The Red Door (final)

“SHE WAS JUST WRITING A LETTER FOR HER SON” SAID THE GIRL, A SOCIAL SERVICE MAYBE. BUT THE GIRL RAN AWAY, CRYING, LEAVING THE LETTER IN ROGER’S HANDS. HE OPENED IT:

 “ANDREI.

WHEN YOU’RE READING THIS LETTER, I WILL BE WITH YOUR FATHER.

I KNOW YOU WERE ALWAYS WORRIED, BUT YOUR FATHER WAS NEVER A PERSON LIKE THAT. PLEASE STOP.

HE WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU SO MUCH, IF HE HAD EVER KNOWN YOU.

BUT IT’S NOT YOUR WORK TO FIND WHAT I’VE HAD LOST. WHAT I NEVER HAD.

STOP, I’M BEGGING YOU. I ALWAYS LOVED YOU. SO DID YOUR FATHER.

YOU HAVE HIS EYES, AND MOST OF HIS FACE. HE’D NEVER DO WHAT YOU’VE DON-“

BUT IT WAS ALL. HE LEFT WITH THE LETTER ON HIS HAND. THE GIRL WAS CRYING IN THE HOSPITAL’S DOOR. ROGERS GAVE HER THE LETTER. SHE KEPT SOBBING “OH MISSES NINA!”… AND IT OCCURRED TO HIM THAT MAYBE…

HE LEFT AGAIN TO GO TO THE CITY HALL RECORDS. HE PULLED ALL THE RECORDS FROM MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND THERE THEY WERE:

GREGORI OSIP KLINT AND ANTONINA YERMAK

NINA, THE FAMOUS DOLL MAKER’S WIFE, HAD CHANGED HER NAME. THEN, ROGERS DIVED FOR THE REGISTERS, TWENTY YEARS… ANDREI GREGORI YERMAK. ALL THIS TIME HE THOUGHT IT HAD BEEN KLINT’S DAUGHTER WHO WAS BEHIND THE CRIMES, AND THEY NEVER EVEN HAD A GIRL, IT WAS A BOY, WHOSE NAME WAS NOT HIS FATHERS…

HE TRIED TO CONTACT THE HOSPITAL, BUT ALL THEY HAD WAS A FAKE ADRESS. THEM HE REMEMBERED SOMETHING ELSE, HE REQUESTED THE GIRL WHO HE HAD SEEN THERE EARLIER. AFTER A LOT OF RUMAGGING THROUGH, THEY MANAGED TO HAND ROGERS A CELLPHONE NUMBER. THE GIRL’S NAME WAS BREE. BREE EXPLAINED ROGERS THAT SHE HAD BEEN TALKING TO MISSES NINA FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. BUT SHE DIDN’T KNEW MUCH. SHE WAS EXTREMELY POOR, AND HER SON WAS THE MOST MISTERIOUS GUY SHE HAD EVER MET. SHE HAD BEEN BLIND SINCE SHE WAS A BABY, AND ALL SHE COULD DO TO FEED HER SON WAS TO WEAVE. IT WAS ALL SHE WAS TAUGHT AND NEVER COULD DO MORE. SHE ALWAYS SAID HER SON WAS SICK, BUT IT DIDN’T SEEM LIKE IT. HE WAS A SMALL GUY, WITH GREEN EYES, WHITE SKIN AND DARK HAIR. AND HE NEVER SMILED, NOT EVEN WITH HER MOTHER. HE WAS 20 YEARS OLD, HIS BIRTHDDAY HAD RECENTLY TAKEN PLACE. A FEW WEEKS AGO, HE HAD BROUGHT A BEAUTIFUL DOLL TO HER MOTHER. IT WAS THE MOST AMAZING DOLL BREE HAD EVER SEEN, SINCE IT DIDN’T LOOK AS A NORMAL DOLL, SHE COULD NEVER TELL WHY. BREE FINALLY REMEMBERED SOMETHING ABOUT NINA, SHE HAD BEEN LIVING IN A VERY SMALL HOUSE, OUTSIDE THE CITY.

IT WAS IT, THOUGHT ROGERS. HIS INTERESTING CASE WAS SOLVING ALMOST BY HIMSELF… EXCEPT THAT HE HADN’T SLEPT IN THREE DAYS, AND HE HAD BEEN DRINKING MORE COFEE THAN EVER, AND HE HADN’T STOPPED SMOKING. YES, CURIOSITY CONSUMED HIM, BUT HE NEVER HAD CASES LIKE THAT.

