There Are Doors

view that could not live.

He had undergone several operations as a child, none since, and thus he found that his view of surgery was still a child’s—you went to sleep in the daytime and woke sick. This had been the reality, this surgeon’s elevator touring his body to learn how it was made; the wrought iron glared at him with the faces of jungle beasts, from the rolling eyes of a bull with the wings of a vulture and the bearded head of a man.

“Top floor, sir.” The bellboy took out the key. “I’ll see you to your room, sir.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“I’ll feel better if I do, sir.” The bellboy hurried down the hallway ahead of him. “Here we are, sir. Imperial Suite.” With a rattle of the lock, he opened the door. “You and your friend are the only ones on this floor, but if you have trouble or anything just call the desk. I’ll hear the phone.”

He nodded.

The room, which had been cold before, was frigid now. As he got out his wallet, he tried to recall whether he had drunk with the taxi driver; surely he had, or he would not have slept in the taxi. There was nothing smaller than a ten, but he felt that the bellboy deserved a ten after all they had been through together, studying the great book, watching the sea, performing their autopsy on the bellboy’s place of employment.

“Thanks, sir.” The bellboy coughed. “Sir, we have these little braziers …”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like one, if I can have one.”

“They’ve got to be ventilated, but those French doors will take care of that, sir.” The bellboy flashed a lopsided smile. “I’ll bring one up to you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He was undressing when the bellboy returned. The brazier was a tiny thing, yet far better than nothing. He put it in his bedroom, and when he switched off the light, he found that its copper sides were faintly luminous, aglow with warmth and cheer.

When he woke in the morning, Lara was not there, and every muscle ached. The back of his right hand had been scorched as well as his coat sleeve, and the burn was crusted and painful. The cologne and shaving soap North had bought were still in the bathroom, but neither seemed the right sort of thing to dab on a burn.

Medical was listed on the white plastic card that slid from beneath the telephone. He dialed, and was told that the doctor was not yet in, did not often arrive until later or never during this, the off season, and would (or perhaps would not) call him upon arriving at last. He could not remember his room number, but he said, “I’m in the Imperial Suite, on the top floor,” and the disembodied operator seemed to understand.

It was only when he had hung up that he realized his call had gone through without difficulty, that he had not gotten the twittering voices or Klamm, and that someone—almost the correct someone—had in fact answered.

He resolved to call his apartment again, and at once began to look for something else to do, something that would postpone the moment when he would actually have to dial his own number. He had assumed that the little brazier had gone out, but a few sparks remained, sullenly crimson among the fluffy gray ashes. He added bits of charcoal from a copper can that had accompanied the brazier, then rinsed his fingers in the bathroom, avoiding the burn as much as he could.

His topcoat was ruined. His best trousers would have to be replaced too, but they remained good enough to wear until he got new ones. He dressed gingerly, careful of the burn and thinking more about breakfast than of the call and his apartment, feeling it would be wisest to put both out of his thoughts until it was time to telephone—to telephone and talk to somebody who was not Lara, or no one.

The telephone rang.

He answered. It was the doctor, as he should have guessed. “Understand you’ve a burned hand, sir.”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t think it’s too bad, but there’s a sort of scab on it.” He decided not to mention the burns he had discovered on his face when he had shaved. The doctor would see them, and would treat them or would not.

“Had a bit of an accident myself. Come on down, sir.” The doctor’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I’ll give you some salve and a bandage to protect the skin until it heals. I’m in the basement—the lower level’s what they call it.”

The elevator was a long while coming. He rang three times before he recalled that it required a human operator, who would certainly be annoyed. Today the operator was a morose teenager with pimples.

“Lower level,” he said.

The passing floors that had appeared so forsaken the night before seemed equally deserted now. He felt that he himself was only a ghost, riding a ghostly elevator in a phantom hotel, that this building had fallen to the wrecking ball long ago, that it had been replaced by beach-front condos, silent and sourly white structures haunted by the worm, condos wrapped in white winding sheets of salt, themselves slated for demolition if only someone could be found who wanted the land, who would pay hard cold cash on the barrelhead for their destruction.

The lobby flashed by, empty except for a thin, bespectacled youth at the desk. They landed, helicopter-like, in a windowless cavern of boutiques, all of them shut and dark, each of them (to judge by appearances) more than ready to swear that it was never really open, had never been open at all.

“Which way is the doctor’s office?” he asked.

The teenager pointed.

“And could you tell me how late they serve breakfast in the coffee shop?”

“Until they close,” the teenager said, and slammed shut the wrought-iron door.

He reached the end of the row of shops and turned a corner. The cavernous space was even larger here, enlivened by shelving balconies. Dusty flags like stalactites hung from the ceiling; there were only two or three he recognized. Whose was that two-headed eagle? That griffin clawing the air?