The Garden Gate

The wooden door in the high stone garden wall burst open. A young man wearing jeans and a heavy jacket slipped through, closed it quickly behind him, slid the bolt, and leaned against it, assessing his surroundings with a sweeping glance. He pointed a gun at the woman who smiled up at him from where she knelt among violets. The garden was in full spring splendour. The young man was too distracted to note that it wasn’t spring. Clutching a shiny black patent leather handbag in one hand and the gun in the other, he barked at the woman: “Stay quiet and you won’t get hurt!” In a low voice, she reassured him, “Don’t be afraid. No one will hurt you here.” “No, no. You’re confused, woman,” he growled. “You’re supposed to be scared of me hurting you, not the other way around.” “I understand,” she answered softly, “but observe: It is you who is frightened.” Her gentle smile and the warmth in her eyes felt reassuring, but his sharp mind told him she must be nuts. “I promise you that no one else will come through that door. Only the two of us are here.” She waved toward a large chunk of weathered granite nearby. “Come and sit on this stone and tell me why you have come.” “Why I have come?” He was startled by this odd request, but shook it off and began a quick assessment of the situation. Stepping away from the door in the wall, he eyed it warily. “How do you know no one else will come here? The door wasn’t even locked. And by the way, where the hell am I? A minute ago I was running down a Manhattan street. I ducked into an alley, slipped through an unlocked door in the side of a building, turned around and found you sitting here in a garden.” As he began to really notice his surroundings for the first time, his dark eyes widened. “Ay. Dios mio. I can look up and see the sky. It looks real. Where is the building? Where are all the buildings? It feels like spring in here, but it’s cold on the other side of that door. Come to think of it, this is fucking scary. It’s weird. What kind of illusion is this? How is it done? Who are you?” He stared at her, suddenly unsure of himself. She held his gaze and spoke quietly. “I am called Laquesabe.” “She Who Knows. … Why? What do you know?” Holding himself in a cocky attitude and looking down at her, he began to inch closer to the stone she had indicated. She looked harmless sitting there in the flowerbed. He lowered the gun to his side. “I know how to help people find the answers they seek.” “Great, then tell me how I can get out of this.” His sarcastic sneer was almost a snarl. “Out of what?” He held up the bag still gripped in his hand. “I assume that is not your handbag?” “A real fucking genius, aren’t you?” “Do you know whose it is?” “No, I do not, bright spark.” “How is it, then, that the bag is in your hand? Did you find it? Why are you nervous? Is there something in there that will cause trouble for you?” “Get a grip, lady. This is East Harlem, New York City.” He paused for a moment and looked around him. “It sure as hell doesn’t look like New York City, but I know I just entered a side door in a building facing East 123rd Street. What the fuck is this place? And why is it so warm in here?” He laid the gun and bag on the grass behind him and shrugged out of his jacket. The gun made him uneasy anyway, so he left it there. “We are on the equator, at my estancia, in the country called Ecuador, in South America. Look through the door and you will see for yourself.” “Yeah, right. Pull the other one, lady. You just want me to open that door and look out so the cops can rush in and grab me. I’m not falling for that one, sister. Now cut the crap and tell me where I am.” “I have spoken truly. There is no one out there. May I open the door to show you? You can trust me.” He retrieved the gun, growled, and stalked to the garden door. Hesitating, he glanced back at Laquesabe, who still knelt among the violets, smiling. He stooped and peeked through the keyhole, then stood, eased back the bolt, and opened the wooden door just a crack. Suddenly he flung it wide, revealing a vista of verdant splendour backed with soaring snow-capped peaks. No building was in sight, and no people. He quickly closed the door and leaned back against it, sliding down until he sat on the ground. “Madre de Dios,” he mumbled, crossing himself unconsciously. “You may be scaring me more than the NYPD. How do you produce these visual tricks?” “NYPD?” “New York Police Department.” “You are afraid of police?” He began to be affected by her fearlessness and, feeling a growing sense of trust that surprised him, his fear eased, and he dropped the tough-guy act. He wasn’t a tough guy, though he thought he’d played it well. He thought himself a fine actor. “Hey, lady. You’re not planning to turn me in, are you?” “Turn you in? No, no. I only want you to tell me why you have come.” “Why I have come … how I have come … where I have come… Christ, lady! You think I know that?” “Of course, but perhaps you need to rest first after your journey. Are you hungry?” “My journey.” His tone was tainted with scorn. He hadn’t travelled half a city block. Ecuador. Right. “Maybe we can talk about that, but first things first. Yeah, I’m hungry.” “What would you like?” “Whatever you have is fine. I’ll come with you to make sure you don’t make any phone calls.” Her laugh tinkled like little bells. “Oh, you needn’t fear for that. There are no telephones here. I promise to be back in a twinkle.” As she turned to walk away from him, there was definitely a twinkle in her eye. Not at all what he would have expected from a woman he’d just threatened with a gun. She paused and looked back at him. “May I know your name?” “Reynaldo. My name is Reynaldo. Reynaldo Morales.” “Good, Reynaldo. Do you like cazuela?” “I have no idea. If it’s good food, I’ll take it.” He watched her walk toward another door at the other end of the garden, which he assumed entered a house, with a kitchen. She opened the door and reached in, then immediately turned back with a tray of steaming food in one hand and an earthenware jug in the other. That was too quick. She must be giving me her own lunch that was already prepared for her, he reasoned. Oh, well. Maybe she can get more. She offered, and I’m famished. As she walked back toward him, Reynaldo gave her a little smile, put down the gun, spread his jacket on a patch of trim, cushy-looking grass beside the rock, and sat on it. “Is it okay to sit on the grass?” Her graciousness unsettled him, made him feel like a little boy, like he needed to be polite in response, mind his manners. “Of course. The grass won’t mind … and I don’t mind. Here.” She handed him the tray then the jug and sat down cross-legged at the base of a nearby tree, not so near she could reach the gun or the bag. “You’re not poisoning me here, are you?” he asked, only half in jest, wondering for a fleeting moment whether the food was drugged. “No, sorry. You didn’t have time for that. You didn’t even go through the door—and you certainly were not expecting me. Is this your lunch?” “It is a food I have enjoyed in the past, but not today. Eat freely. If you still feel hungry, there is more. The jug contains pure spring water.” “What? No wine?” Reynaldo smiled sheepishly at his weak joke. “Not today. I will just rest here while you eat.” Leaning back against a tree trunk, she closed her eyes. Jesus, thought Reynaldo. How can she sit without watching me? Why does she trust me so near with her eyes shut, and me with a gun? I could attack her, rape her, kill her, any number of things. Not that I would, but she doesn’t know that. ... When he had eaten everything … he reclined on his jacket with the handbag as a pillow, observing Laquesabe. She … seemed somehow ancient, or perhaps timeless. … Watching the clouds where there should have been tall buildings, he grew drowsy and slept.