by Diogo Silva Ramos
Most doors are fated to be forever blind. I had been blind for decades, and I was still blind when the knocks echoed through me into the hallways and fell on old-Pedro’s ears, waking him up in the middle of that eerily quiet night.
I didn’t see the woven basket in which he found baby-Marina, but the stone porch whispered something about feeling the base of a basket and hearing the innocent, squeaking sounds of a newborn coming from it. Some things I did hear—like the desperate footfalls walking away from undesired-Marina before I was opened, the gasp of bewildered-Pedro, and the creaks of the cranky stairs complaining about the uninvited guest at such an early hour.
Abandoned-Marina would come to learn how to properly see things from our home’s weary but talented master of curiosity. No ordinary parent could ever raise such a ravenous-eyed child.
•••
For six more years I remained blind, until timid-Marina decided that I, the front door, should not be a barrier to her will to lay eyes on anyone who knocked before they could see her.
Resourceful-Pedro installed the first peephole himself, which was overwhelming in the beginning. It took me a while to get familiar with having the ability to see; but it grew on me, as curious-Marina and I began to share what I like to remember as our unique point of view.
Though the peephole was installed a few centimeters below my doorknob, in the beginning, short-Marina needed a stool made of oak to reach it, which talented-Pedro built himself. She would spend hours there, cheek against the one true eye among the hundreds carved on my surface, watching slices of lives. A view where the protagonists were those who would come and go through me, and passersby played the role of extras.
Our view became my treasured obsession. I’d stare at the brick road that split the yard in two all day and night long, watch the jaboticaba tree dance with the wind and paint the bricks purple whenever its juicy ripe fruits would fall on the road. Introvert-Pedro didn’t use to go out much, but whenever he did, I learned his hairy ears would always steal my attention from anything else in our view, no matter what. Also, I witnessed clumsy-Marina take her first steps and fall on her buttocks over and over again. She wasn’t a fast learner, but she was a learner.
•••
There, in that occasionally forgotten part of the world, where the foundations of the house were rooted, peepholes were called olho mágico—magic eye—and I soon realized that peeping was the kind of magic that gifted-Marina was a natural at, just like wise-Pedro. She would peep through curtains and holes, eyes and souls, and I envied not being able to do the same. I had my magic eye, and that was all.
Until it wasn’t.
As taller-Marina became too tall to share our first eye comfortably—and complained plenty—pragmatic-Pedro deliberately blinded me. For what felt like too long, I missed watching her come and go, though I could still feel her hand shaking my doorknob. It would sometimes tickle.
Being blind again made me realize it had been too long since I sharpened my hearing, and it wasn’t as reliable as it used to be. Gladly, it was still sharp enough, and it allowed me to listen to hardworking-Pedro fumbling around his toolbox moments before installing a new peephole.
The second eye came together alongside preteen-Marina, who’d just turned eleven, and whose once limited chubby short limbs had stretched into slender tools of running and touching.
Right after tired-Pedro finished placing my new eye, he took the time to look through it and behold. Minutes later, joyful-Marina hopped across the yard. It was a cloudy day, but sunbeams managed to shine upon oblivious-Marina, and if I were to bet, I’d say it was the sun peeping through the clouds just to have a glimpse of her.
It was not the first time contemplative-Pedro and I shared the same point of view. It was the last, though.
•••
I saw things. Things I shouldn’t have seen, simply because I wasn’t made to see at all. Things I’ll never share.
•••
I chose not to watch weeping-Marina go.
•••
After remaining shut for so long, I let out a squeal when an unexpectedly familiar handshake made me open my eye. I saw nothing, but I could feel two hands—one covering my eye, the other holding my doorknob firmly. Those hands had become calloused and been irreversibly hurt, I could tell.
“Hush! You’ll wake them,” furtive-Marina whispered, and her voice also sounded like it had become calloused and irreversibly hurt.
Who are they? I’d ask if I could, even though I knew she was referring to the furniture that had also gone numb. I’d ask just to hear the sound of her voice again.
“I came for you. They’re gonna demolish the house,” she whispered hoarsely, not answering the question, but as if she had listened to what I truly wanted: one more sip of her words.
Who are they?
She slowly let go of my doorknob and the hand that was blocking my eye slid down. At first I saw a blurred-Marina, but then she wiped my eye clean with the tip of her oversized grey shirt’s long sleeve.
“Close your eye and go back to sleep. I’m not abandoning you here again,” she said.
I wish I could tell sorrowful-Marina that she’d never abandoned me, but even if I could, how can you convince someone who’s felt the pain of being abandoned that she only did what she could do? Young-Marina was too young. She’d had no choice but to go.
I did as she asked and closed my eye as she entered the house. First, she blinded me, and then began to remove the hinge pins, tapping their bottoms with a hammer and some kind of nail.
“Marina?” the wood-fired oven asked, or perhaps the hungry fireplace; I’d always mistaken their smoky voices.
Worried-Marina hesitated for a moment, then whispered, I wasn’t sure if to me or to herself: “Only you have seen things at the exact time and space I have seen them. You helped me hide whenever I felt like I needed to, and at the same time you let me see whatever or whomever was on the other side. Unfortunately, I can’t take them all with me. And above all this, I know forever-missed-Pedro misses you.”
“Marina?” asked the ever-swinging chandelier, no doubt.
Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina? Marina?
Asked them all.
Don’t leave us, please!
Begged them all.
Hurried-Marina pulled the pins free after popping them up a bit. She then removed me from the hinges and on her strong arms I finally rested.
•••
I once heard that what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve.
For a while, I couldn’t see a thing and I grieved anyway, perhaps due to the lack of a heart.
In the dark, and a bit far away, I heard thoughtful-Marina guide me through what I can only describe as “change.”
She narrated the steps, and verbs such as carve and saw and drill and attach would always precede painful moments, but I trusted her.
One day they came to an end.
•••
One day, overjoyed-Marina told me to open my…
Eyes? I opened what I recognized to be the very first eye I’d been given years ago. Then I realized there was more to be seen. I opened a second eye, the second one I’d been given years ago, but this time they were right next to each other. Eyes!
Before me, there was preteen-Marina. She was sitting, legs crossed, and we were about the same height. Our eyes finally met.
“What is that, mom?” she asked. Her voice was as painless as it never had been. I was puzzled.
“Marina, it’s a wooden rag doll,” another voice kidnapped my attention, and this one carried the pain that known-Marina would forever carry. “His name is Pedro. Say hi to him.”
Mother-Marina sat next to daughter-Marina and I can never remember if she said hi or not. I just remember staring at them and beholding. Just like me-Pedro and him-Pedro. And though many things were different, other things never changed, and it was cloudy, but sunbeams managed to shine upon us all, and if I were to bet, I’d say it was sunny-Pedro peeping through the clouds just to have a glimpse of us.
Born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, DIOGO SILVA RAMOS has finally learned what is to be taken seriously and laughs at the rest. Together with Jana Bianchi, he runs the Fantástico Guia, an initiative that supports Brazilian writers who are writing and submitting their work both in English and Portuguese. Learn more about Diogo on fantasticoguia.com.br/diogoramos.
Through the Doorway, I Watched Her Come and Go was edited by Nara Monteiro. It can be found in Tales & Feathers Volume 4.
