The Way Through Doors (6 page)

—You think that by going upstairs, the world will continue. But there is more to it than that. He wants to go upstairs, said the man, pointing to the young fellow in the blue-gray suit, but he isn’t going. He’s staying right here. You sit here a moment.

Loren sat. His mind was in a seething fury.

The young man in the blue-gray suit came over and patted him on the shoulder.

—My friend, he said, this is for you.

He pressed an orange into Loren’s hand. But it was not just any orange. It was the orange that Loren had been about to eat when news had come to him of his parents’ death. How had the orange been preserved so long? How could it still be fresh? Yet it was. Loren peeled the orange, and it was as perfect a fruit as he had ever seen. He took a portion and put it in his mouth, and the taste filled him. It was full of freshness and new promise, the lifting of obligation. He gave pieces of the orange to everyone in the room, and they all ate, smiling.

The young man knelt by Loren and whispered in his ear:

—Though we pass away now, the world will return to you again; fear not.

For at that moment the black-bearded blacksmith began to speak, and all that he said became more and more certain until only his subject remained.

—I heard tell once, he was saying, of a guess artist. He lived in a grand and impossible city, a place not out of a true future, but an imagined future. There were great wings that propelled men in gatherings through the sky, and tall, tall houses, called skyscrapers. In the water too there were massive ships that circumnavigated the world, bearing goods in trade. So many people lived in the city that they were forced to live atop one another. Houses atop houses atop houses. When the people went out into the street, there was one unending crowd through which they went and in which they lived.

There were many nations in the world, and all were linked, and the populace of this one city was composed of many of the peoples of the earth. Where this city met the ocean, on its southeast border, there was a great wooden plank-land, planks stretching out along the coast. They called it a boardwalk. And upon the boardwalk, the man of whom I speak, the guess artist, had a stand. Late in the day, when the heat had faded somewhat into the planks of the boardwalk and down into the sand that lay all around, he would take up his position in a tent behind a small counter adjoining the boardwalk, there to wait for customers.

The place was lit by electric light, something like the lightning that comes now from the sky, but harnessed, and set into veins called power lines. This energy was free to be used by anyone, and then night was not the serious affair that it is now. Lights lit the streets, lit the insides of buildings, and light lit the boardwalk, clear from one end of Coney Island to the other.

On this particular day the guess artist was sitting, looking out across the water, when a young Japanese couple approached. Across the way, a young man in a blue-gray suit had been waiting some time. The guess artist knew that the young man wanted to come to speak with the guess artist, but something was keeping him away.

The young Japanese couple looked at the guess artist’s brochure. It was a flat card that said,

—In three guesses I will guess what you are thinking.

—How much does it cost? asked Takashi Kawagata.

—You will give me what you think I deserve, said the guess artist.

—That sounds fair, said June Kawagata. What am I thinking?

—You are both thinking the same thing, said the guess artist. You are wondering whether the sun will ever go down, since you have been traveling now for six years on airplanes, staying ahead of the sun, and you have finally decided today to let yourselves see a sunset.

—That’s not true, said June. I design robots for use in private industry. We have an apartment on the West Side.

—Okay, said the guess artist. Three chances, right?

—Okay, said June. Shoot.

—You’re thinking about the cat you had when you were a child. There was one spot on its fur, to the left of its tail, which would never sit smoothly. The fur always stuck up. Somehow you thought that because the fur was always sticking up there, the world could never reward anyone with exactly what they wanted. This belief was for a long time unconscious in your head, but earlier today you realized why you believe what you believe. Furthermore, now you feel that it is certainly true. The cat died when you were nine. It is buried by the gate of your parents’ house in Tensshu.

—What is the cat’s name? asked June.

—You are being very careful not to think of the cat’s name, said the guess artist.

Then his expression changed. He looked at Takashi.

—The cat’s name was Octopus.

June gave Takashi a withering look.

—Don’t you have any self-control? she asked.

Takashi shrugged.

June looked at the guess artist.

—You’re pretty good, she said. What do you think?

—About what? he asked.

—About the patch of fur, she said.

—I think you’re right about the patch of fur. I could have told you more if you had brought Octopus here.

