Fiction >> Mark Sashine  

The  Real Door

by  Mark Sashine

                                                                                                To all the children left behind

The Line

It is cold and dark. He  doesn’t  want to get up as his mother  takes off the  blanket.

‘ Come on, son, wake up.  We can’t be late for the Line.’

The Line. He thinks about it while  brushing  his teeth and drinking his morning glass of milk in  the  kitchen  full of shadows from the  cobwebs.  Many people stand in that Line, adults mostly. Grey turtleneck sweaters and   black,  shabby coats are everywhere. They  cough a lot.  He feels that cough whenever he runs along the Line from the place where they stand with his mother,  right in front of the  school supply store, down through the arc, along the narrow passage around the  big puddle and up the   Spanish  Stairs to the  unpainted door with  the piece of paper on it. Mother once said  that before they get  the permission to leave  he  most likely will get  sick from  those people.   But he still felt somehow privileged because he was  the only   kid in the Line and  it was worthy of that cough. He tried to cough on his own several  times  but   abandoned it.  That  was no fun. It was much more fun to think about leaving.

Leaving what?   Every winter  the  trees in the yard would be covered with icicles. The music of those icicles was his secret.  If you stayed under the tree long enough and held your breath, you could hear it, the music of the tree, playing like a giant xylophone; every day something  different. He tried  to pick up some  icicles and play with  them himself  but  they melted in his hands.   He also knew  that  touching  the tree would ruin  everything.    It only played  when it   was  not disturbed.  And it played only to him.

He doesn’t want to leave those trees. Mother says they have to go  because  people  become  bad.  But the people standing in Line did  not seem  to be bad. They gave him candies, even the  uniformed man on the Spanish Stairs, the one guarding the door. He knows what the uniform means.  That means the man is  a soldier, like the ones he had seen on TV.  Mother doesn’t like that man  but he   likes the uniform and that keen smell of clean  shoes.   Only  the military have  clean shoes.

The Spanish Stairs Custodian

The Child got lost.  He  didn’t notice the dusk creeping down and realized that it was dark when it was too late. People started to disperse, so he  couldn’t just  follow the Line to go back. He  looked around  and saw  the  Spanish Stairs custodian looking at him.

The Spanish Stairs were named that way by that  man in a rusty coat. Some people said he slept on those stairs.  Nobody  saw him going away and nobody  saw him coming in the morning; he was always there, sitting on the stairs. He  said  they reminded him of Rome.   He had a   big,  leather- clad book  with him and  there, he said, was Rome. The man  smelled  funny and the  people  tried not to notice him.  Once the Child overheard   a    talk,

‘‘That guy is nuts. He lost himself  in this Line.’

‘Aren’t we all that way?   The only difference is in the  color  of our coats. Yours is still black.

You haven’t been here long enough to  scrape the color of the brick walls over you.’

The Child looked   at the sleeve of his coat and saw a  stretch of bleak redness.  He liked it.   He I had been here long enough.

Now, in the dark,  the  custodian   on the steps looked like  a grotesque monster, an urban legend, something with tentacles and  gnawing teeth. The Child wanted to run away when the monster squeaked,

‘What are you doing here, boy?  Little children are not supposed to be here. Where is  your mother?’

‘We are there, at the end of the Line.’

‘The Line, eh? That’s  the word you learn now. Not a Flower or an  Orange, but THE LINE.

The man  took the Child by  the  hand.  It felt surprisingly warm, comforting and soothing in his sleeve.

‘Let’s go to your  mother, man. No more Line today.  And while we are going, I will  tell you  a

secret.  Can you keep a secret?’

‘ I  guess  I can’

‘ Sure, you can. All children can keep secrets.  I tell this secret only  to them and so far no   adults went through the real Door.’.

‘The real Door?’

‘Yes, the one which  leads to the dream. You see, my dear,  this Line is supposed to  lead to the dream. But  adults, they don’t know what the dream is. They only know how to run away from something bad, how to survive.  Take  your finger out of your nose, will you! Your mother might be worried sick about you and all  you can do is  pick  at   your nose.  What’s  your dream?’

‘I want  some ice-cream.’

