In miezul noptii, bataile in usa se auzeau clar si nu puteau confundate cu nimic altceva decat cu un strigat dupa ajutor. Se uita speriata la ceas apoi, cu ochii inca pe jumatate inchisi, deranjati de lumina palida a veiozei, se indrepta spre usa. O intredeschise usor, cu teama, purtand in brate mormane de intrebari. Strainul din prag o privea gol, cu o jumatate de zambet si jumatate de suspin, in celasi timp, impletindu-i-se pe chip. Desi anonimi, ochii lui adusera povestea.
***
Locuia atunci intr-un apartament modest, intr-un bloc cu multe etaje, cu paliere lungi, unde se invecinau multe usi. Usile erau diferite, unele atent ingrijite si vopsite, noi, lucioase, altele vechi, cu vopseaua scorojita, emanad miros de experienta acumulata involuntar, de timpi trecuti in graba. In fiecare seara si dimineata privea usile, incercand sa contureze un tablou complet: unele erau usor deschise, lasand sa patrunda inauntru o farama de privire, altele erau chiar semideschise, astfel incat iti puteai face o parere destul de clara despre locatar. Mai erau si usile care pareau a fi ferecate pe vecie, pe unde soarele parea ca nu a razbatut vreodata. Se intreba daca locuieste cineva acolo, si daca da, ce fel de specie ciudata de vecini or fi, atat de ingropati in secrete.
Un calcul simplu ii confirma in fiecare zi ca suma usilor neferecate era net superioara celor acoperite de mister, astfel incat se simtea cumva in siguranta stiind ca atunci, in noaptea cand va avea nevoie de o singura usa deschisa doar, o va gasi cu siguranta.
Nu isi mai amintea de ce sunase in seara aceea la usa inchisa. Era o usa noua, lacuita, inalta, ingrijita si curata. Cineva iesea mereu de-acolo, il vazuse de cateva ori in fuga, insa usa se inchidea de fiecare data la loc, fara zgomot, cu o discretie desavarsita. A batut timid si nici nu a asteptat macar un raspuns, indreptandu-se tacut spre casa. Insa raspunsul a venit, curand linistea culoarului lung a fost tulburata de zgomotul cheii invartindu-se in broasca noua, si usa s-a crapat discret.
Au urmat zile de discutii lungi, mereu in prag, usile lor, vecine, se deschideau in fiecare zi la acelasi apel scurt, si ramaneau asa ore intregi. Deja vecinii de pe palier se obisnuisera sa ii gaseasca acolo, impartind hohote si experiente, vise si nelamuriri. Si, fara sa isi dea seama, usa ei s-a izbit intr-o zi de perete, balamalele s-au fortat putin, si toate colturile cu secrete s-au lasat cuprinse de lumina: cana aburinda de cafea, paharul de vin rosu din seara precedenta, niste sticle de vodca goale, sparte, intr-un colt, cateva cioburi de vase vechi, un patut gol, o papusa ciufulita, aruncata pe o polita.
Nu isi mai amintea acum cati au trecut pe coridor atunci sa vada grozavia. Usa ei, desi mereu intredeschisa, nu lasase totusi atatea priviri inauntru.
Apoi intr-o noapte ea a crezut ca a avut un vis ciudat. Se facea ca un scelerat pasionat de semantica reusise cumva sa schimbe sensurile cunoscute ale cuvintelor, doar pentru ca nu ii placeau prefixele. Astfel, oamenii erau acum fortati ca accepte ca incorect era corect, indispensabil era dispensabil, incredibil era credibil, incompetent era competent si multe, multe alte exemple naucitoare. S-a trezit zguduita, si, inca inainte de a realiza daca a fost vis sau nu, a fugit pentru a-si povesti intr-un suflet istorioara fantastica. A ascultat-o cu ochi mari, cu o mana controland parca deschiderea usii.
Apoi ceva s-a rupt. Zilele urmatoare si-a dat treptat seama ca visul nu fusese vis. Apoi a auzit in spatele usii lui niste glasuri, franturi de conversatie, insa nimic care sa se lege. Au mai vorbit de cateva ori, mereu intrerupti de un telefon sunand. Intr-o seara a trecut grabita spre casa, i-a vazut usa intredeschisa, a aruncat o privire scurta si a vazut o scrisoare rupta aruncata pe o masa, insa s-a retras rapid: usa nu era deschisa pentru ea.
