A Dwarf Stood At The Door

by Norman Crane

because I am promiscuous."

  The light in the motel room was poor and mildly green. It cast mouldy shadows across my thesis sponsor's face, making her appear older than usual. She took out a roll of three condoms and held them out for me to see.

  I imagined Dogor following a drunken couple into her apartment building, then sharing an elevator with a guy wearing a navy suit and crimson tie. The guy would be too polite to ask questions. He'd get off several floors early just to avoid conversation. Dogor would get off at the fifth floor and knock on my thesis sponsor's door. When she didn't answer, he'd take his axe and smash the door—

  "May I ask you a question?"

  I sat down on the bed. The springs creaked. "You may."

  "I enjoy flirting with you and I would like to try oral sex and intercourse with you, but you are here because your wife hurt you and I do not wish to take advantage of that. Does that disappoint you too much?"

  I wetted my lips and kissed her, but she drew back. She hugged me instead. "Not like this."

  "Do you want to know the truth?" I asked.

  "Of course. It is your duty as a scholar to search for the truth."

  "I brought you here to protect you from an axe-wielding dwarf who may at this moment be breaking into your apartment, trying to kill you." She kept hugging me. "You don't seem shocked," I said.

  "I was born in the Soviet Union. It takes a lot to shock me." I felt her laughter without hearing it. "In fact, when I was a young girl I once saw a dwarf standing at the door at night, so you may say I am experienced in such matters. He did not carry an axe, but he did have a pistol. He was a member of the KGB. My father was a scientist and some of his research was of value to the authorities but my father refused to reveal it. The dwarf had two helpers with him, men as large as he was small, and together they searched our apartment and threatened my mother. In the end, they found nothing. They said they would return."

  "Did they come back?"

  "My mother and I fled west, and now I am here with you."

  "And what about your father?"

  "I pray for him."

  We gradually let the hug go until we could both see each other's faces again. "To this day I do not like dwarves," she said. "They are defective. They repulse me."

  I considered the possibility that I'd fallen asleep and was dreaming but decided that it wasn't possible to feel tired in a dream, otherwise there could be dreams within dreams...

  "I want you to stay away from your apartment for a few days," I said.

  "Very well."

  I felt my lower jaw drop.

  "You are surprised," she said. "You should not be. I am a Muscovite, my dear, and I trust you." The shadows flowed across her skin. "Yes, I like the way you look and your hair is light coloured and you possess the type of boyish charm I am attracted to, but above all I respect you as a scholar. You are intelligent, your research is good, your thesis shall be worthy of my pride."

  I was playing with the napkin in my pocket.

  "Perhaps on a night in the future we will share a physical passion together—under different circumstances," she said, kissing me on the forehead.

  I fell asleep still sitting.

  In the morning, my thesis sponsor was already up. She'd bought two packages of instant soup from a vending machine out front and was pouring hot water over them for breakfast. In some sense, I think I fell in love with her as we ate, spooning limp noodles into our mouths and trying not drip salty liquid onto the floor. Not romantically, mind you—not in the way I'd fallen in love with Annie—but in a more refined, subdued, academic way. For the first time, I felt as if knew this woman. I respected her.

  After breakfast I set up my guerillamail account, opened the napkin that Wayne and I had written on and dialled the number to the prison where Olaf Brandywine was being incarcerated. "Hello. I'd like to arrange a visit with one of the inmates staying in your facility," I said to the cheerful voice that answered.

  "There's a process for that," the voice replied.

  "What's the process?"

  "The inmate puts in a written request. The written request gets processed. A decision is made. If the decision is in favour of allowing the visit, the visit is scheduled." I heard the sound of a bubble gum being inflated—popping. "Has the inmate you're interested in visiting put in a written request?"

  "I don't think so," I said. "This is kind of an emergency situation."

  "Oh? Did somebody die?"

  I tried to sound as pleasant as possible. "The situation is very delicate and private, but it does involve a death, yes. I'm actually calling all the way from Ontario—"

  "I have an uncle in Ontario," the voice said.

  "Yes, that's great. But I'll only be in town for a few days starting this afternoon, so it's very important for me to arrange to have a visit within that timeframe."