 Well, that settles it.  There, on the  other side of the real Door there’s plenty of ice- cream. There is also plenty of  musical  trees.’

‘How do  you  know?’

‘I   know everything.   It is all here,  in this book of mine.   So, if  you  wan to  go through the Door,   you have to go there.’

The man pointed  at the dark passage they were passing,

‘It is dark even at daytime there. If  you go through  you  will see the  Door with no sign on it.  You open it and take your first step, that’s all. Here’s  your mom. You should be proud,  madam of  your son. Very inquisitive kid, very smart.’

‘What did he mean, that old man?’  asked his  mother on the way home.

‘Nothing,’ the Child replied. He could keep a secret.

The Passage

Mom told him never to go through that passage. She said it was a dead end anyway. It was dark there even at daytime and mom said that the snow would stay there  even in May- June.  There was trash  too:  old tires mainly,  lots of scrap metal and  broken bottles.   Luckily, there was no stench  because of  the frost. The Child picked up a  metal  rod on the way to  feel more secure. His mittens  immediately  got   a rusty color, the same  as the walls of the passage and  everything around it. The Child   poked with the   rod in front of him.  He lost  hjs  balance and  fell  into the puddle.   Right in front of the dog.

‘ Rr-r,’- said the mongrel. It   positioned itself in the middle of the passage-way and  hesitated. Then it began to approach slowly. The Child didn’t like its looks. He  picked up his weapon and the dog growled again. The Child put the weapon on the ground.  The  growling stopped. The  dog  came closer and began to sniff. He didn’t move. The dog cocked its head and looked at him attentively. Then it wagged its  tail  a  little bit. The Child stood still. The dog puffed   impatiently as if saying, “So, are we going to play or what?” Then it   lost interest and  disappeared around the corner.  The Child  felt wet  but  somehow more confident. He jumped over  the debris  on the way forward and then  he saw the Door.  It was small, just his size, right there,  at the corner. There was no padlock or anything; it was  just a metal square surrounded by bricks. The Child  suddenly remembered a fairy- tale about  a door to the new land that was covered by a  carpet.  There was a boiling stove  weaved on that carpet.  He felt hungry.  Do they feed  people there, on the other side?. And how  will he open it? He tried to pry the door open with his rod.. It  moved without a sound.  He  closed his eyes and  took a step forward.

The Other Side

He was back on the same dark street. It was  a sham! The door was the through door, it lead to nowhere! He started to cry those bitter tears, the ones which hurt and  come out cold.  He wanted to wipe them off  but  the rust from the sleeve went into his nose and it began to hurt even more. Somebody patted him on the shoulder.  He turned and saw a girl. She  handed  him a handkerchief and said,

‘Don’t cry. Where’s your mother?’

She took him by  the hand and then he noticed that the icy rain stopped and there was sun all over. They went down the  passage; only this time it was filled with light.  He could see his mother standing in the rays of light and no Line. No Line? When they approached, he saw that his mother was crying too.

‘Mom, what happened? Why are you crying?’

‘It’s over, son. It’s all over. We don’t have to go anywhere. We stay home.’

He looked around and   saw all the people crying and smiling at the same time. Cars didn’t move, but there were a lot of open doors and  people sat on the stairs  weeping.. There was a big balloon in the sky and  leaflets were  falling all around.

‘You can’t read yet,’  mother said.,’ The leaflets are for us. They ask us to stay. They promise no more  discrimination, no more  humiliation, no more.. You understand? No more! They ask for forgiveness.’

‘Can I play now with my trees? ‘ he asked.

‘ Anywhere you wish,’  said  his father’s voice, but he didn’t hear it. He fell asleep. In his dream he saw a girl  who took his hand. He will  show  her his music when  he grows up.

© Mark Sashine, 2003. All Rights Reserved.

Mark Sashine was born in Russia in 1956. His family immigrated to the US in 1989, and they now live in Connecticut. Mark holds a PhD, Professional Engineering license, and works as an engineer. In 2002 he graduated from the Breaking  Into Print Course of study in the Long Ridge Writer's Group in Connecticut. You can reach him at spockovich@att.net
 

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