The Door

by Magda Szabó

I don’t much like alcohol, but on that night of all nights I had to accept whatever I was given, or my visit would be pointless. I had no idea who I represented at the table, but I knew that I was standing in for someone else, for the visitor who had failed to come, the person for whom she had gone to so much trouble. I did my best to personify a stranger of whom I knew nothing. Together we massaged Viola’s ears and played with his paws, and, when I was ready to leave, Emerence escorted me home, as if we were going all the way to Kőbánya on foot, in slippers and dressing gown. We spoke only about the dog, as if he were the most important thing — his bearing, his handsome build, his quick understanding. Neither of us mentioned the failed guest. When we reached our apartment, Emerence handed me the leash, waited while I stepped into the garden, then slowly, with precise enunciation, as if she were taking a vow, whispered after me — on this Virgilian night, with its mixture of real and surreal elements — that she would never forget what I had done. My

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