The Door Read Free

inaccurate.
    Emerence, alas, was perfect in every respect; at times oppressively so. Her response to my timid words of gratitude was to make it clear that she didn't want constant approval. There was no need for praise; she was fully aware of what she had accomplished. She always wore grey, reserving black for holidays and special occasions. An apron, changed daily, protected her dress. Paper tissues she held in contempt, preferring snow-white linen handkerchiefs that crackled with starch. It came as a pleasant relief to discover that she did have some weaknesses after all. For example, she might stay silent half the day, for no apparent reason, no matter what I asked her. And I couldn't fail to notice that she was terrified of storms. The moment thunder and lightning approached, she would drop whatever she was holding and, without a word of warning or explanation, rush back home to hide. "She's an old woman," I told my husband. "They don't come without manias." He shook his head. "This phobia of hers is both more and less than a mania," he said. "Clearly there is a reason for it, but it's not something she considers our business. When did she ever tell us anything significant about herself?" As I recall, she never had. Emerence wasn't much of a talker.
     
     
    She'd been working for us for over a year when one day I had to ask her to take in a parcel for me, which was supposed to arrive that afternoon. My husband would be out examining and it was the only day on which the dentist could see me. I tacked a note on the door, telling the messenger whom to find in our absence, and where. Then I ran over to her little flat. I had forgotten to mention it while she was tidying up. She'd just finished at our place and could only have been home a few minutes. There was no response to my knocking, but I could hear someone rummaging around inside, and the fact that the handle did not budge was hardly surprising. No-one had ever seen Emerence's door standing open. Even when she could (with great difficulty) be entreated to come out, the moment she was back inside she bolted everything up again. The whole neighbourhood was used to it.
    I called for her to be quick. I was in a hurry and there was something I wanted her to do. At first my words were met with the same steady silence, but when I rattled the handle she shot out so fast I thought she was going to hit me. She came out, slamming the door behind her, and screamed at me not to pester her outside working hours. She wasn't paid for it. I stood there, scarlet down to my neck with humiliation. It was an extraordinary outburst, totally uncalled-for. Even if she did, for some strange reason, feel demeaned by my summoning her out of her private domain, she could have said so a little more quietly. I mumbled what I had come to ask her. She made no reply, but stood there glaring at me, as if I'd plunged a knife in her arm. Right. I bade her a polite farewell, went back home, phoned the dentist and cancelled the appointment. My husband had already left; I was the only one free to stay and wait for the parcel. I wasn't in the mood to read, I just dawdled around the flat. I kept wondering what I had done to deserve such a deliberately insulting and hurtful rejection. Besides, it was so untypical of the old woman. Her behaviour was usually so formal as to be almost embarrassing.
    I was a long time on my own. To complete the ruin of my day, the package didn't arrive. I had waited in vain. My husband didn't return at his usual hour either, but stayed on with his students after the exam finished. I was leafing through a book of reproductions when I heard the key turn in the front door. It wasn't followed by the usual words of greeting, so I knew it wasn't my husband. It was Emerence, the very last face I wanted to see on this evening of torment. By now, I thought, she will have calmed down, she's come to apologise. But she didn't even glance in. Not a word was said. I could hear her busy with