I slowly climbed the stairs, went inside and floated along the corridor to the kitchen and then into the room, absorbing not sounds, but memories, kept by the walls of any space.
My grandmother, my father’s mother, with her sister and father, my great-grandfather, often visited his friend, the Writer, in that flat.
There were two museums in the Mansion. One was behind the Right door, the other was behind the Left door.
I didn’t hear a word of what the obviously superfluous tour guide was saying. I fell there – to my grannies – in their Time, to drown out the pain and to suppress another bout of nostalgia…
The Guardian of the Portal exhaled – finally, his diary was published in a human way. In every sense of the word. He opened the book to a random page and landed on «The Gloves».
«She will be back! Yes! Yes! She’s about to show up here!»
The magic name popped up on the phone.
«If you knew how glad I am to hear from you…»
He reminded me too much of Ray, and I smiled – something warm and fluffy touched my heart. Roman was an invisible (and perhaps the only) thread connecting me with the already irrevocable.
«I recalled my Soviet past today,» it sounded like a sudden insertion into a business conversation on an off-business day.
«Did you have it?» I smiled again and reached for the Tarot cards.
«I’ve read your book „Confession of a Ghost“ about the Matrix, as I promised. Remember?»
«Really?!» I took out my cards.
«Back then, yes… I went on vacation and took the book with me.»
I got «The Knight of Cups» and…
«How do you like it?»
«I recognized everyone! „The Emperor“ and „The Sorcerer“. Sorry, „The Magician“! You write in such a way that…»
«But you are not there, are you?» I asked with a sad smile, looking at the cards: «The Knight of Cups» and… «The Magician»!
«In your book or in your Matrix?» Roman chuckled and confessed, «To be honest, in magic I feel like quite a child!»
«Would you like to become Him?..»
The Guardian of the Portal should have taken that important step a long time ago, leaving the old Mansion and walking only a few houses to the House of Literature, where… Where what? Or who? He was called to bring his book. The Guardian didn’t know why. It would be worth clarifying, although he understood that it was necessary. However, was he waiting for… the right date? A number? A symbol? What was he waiting for?
Since last autumn, when the King of Swords allowed me to open the Right Door of the Mansion, I had been forcing myself to go back to open the Left one, because the main city Portal of transition to Another Reality was hidden right behind it. I was too tired, bored and tormented by a premonition of something that must definitely happen as soon as I opened THAT DOOR. What exactly?
«Alice, you shouldn’t enter that Mansion. It’s dangerous! Do you want me to show you the place where…» а familiar poet, once the Page of Cups, offered suddenly.
«I need to go to the Mansion. I have to open the Door on the Left,» I pleaded, looking into his eyes pitifully.
«Well, then… tomorrow?»
«Yes, tomorrow, please!»
At the same moment the poet cried out and turned me around to face the house, on the facade of which there was a gigantic portrait of the Writer from that Mansion.
«Nearby Alice there is only mysticism… It’s a sign!»
However, it started to rain «tomorrow», and the trip to the Mansion was postponed indefinitely.
