of the stair. Inside was a water fountain. With a different key, Morris started up the water fountain. Selah and the guess artist drank of it. Then Morris did. Then he locked it. Then they began down.

—Such a wide and never-ending stair, said the guess artist, is in danger of ceasing to be a stair to become instead a metaphor of some kind or even an allegory.

—I shouldn’t like that, said Morris.

—Let us not think of it again, said Selah.

At that point they became aware of two things. The first was a series of paintings that had begun upon the left-hand wall. The second was the first balcony that had appeared, extending out from the stair into the nebulous middle space of the stair. Every 150 steps there was another balcony. Each balcony was equipped with couches and comfortable chairs, as well as with a reading table or two, and gas lamps. Nevertheless, the little party was not tempted to stop.