The Way Through Doors by Jesse Ball Page A

away from S. and ran off. He chased after her, but she was very fast, and also good at running on top of piled letters, which S. was not. She made it away past a sort of small portcullis, which she brought down immediately. S. halted before it.
    —I’ll be back for that letter, he said.
    —Not on your life, she said. My husband’s going to cut it up with his shears.
    —You wouldn’t do that, would you? asked S.
    But the clerk was running around in circles, shouting and trying to save his home from the incoming flood, with Whirligig at, before, and around his heels. The mail continued to pour out of the ceiling at an increasing rate.
    —We’ve got to go, said the guess artist.
    —I guess you’re right, said S.
    Together they ran, half-bent over so their heads wouldn’t knock against the low ceiling, back up one passage, then another, and out of the lower reaches of the post office.
    As they reached the main level, they stopped, huffing and puffing, to catch their breath. The security guard came out of an alcove and shone a light on them. Everything was very quiet and still. None of the chaos they had seen below existed here.
    —Odd down there, isn’t it? he asked. I never go down there after dark.
    —Who’s in charge of this place? asked S.
    —There’s a big computer somewhere, said the guard, made out of wood. That’s what they make computers out of nowadays, the really fast ones, anyway.
    —Right, said the guess artist. Well, good-bye.
    Out, then, the front doors, and into the night.
    —Should we go to the address now? asked S.
    —It seemed urgent, said the guess artist. Not much else to be done about it, don’t you think? Do you know where to go?
    —I do, said S.
    The two were quiet a moment. S.’s hands were making a sad expression, one not betrayed by his face or eyes.
    —I wonder what that letter said.
    —Probably something kind and useless, said the guess artist. You can assume that much.
    The guess artist patted the municipal inspector on the shoulder.
    They went down through the pavement and through a turnstile. A subway car drew up immediately, as though it had been waiting for them. The guess artist wondered how long it had been waiting there. The municipal inspector thought some more about his sister’s letter and how horrible it was that he hadn’t gotten to read it.
    They sat down. The train began to move.
    The municipal inspector took something out of his sleeve. He unfolded it, and as he unfolded it, it became bigger and bigger. The whole thing was covered in child’s writing. It was in red crayon, with occasional blue and green. S. looked at it intently. He mumbled to himself and moved his finger over it slowly.
    The train passed on at great speed.
    —This must be the express, said the guess artist.
    S. murmured something noncommittal.
    —What is that? asked the guess artist.
    —A map, said S.
    —Of what? asked the guess artist.
    —Can’t you guess? asked S., a bit brusquely.
    He was still bothered by the loss of his sister’s letter. Should he go back and try to claim it later? he wondered to himself. No, no, it was lost forever. He shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.
    The guess artist was peering at him.
    —No, I can’t, he said. Where this map is concerned your mind is…blurry. I can’t tell a thing.
    —Well, it IS an odd business, said S.
    He pointed to a spot on the map.
    —We’re here, he said.
    The guess artist nodded.
    —Is that me? he asked.
    There was a drawing of a man with question marks shooting out of his head. As the guess artist looked closer at the drawing, it seemed to get larger and more detailed. He could almost make out his face.
    —Yes, said S., that’s you. Do you know how déjà vu occurs?
    —No, said the guess artist.
    —Well, said S., when you are a child, somewhere between two and four years of age, a night comes that you have a dream. In that dream you dream your entire life, from start to finish, with all its