Free The Way Through Doors by Jesse Ball Page A

amplified, sometimes dampened, and phrases cast upon precise winds, both proscribed and known.
    He ponders interviews with artists who were never born, who say things he himself would like to say. These persons, beginning with a perfect biography, an inexplicable and wondrous origin, go on to thunder out the objects of his own hope. Oh, the World’s Fair. If there is an affection, a complete and dear affection, it is to this idea of the book that he will one day write.
    He stood by the door one day, trying to replicate a posture he had seen in a mannequin, when the door sounded with a loud knock.
    —Who’s there? he asked.
    —Let me in, came the reply.
    The pamphleteer went to the door and slowly opened it. A girl was standing there, dressed in the sort of khaki suit that best befits early-twentieth-century female explorers of Africa.
    —Sif! he said. How nice to see you.
    —And you, she said. It has been some time, I think.
    —Yes, he said. I have been busy working on a pamphlet.
    —Which one? she asked.
    A glint came into her eye.
    —Have you finished World’s Fair 7 June 1978 ?
    —Of course not, he said. This one is a method for how to enter rooms.
    —Well, then, said Sif. Let this be a lesson to you.
    She entered the room, doing a slow sort of pirouette.
    —Will you get a girl a drink?
    She sat down on the edge of the sofa and watched him as he brought out a glass bottle that perhaps had once held wine, but now looked very much like
    —Iced tea? he asked.
    —Yes, thank you, she said. You know, I was thinking about the story you told me the other day. The one about the gambler. I’m not entirely sure whether or not he was imagining the girl, what was her name, having affairs.
    —Ilsa, said the pamphleteer.
    —Yes, continued Sif. I think her dress was unbuttoned and her hair wasn’t pinned up properly, etc., not by chance. I think it’s very possible that a man who could disappear into, what was it, a fold of heat and light, could very easily appear in a room, ravage a woman, and then disappear.
    —That’s something to consider, said the pamphleteer.
    —But on the other hand, said Sif, the story is interesting because it’s also possible that he is just crazy, that he imagined the whole episode with the devil, and that he is imagining all her possible adulteries. I mean, the point of it could just be that it’s ridiculous in the first place that she should be his property, that he should be able to barter her as an object in his possession in a wager with Satan. Am I wrong?
    —Well, said the pamphleteer, there is the burn on his wrist. That’s real.
    —He could be imagining that too, said Sif. He’s the only one who ever saw it.
    —But the Chinese woman referred to it. And her grandmother too, said the pamphleteer. You can’t just ignore their testimony.
    —Sure I can, said Sif, tossing her hair. That means nothing, and you know it.
    The two sat quietly, drinking their iced tea.
    —Was there pinot noir in this bottle before the iced tea? asked Sif.
    —Bingo, said the pamphleteer. Boy, you’re good at that.
    —Can’t help it, said Sif. I just like wine. Next time you should try a young cabernet. I think that would contribute better to the taste of the iced tea.
    —I’ll put it under advisement.
    —Oh, so did you hear about the guy who’s down at Coney Island?
    —No.
    —The guess artist, there was a piece on him in the Times. Supposedly, he can guess what you’re thinking in three tries.
    —Most people think about a very limited number of things, said the pamphleteer. Especially when they’re at the beach.
    —No, you sap, said Sif. He can tell you exactly what you’re thinking. I’m going to go down today and see. You want to come?
    —I’ve got some things I have to take care of here, said the pamphleteer. But we’re supposed to have supper later on. The Tunisian place on Third, right?
    —Yeah, said Sif. Seven o’clock.
    —I’ll see you then.
    Sif stood up, straightened