WHEN HE ARRIVED THE KLINT’S HOME, HE SAW WHAT BREE MEANT BY A HOUSE. IT COVERED YOU FROM THE RAIN, FINE. BUT IT WAS DIRTY, POOR, AND TINY. HE WENT DOWNSTAIRS, AS IT WAS A BIT SUBTERRANEAN, AND OPENED THE DOOR, WICH WAS AN ALLUMINUM PLATE. HE COULD SMELL RAIN AND FEEL IT UNDER HIS FEET. HE WALKED, IT WAS A COLD, ABANDONED PLACE. BUT THEN, HE FOUND A DOOR THAT HAD BEEN TRIED TO BE PAINTED IN RED. HE OPENED IT. INSIDE WERE TWO BEDS, A LAMP, MANY DRAWINGS… SOMETHING SOMEONE COULD HAVE CALLED A HOME. BUT INSIDE, THERE WAS NO ONE. THEN A FLASH HIT HIM IN THE FACE, THE DOOR HE HAD JUST OPENED CRASHED HIS NOSE, FOLLOWED BY A VOICE:

“GET OUT OF HERE” HE SAID MENACINGLY. THERE WAS SOMEONE LYING ON THE FLOOR, WITH A DOLL ON HIS CHEST. THE MAN WAS SWEATING, IN GREAT PAIN.

“YOUR MOTHER’S DEAD” SAID ROGERS, TRYING TO MAKE HIM DESIST.

“I KNOW” HE ANSWERED. “SHE HAS BEEN DYING FOR WEEKS. I JUST DIDN’T WANT HER TO LOOK AT ME LIKE THIS”

“YOU STOLE THAT DOLL. IT’S NOT YOURS TO CLAIM”

“YES, IT IS. MY FATHER MADE IT FOR ME. MY MOTHER HAD BEEN SICK FOR YEARS, BUT GOING WORST LATELY. HE THOUGHT SHE’D DIED FIRST, SO HE MADE ME A DOLL, JUST LIKE MY MOTHER. BUT HE WAS WRONG, HE DIED FIRST.”

AND ANDREI SHOWED HIM THE DOLL. IT WAS SPECIAL BECAUSE IT HAD THE FEATURE OF A DOLL, BUT NEVER CONNOTED THE CHILD TRACES. IT WAS AN ADULT DOLL. AND IT’S EYES WERE AS BLANK AS PAPER.

“YES HE WAS, BUT HE MADE QUITE A WORK ON THAT DOLL DON’T YOU THINK? YOU MADE QUITE A WORK WITH THE TOWN’S DOLLS TOO”

“MY MOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME HOW THAT DOLL WAS JUST PERFECT. SHE HAD KNOWN, OF COURSE, SHE’D TOUCHED HER. BUT I’D NEVER EVEN SEEN HER. MY MOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME IT WAS FOR ME SHE HAD TO SELL IT. BUT SHE DREAMED TO HAVE HER ONCE ONE MORE TIME. I KNEW. AND IT WAS NOT FAIRE I COULD NOT FIND IT. MY MOTHER’S DOLL COULDN’T SEE, SO THE REST WOULDN’T SEE EITHER. “ AND THEN HE CRIED IN BIG, BIG PAIN. HE WAS DYING, AS HIS FATHER, AS HIS GRANDFATHER. OF AN UNKNOWN DISEASE. BUT HE CONTINUED. “AND MY MOM, WHO THOUGHT MY FATHER WAS SO POOR, MISSED THE DOLL AS IT REPRESENTED HOW MUCH HE LOVED HER, AND HOW MUCH HE ALREADY LOVED ME. SHE, THOUGHTLESS, WAS SURE MY FATHER WAS A POOR DOLLMAKER, AND HE COULD NOT SUPPORT HIS FAMILY. AND SOLD THIS DOLL, THE ONE MY FATHER TREASURED THE MOST. IT WAS NOT HIS MOST VALUABLE WORK, NO. IT WAS HIS WORK IN VALUE.”

AND WITH A GREAT EFFORT, HE BROKE THE DOLL’S NECK AND FROM ITS DEPTHS, GOLD STARTED TO POUR OUT, FALLING ON ANDREI’S NECK. HE WASN’T BREATHING, NOW. HE WAS DEATH, AS HIS MOTHER. AS HIS FATHER, THE GREAT, RICH DOLL MAKER.

 Y bien, esto es el gran final de la historia. Ok, no es grande, ni buena... repito, la terminé a las dos de la mañana y a esas horas de la madrugada sin alcohol, no funciono bien.
Quizá con un café.

Bueno, también un aviso rápido.

Voy a preparar el Volumen II de "Como decir vete al carajo según la guía músical".

Para los interesandos, este es el Volúmen I.

Tardaré un poco pero bueno... es para crear las ansias.

Tout les jours,

mais lundi:

ton Alice.