Arkady and the locked doorA Story by Ali DaliA door has been opened, and is shouldn't be. ‘You see, there is only one door in that
hallway. And it is locked. And has always been locked. For the 89 years of my
tenure in Hallway THREE I have never yet seen it open: until then.’ *** The frail old
figure, huddled on the uncomfortable seat; buried in the robe that was much too
large for his slim frame, had been alone in the waiting room for some time.
Metal chairs arrayed in neat rows in a metal room; there he sat; ill at ease,
twiddling his fingers nervously: as he often had during his long wait. There were doors on either side of the
room made of thick iron, laced with cogs and pistons; through one of these doors,
he had been led after extensive processing; the memory of which saddened the
old man. His whole being: his entirety; condensed by the clacking manipulations
of a clerk’s stenograph onto a single slip of weathered parchment. A lazy ceiling fan squeaked rust every
second rotation in an uncanny concerto with a drip, that echoed rhythmically
throughout the small waiting room. The cold stagnant air, that gave cause for
the old man to huddle himself further into the depths of his threadbare cloak,
was thick with the smell of metal and oil. Bulging coils of pipes and valves weaved
the walls like so many writhing snakes; the purpose of which had been lost to
man centuries ago; only the knowledge of how to appease them: to keep them
functioning: remained. The various valves occasionally issued forth sudden
hisses of steam that frightened the lone figure when he had drifted off in thought:
as he often had during -his indeterminable wait. There were no windows: though,
the old man was thankful for the rays- of dusty sunlight that stabbed into the
murk through a slatted vent in the wall, above a thick pipe, whereby the
bustling sounds of city life wafted into the metallic melancholy, like distant
voices in a dream. Heralded by the heavy foot falls of boots
on metal, one of the heavy iron doors clanked loudly; buzzed; whirred; and then;
agonizingly; slid open with a hydraulic whine; the dull cacophony of centuries
old gears crunching; and mechanisms growling in protest reverberated ominously through
the old man’s frail bones. Though at last, the looming figure of an
Officer was framed in the doorway; long leather jacket; black hair clipped
close; piercing gaze fixed upon the sole occupant of the room. ‘Arkady Vorobyev?’ Said the tall
Officer. ‘Y…Yes’ ‘you wish to report a crime?’ ‘I do Sir’ said Arkady, nodding gravely
as he spoke. ‘Follow me please.’ Turning on his heal,
the officer strode down the long metal corridor that led from the waiting room to
one of the many questioning booths along its length. He was eventually ushered into a small
dimly lit cubicle adorned with a heavy wooden table, and a metal chair on
either side; one of which Arkady was gestured to sit in: it was less
comfortable than his previous. Having
taken his seat, the impressive looking Officer addressed a computer panel set
into the wooden table before him; the panel projecting blue light onto stark
chiseled features and brown eyes, hummed and clicked. The Officer looked up
occasionally at the old man then turned his attention back to the screen. An antique clock on the brick wall marked
the seconds, adding to a silence that was no silence at all. ‘Will my punishment be lenient? On account
of my coming forward?’ ventured the old man with resignation, the prospect of
further silence had become unbearable to him. The officer
furrowed his brow: ‘I am under the impression, based on your
statement, that you have a crime to report?” He glanced again at the screen,
then back up at Arkady ‘not a crime to confess to. Or am I mistaken? Arkady
took a deep sigh ‘I have already explained all this to the clerk, what is left
to say? I myself have become the crime- In a manner of speaking - a vessel for
evil. Corrupted. I have presented myself to the law of my own volition.’ More silence. More
seconds. More glancing at the terminal. Then finally: ‘Yes.
Yes, you have said as much in your statement. Many times. Rather prominently in
fact.’ The officers unerring gaze rose from his blue screen, searching. His
voice seemed to fill the room when he spoke, utterly drowning out the sound of
seconds ticking by. ‘Were you coerced into giving this statement
in any way?’ Came the dry accusation. ‘No.’ Arkady shook his head in
exasperation: ‘No officer. I wish only to make it clear.
Clear that I have come forward of my own free will, in the name of duty. That
is all’ The officer sat back in his chair: ‘Go on; explain the nature of
this crime then.’ ‘To me.’ He added.
*** My name Is Arkady Vorobyev,
and I am an indentured Cleaner. I have come here, of my own volition, to report
a grave crime; or rather, that I may be complicit in the crime myself. What crime you ask? Well, it all began
some time ago. Like my father before me, and my fathers’ father before him: I
had been performing cleansing rituals in Hallway THREE-NINE-NINE-SEVEN in Archive
Building three; where I happened upon a… discrepancy… a brass key inside an
envelope, with a document…a document that had been addressed to me. To me I tell you. From where it could
have originated, and by whom it could have been issued maddened me for some time.
That it had been strewn upon the ground so carelessly appalled me. No Sir. You offend me Sir. You must understand
that I am a professional in my work, a perfectionist, and have performed my
duties in Hallway THREE-NINE-NINE-SEVEN for eighty-nine years, I am a being of diligence
and accuracy. I have garnered many distinctions during my loyal service. I miss
nothing. It takes a day to traverse the hallway via the great cleaning machines;
and it must be traversed every day. Grease must be kept at bay; valves cleaned;
floor grates polished; air purified, and the great cleaning machines must be maintained
and serviced against rust and malfunctions. You mock my craft Sir. Nobody else could
have been there; nor were permitted to be there; nor ever would be. You see; there
is only one door in that hallway. And it is locked. And has always been locked.
For the eight-nine years of my tenure in Hallway THREE-NINE-NINE-SEVEN. I have
never seen it open. That is…until then. Until now.
*** The officer
remained silent as he regarded the old frail figure sat before him. ‘Do you have this document? And this key
you speak off? The Officer said at last. Arkady nodded
solemnly, being too out of breath to speak. He reached into his cloak pocket gingerly,
producing the envelope in his long-weathered fingers. It was unusually heavy. The officer reached
out for it, Arkady hesitated for a moment, withdrawing his outstretched hand
ever so slightly. ‘Please be careful with this…it is tainted,
unholy. You can’t imagine.’ Nodding, the
officer gestured the old man to pass him the key laden envelope. © 2021 Ali DaliAuthor's Note
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