Four Doors and Other Stories

by A. G. Billig

  “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

  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 tinies
t 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.

  People and objects seemed covered into a semi-transparent veil that muffled their voices and softened their lines. Everything was strange and different. Even her body, which acted like it had gotten a life of its own while she, the pianist, was watching helplessly as an unseen witness.

  She accompanied her body to the backstage cabin which was full of flower baskets. In this heightened state she witnessed her own body changing the silk dress to a comfortable wrapper, sitting down in front of the makeup table and leaning heavily on the padded chair’s back. She saw herself taking a few deep breaths and then refreshing her face and hair, by adding some powder to the cheeks, some violet on the eyelids and some gloss on to her lips. Also, tightening her pigtails. Putting on a violet dress made of net, she, the princess of the ivory keys.

  A hasty knock at the door and another woman entered the room. She gave her an enthusiastic embrace:

  “You were stunning, as always! You knocked their socks off! They could have applauded you for hours. Coming back home was the smartest move you could do. I’m glad you took my advice,” she said in French.

  This woman was the pianist’s publicist, the same person who, after the failure in New York, encouraged her to disappear for a while until the scandal’s echoes would die away and then return home as a world-acclaimed star.

  “Whenever I feel lost, I go back home,” she had told her. “I turn off my cell phones, disconnect my Internet connection and cuddle into my mother’s arms, in the house I grew up. It is the best way to get back on my feet and find the right answer to any problem. Why don’t you give it a try as well?”

  The pianist had agreed right away. She wanted to get back to her roots, to the very place where their love story had begun. Forget about all the hatred. As long as they had loved one another, her career thrived. Nevertheless, as soon as ill blood crawled in, everything unraveled, like a worn-out tissue, and reached its peak during that night in New York, when she got off her piano right in the middle of the concert, leaving the stage.

  At last, she was back home, to the same place where, years ago, a little girl with a serious countenance and plaited hair had set foot on a stage for the very first time. It was nanny’s day off and her mother, a flautist, had to bring her along to the orchestra rehearsals. She was a big-eyed, quiet child—maybe too quiet, with a wondering gaze, and it was unlikely that she would cause trouble. The pianist remembered everything as if it happened yesterday. Despite her tender age, the moment she had seen him, she had fallen in love. Forever. Pour la vie…She remembered his looks, she remembered his voice and his touch. She remembered also that she had wandered on stage, grazing the violas, the violins, and the cellos until she had found herself in front of the piano. She had climbed the stool and started playing. Her mother was in shock: her child had never taken any music lessons yet her fingers were flying over the keys, making the instrument sound beautiful. Shortly after, the press were speaking highly about the wonder child pianist.

  “I totally agree with you,” the artist answered with her best mood in weeks. “Especially that tonight I had felt him supporting me, like in the good old days. He was there for me, unconditionally.”

  “I saw it coming, I told you. You two are indestructible, not to worry.”

  The limo was waiting for her at the back entrance. The restaurant was nearby, at a walking distance but her publicist decided that she had to make a stunning, diva–like appearance. As she got out of the car, camera flashes started to light up. The pianist took a few steps with a serious smile on her face, without turning her head to the right or to the left, and disappeared behind the massive doors. All by herself, like so many times, but feeling him close to her, so close.

  She sat down, at the big, round table circled by posh ladies and gentlemen. Ambassadors, executives, even two very well-renowned actors had gathered there to see her. To sit next to her and look at her, because everybody knew how generous she was when it came to her talent, being ready to sing from dawn until dusk, as skimpy as she was with her words. Whenever in public, she spoke little, putting on a display of mystery and reticence.

  The truth was that all these people, as gifted or fascinating might have seemed to others, bored her to death. The pianist kept hearing only his voice all the time. These people’s chit-chat was nothing but an annoying buzz that prevented her from listening to him. Especially tonight, when he had started making himself heard again, after a long and painful silence.

  It was almost dessert time when the pianist got up from the table, excusing herself and telling the guests she would be back in no time. Instead, she headed to the exit and, without asking for the limo, headed to the concert hall. The door attendant at the back entrance greeted her with utmost respect, a little surprised to see her again at such short interval. She passed him by without replying, went through a corridor and then reached the auditorium. The chandeliers were off. Only the green exit lights threw some faint, green rays that softened the darkness. The stage had been emptied of all instruments and stands, except for the piano. There it was, majestic, the concert grand piano.

  The woman sat down on the stool, opened the clavier, and touched the keys. At once, the etheric being that, since the end of the earlier concert had floated around as a silent witness, was now reunited with the flesh and blood being. She gave a sigh of relief. Her gaze, usually one so serious and deep, became playful and intense. At last, she could be herself.

  “Hello again, my beloved,” she whispered while embracing the piano and gently touching the pedals with her toes.” It feels so good not to pretend anymore. You know you are the only reason I play. I do not care at all about them. Their applause, their adoration l
eaves me cold. I couldn’t possibly end such a magical night away from you.”

  The song of love was heard throughout the darkened auditorium.

  THE SPANIARD

  The darkened room was filled with couples, swinging to the rhythm of salsa music. The bodyguard had greeted her as usual, with a large and friendly smile. As if he said: “Here she comes again, this incredible beauty!”

  Here in this nightclub she hated when it had opened, but where she had been returning week after week after week. It had been a year since she began living a life that was strange to her. Same, as it happened on the dance floor, she indulged into being led, instead of leading. There were times—not few, she would say, when she would have liked to take other steps, interpret music differently, have a break or a styling movement, but the tide was too strong and carried her away.

  There were no familiar faces on the floor that night. Luckily, she knew some of the people who were hanging out by the bar. Among them was the Spaniard. He must have been in his forties. He was a tall, well-built man, with a resigned look on his face that might have been easily mistaken for kindness. He lived in a luxurious mansion and always ordered the best champagne. There was something about him, nevertheless, that screamed unhappiness. What was really going on under that exterior?

  She liked him only because they communicated. This had always been the missing ingredient in her love affairs. They communicated with words, with gestures, with glances. He was not a dancer—he had never taken dancing lessons but had this innate gift of feeling music and expressing it in a swirl of steps, poses, and arm movements. The evening before, he had asked her to dance rumba. With no previous preparation, with no input from a trained director, the dance unraveled graciously as if from a music video directed by a gifted choreographer.