—But I was only a kid then. I didn’t know about you.

—I know, said the guess artist.

Takashi took a chocolate-chip cookie wrapped very carefully in waxed paper out of his bag. It was obviously from an extremely expensive cookie boutique uptown. He gave it to the guess artist.

—Thank you, said the guess artist.

—See you around, said June and Takashi.

The guess artist watched them walk off down the boardwalk. What a nice couple, he thought to himself.

At that moment, the young man in the gray-blue suit approached the guess artist’s booth. He was a serious young man with a way of moving that said, I am trying to be extraordinarily quiet right now even though it makes no difference.

—Hello, said the guess artist.

—Hello, said the young man.

—When you were standing over by the railing you were thinking about the time you parachuted from a small prop plane. It was your first time, and so you had to have someone jump with you, attached to your back. Nonetheless, the experience was wonderful. The day was slightly cloudy, and so you fell through hundreds of wisps of cloud, to emerge into an open sky over the Hudson Valley.

—Not really, said the young man.

The guess artist raised an eyebrow.

—Earlier today, I thought about that, said the young man. Just now I thought about how I had been thinking about that, to be precise. And anyway, the thing isn’t what I was thinking about when I was standing over there. It’s what I’m thinking about right now.

—True, said the guess artist. Give me a minute.

He looked at the young man again. Perhaps he resembled an animal that had been turned into a human being by some accident, and now was trying to make the best of the situation. Yes, said the guess artist to himself, that’s the way it is.

—Well…said the young man.

—You’re looking for a girl, said the guess artist. You had hoped she would be on the boardwalk, but she’s not. She’s upstairs somewhere, you think, though you don’t know where.

—Well, said the young man again, I think—

—But, continued the guess artist, you’re worried that you won’t be able to find her alone, and in truth, you will not be able to find her alone. She is too hard to find. You will need help. Somehow you knew that I was the only one who could help you. That’s why you’ve come here every day for the last week and stood over there watching me. Also, just now you noticed my chocolate-chip cookie and you want a bite. Ask me for a piece.

—Can I have a piece of your chocolate-chip cookie? asked the young man.

—Yes, said the guess artist. And, I will help you find this girl.

He broke the cookie into two halves. When he did this, the cookie broke beautifully. The substance it was made of was quite obviously the most extraordinary substance that one could make a chocolate-chip cookie from and still call it a chocolate-chip cookie. The two ate the cookie in silence. When they were done, the young man said,

—That’s the best chocolate-chip cookie I have ever eaten, or seen.

—Let’s go, said the guess artist. There isn’t much time. Do you have anything to show me, any clues to where she might be?

The young man slid an envelope out of his sleeve. He did it so quickly and well that the guess artist smiled at the artfulness of the gesture. There was a letter in the envelope. It said:

Hey, you,

I’m in a hurry, so I can’t write much. Meet me at Pier 12 at four a.m. two nights from now. Is there such a thing as useless obfuscation? I don’t think so.

Resolutely yours,

—Hmmm, said the guess artist. What happened when you went to the pier?

—It was very strange, said the young man.

At this the guess artist straightened up in his chair. The young man did not seem like the sort of person who used the word
strange
lightly.

—When I got there, there was some kind of selection process going on. There were many girls, all dressed alike in white linen sundresses. Also, they all looked vaguely like Her. But they weren’t Her. None of them was Her. Some of them even, while they were waiting for their turn to talk to the judges, made little gestures reminiscent of Her. But they were clearly not Her. I waited until they all spoke to the judges. Then I spoke to the judges. Then everyone left. Then I left.

—What did the judges say?

—They said that I seemed very confused and that I should have that looked at. Also they said they were going to have a drink and that if I wanted I could come along.

—What did they look like?

—The judges?

—Yes, said the guess artist.

—More of the same, said the young man. They looked perhaps even more like Her than the contestants.

—Hmmm, said the guess artist. And they didn’t say why they were there?

—There was a handbill, said the young man. He took it out of his other sleeve and gave it to the guess artist. The handbill was blank.

—Very interesting, said the guess artist.