In mod cert, usa lui nu s-a mai dat niciodata de perete, cu toate promisiunile si amanarile, cu toate asigurarile si rugamintile. In cateva nopti, ea a adormit pe pragul lui, ca nu cumva sa rateze vreun semn de viata. Insa in timpul somnului usa s-a deschis si inchis de cateva ori, intr-o liniste desavarsita.
In timp usile s-au inchis pe rand, apoi s-au auzit si lanturile asigurand discretia.
***
- Si, spui ca am fost prieteni? il intreba retoric, privindu-l prin zalele lantului care impiedica deschiderea usii.
_____________
At the stroke of midnight, the pounding at the door rang out clearly—unmistakable, nothing less than a cry for help. She glanced at the clock in fright, then, her eyes still half-closed and irritated by the pale light of the bedside lamp, made her way toward the door. She opened it slightly, cautiously, carrying in her arms heaps of questions.
The stranger on the threshold looked at her with an emptiness that held both half a smile and half a sigh, woven together across his face. Though they were strangers, his eyes brought the story with them.
She was living then in a modest apartment, in a tall building with long corridors where many doors stood side by side. The doors were different—some carefully tended and freshly painted, new and gleaming; others old, their paint peeling, exhaling the scent of involuntary experience, of hurried years gone by.
Every evening and morning she would look at the doors, trying to sketch a complete picture. Some were slightly ajar, allowing a fragment of a glance to slip inside. Others stood half-open, enough for one to form a fairly clear impression of the tenant. And then there were the doors that seemed bolted forever, as though sunlight had never once forced its way through. She wondered whether anyone lived there at all—and if so, what strange species of neighbors they might be, so buried in secrets.
A simple calculation reassured her each day: the number of unbolted doors far exceeded those shrouded in mystery. And so she felt somehow safe, knowing that on the night she would need just one open door, she would surely find it.
She no longer remembered why she had knocked that evening on the closed door. It was a new door—lacquered, tall, well-kept and clean. Someone always came out of there; she had seen him a few times in passing. Yet the door closed each time without a sound, with perfect discretion.
She knocked timidly and did not even wait for an answer, turning quietly toward her own home. But the answer came. Soon the silence of the long corridor was disturbed by the sound of a key turning in the new lock, and the door opened just a crack.
Days of long conversations followed—always on the threshold. Their neighboring doors opened each day at the same brief signal and remained so for hours. The neighbors grew used to finding them there, sharing bursts of laughter and experiences, dreams and uncertainties.
And then, without her noticing, one day her door slammed against the wall. The hinges strained slightly, and every corner holding secrets surrendered to the light: a steaming mug of coffee, a glass of red wine from the previous evening, a few empty vodka bottles—broken—in a corner, shards of old dishes, an empty crib, a disheveled doll tossed onto a shelf.
She could no longer remember how many passed along the corridor to witness the horror. Her door, though always slightly open, had never allowed so many glances inside.
Then one night she believed she had had a strange dream. It seemed that a scoundrel obsessed with semantics had somehow managed to alter the known meanings of words simply because he disliked prefixes. Thus people were now forced to accept that incorrect was correct, indispensable was dispensable, incredible was credible, incompetent was competent—and countless other dizzying inversions.
She awoke shaken and, before she could even decide whether it had been a dream or not, ran to tell her fantastic tale in a single breath. He listened with wide eyes, one hand as though controlling the opening of the door.
Then something broke.
In the days that followed she gradually realized the dream had not been a dream at all. She began hearing voices behind his door—fragments of conversation, nothing that quite connected. They spoke a few more times, always interrupted by a ringing phone. One evening she hurried home, saw his door slightly ajar, cast a quick glance and noticed a torn letter lying on a table—but she withdrew at once: the door was not open for her.
His door never again swung wide against the wall, despite promises and postponements, assurances and pleas. On several nights she fell asleep on his threshold, afraid of missing some sign of life. Yet while she slept, the door opened and closed a few times in perfect silence.
In time, the doors closed one by one. Then the sound of chains securing discretion could be heard.
“So,” she asked him rhetorically, looking at him through the links of the chain that prevented the door from opening, “you say we were friends?”