  "It's like seventy miles."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's like a seventy mile drive from Ontario."

  "Ontario, Canada," I corrected myself.

  "Oh. That's, like, in another country entirely, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "So I guess you'll be flying in by plane?"

  "That is the plan."

  "In that case, we might be able to expedite the process by foregoing all the paperwork and just asking directly. Can you tell me the name of the inmate in question?"

  My thesis sponsor handed me a candy bar. I unwrapped it and took a bite. "Olaf Brandywine."

  "Oh my God! He's such a sweetie."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm sorry, but he's, like, my favourite prisoner of all time. For my birthday he baked me this huge DuckTales themed blueberry cake—anyway, who should I say wants to visit?"

  I cleared my throat. A roll of fake names unfolded before my eyes, but none were the right one. I needed something that would not only catch Olaf Brandywine's attention and get him to agree to see me, but also secretly explain the situation. "Tell him that it's his brother, Verbamor, and tell him that I need to see him about hashtag eff eff zero zero zero zero R U M."

  "Will do," the voice said. "That's like a Twitter thing?"

  "Something like that. Be precise."

  "Weird emergency."

  "Oh, you don't even know the half of it."

  I had a few more bites of the candy bar then gave the rest to my thesis sponsor. Chewing, she said, "American chocolate sweets are my weakness, the path to my heart. In the Soviet Union, much of the chocolate we ate did not have any cocoa in it."

  I made a note never to show up at one of our meetings without real chocolate again.

  I stretched out my arms. In the morning light, things didn't seem so serious as they had last night, problems seemed like they could be solved rationally over a conference table and some mints. "Hello, sir?" the voice crackled from my phone. I put it close to my ear. "Mister Brandywine says you must come as quickly as possible. I've pencilled you in for four thirty this afternoon."

  It was good news. "Thanks. I'll try to make it," I said.

  "Mister Verbamor?"

  "Yes?"

  "Mister Brandywine wishes you a safe and solitary trip and reminds you that he is not allowed contact with the internet."

  "Message received, thank you."

  "The last part—about the internet—he said that while winking, and he told me to tell you he was winking. He looked worried."

  "Like I said, it's a private and serious matter."

  The moment I said goodbye was the moment the mints disappeared, the storm clouds rolled in and the feeling of dread returned, more oppressive than ever. Olaf Brandywine's warning was clear but too late. I'd already allowed Dogor internet access. I pounded my fists against my thighs.

  "Is something wrong?" my thesis sponsor asked, her teeth covered in chocolate.

  The chocolate was dark as blood.

  "I need to find an immediate flight to Los Angeles."

   

  California was under storm clouds too. I watched them thr
ough the airplane window. The seat beside me was empty. In front, two hipsters were rating Pitchfork reviews. The pilot announced the weather—eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit with a chance of thunder showers—in a handsome voice and nudged the nose of the plane down until we cut through the clouds, revealing Ontario International Airport below. Ontario to Ontario: it was like I hadn't flown anywhere at all. On the ground, I followed the hipsters to the baggage claim, grabbed my valise and went outside through handicapped-friendly automatic doors. Eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit was meaningless to me, but the actual air was unmistakable. It was hot. By the time the taxi pulled up, I was already sweating. My shirt stuck to my back. I got in and told the driver the name of the prison. He asked if I knew someone on the inside. I said I did. It made me feel tough.

  The actual prison looked more like a retirement home.

  I paid and shut the taxi door.

  It drove off. I walked the path to the prison entrance. I expected there to be a guard and maybe a metal detector inside, but there was neither. I recognized the voice of the girl at reception. "Mister Verbamor, here to see Mister Brandywine," I said. The girl smiled, showing off her teeth and a pink wad of bubble gum. I was two hours early, so I sat down on a plastic chair and read a book my thesis instructor had packed for me. It wasn't bad. When the girl called my name, I put the book back in the valise and walked through a door she was pointing at, on the other side of which I was greeted by the guard and metal detector I'd expected. The guard took my valise and cell phone, then waved me through the metal detector. Nothing beeped, and another guard took my arm and led me down a long corridor. The corridor was straight and terminated at a kind of bullet-proof glass sun-room.