"You saw the Duke here before?"
"Sometimes. Never as close as we saw today, but there are always hunters."
"Well ask yourself: why are there always hunters? Why is there always an eclipse?"
"I don't know. Why do you always do the same thing in a movie every time it runs—"
"So things are exactly the same, every time you come here, like a movie?"
"Not exactly the same, no. But the sun's always like that: three-quarters covered. And the trees, the rocks ... even the ships out there." She pointed to the ships. "It's always the same ships. They never seem to get very far."
"So it's not like a movie," Todd said. "It's more like time's been frozen."
She nodded. "I suppose it is," she said. "Frozen in the walls."
"I don't see any walls."
"They're there," Katya said, "it's just a question of where to look. How to look. Trust me."
"You want me to trust you," Todd said, "then get me out of here."
"I thought you were enjoying yourself."
"The pleasure went out of it a while back," Todd said. He grabbed her arm, hard. "Come on," he said. "I want to get out."
She shook herself free of him. "Don't touch me that way," she said, her expression suddenly fierce. "I don't like it." She pointed past him, over his right shoulder. "The door's over there."
He looked back. He could see no sign of an opening. Just more of the Devil's Country.
And now, to make matters worse, he once again heard the sound of hooves.
"Oh Christ . . ."
He glanced back toward the trees. The Duke and his men were riding toward them, empty-handed.
"They're coming back to interrogate us," Todd said. "Katya! Did you hear me? We need to get the hell out of here."
Katya had seen the horsemen, but she didn't seem overly unnerved. She watched them approaching without moving. Todd, meanwhile, made his way in the general direction of the door; or at least where she had indicated it stood. He scanned the place, looking for some fragment—the corner of the doorframe, the handle, the keyhole—to help him locate it. But there was nothing.
Having no other choice he simply walked across the stony ground, his hands extended in front of him. After proceeding perhaps six strides, the empty air in front of him suddenly became solid, and his hands flattened against cold, hard tile. The instant he made contact, the illusion of the painters' trompe l'oeil was broken. He could not believe he had been so easily deceived. What had looked like infinite, penetrable reality two strides before now looked absurdly fake: stylish marks on pieces of antiquated tile, plastered on a wall. How could his eyes have been misled for an instant?
Then he looked back over his shoulder, to call Katya over, and the illusion in which she stood was still completely intact—the expanse of open ground between where they stood and the galloping horsemen apparently a quarter-mile or more, the trees beyond them twice that, the sky limitless above. Illusion, he told himself, all illusion. But it meant nothing in the face of the trick before him, which refused to bow to his doubt. He gave up trying to make it concede, and instead turned back to the wall. His hands were still upon it, the tiles still laid out under his palms. Which direction did the door lie in?
"Right or left?" he called to Katya.
"What?"
"The door! Is it to the right or left?"
She took her eyes off the riders, and scanned the wall he was clinging to. "Left," she said, casually.
"Hurry then—"
"They didn't find the child."
"Forget about them!" he told her.
If she was attempting to impress him with her fearlessness she was doing a poor job. He was simply irritated. She'd shown him the way the room worked, for God's sake; now it was time to get out.
"Come on!" he cried.
As he called to her he moved along the wall, a step to his left, then another step, keeping his palms flat to the tiles every inch of the way, as though defying them to play some new trick or other. But it seemed that as long as he had his hands on the tiles—as long as he could keep uppermost in his mind the idea that this was a painted world—it could not start its trickeries afresh. And on the third step—or was it fourth?—along the wall his extended hand found the doorjamb. He breathed out a little sigh of relief. The doorjamb was right there under his hand. He moved his palm over it onto the door itself which, like the jamb, was tiled so that there was no break in the illusion. He fumbled for the handle, found it and tried to turn it.
On the other side, Tammy had found her way along the passageway and chosen that precise moment to turn the handle in the opposite direction.
"Oh Jesus—" Todd said. "It's locked."
"You hear that?" Tammy gasped. "That's Todd? Todd!"
"Yeah it's me. Who's this?"
"Tammy. It's Tammy Lauper. Are you turning the handle?"
"Yeah."
"Well let go of it. Let me try."
Todd let go. Tammy turned the handle. Before she opened the door she glanced back at Zeffer. He was still one flight up the stairs, staring out of the window.
"The dead . . ." she heard him say.
"What about them?"
"They're all around the house. I've never seen them this close before. They know there are people passing back and forth through the door, that's why."
"Do I open the door? Todd's on the other side."
"Are you sure it's Todd?"
"Yes, it's Todd."
Hearing his name called, Todd impatiently yelled from the other side. "Yes, it's me. And Katya. Will you please open the fucking door?"
Tammy's hands were sweaty, and her muscles weary; the handle slid through her palm. "I can't open it. You try."
Todd struggled with the handle from his side, but what had seemed as though it were going to be the easiest part of the procedure (opening the door) was proving the most intractable. It was almost as though the room didn't want him to leave; as though it wanted to hold on to him for as long as possible, to exercise the greatest amount of influence over him; to addict him, second by second, sight by sight.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Katya was staring up at the sky, moving her hands down over her body, as though she were luxuriating in the curious luminosity of this enraptured world. For a moment he imagined her naked, cradled in the heavenly luminescence, but he caught himself in the midst of the fantasy. It was surely just another of the room's tricks to keep him from departing. The damn place probably had a thousand such sleights-of-mind: sexual, philosophical, murderous.
He closed his eyes hard against the seductions of the Country and put his head against the door. The tile was clammy; like a living thing.
"Tammy?" he said. "Are you still here?"
"Yes?"
"When I count three, I want you to push. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Okay. Ready?"
"Ready."
"One. Two. Three!"
She pushed. He pulled. And the door fell open, presenting Todd with one of the odder juxtapositions he'd witnessed in his life. In the hallway on the other side of the door stood a woman who looked as though she'd gone several rounds with a heavy-weight boxer. There were bloody scratches on her face, neck and arms; her hair and clothes were in disarray. In her eyes she had a distinctly panicked look.
He recognized her instantly. She was the leader of his Fan Club, a woman called Tammy Lauper. Yes! The missing Tammy Lauper! How the hell had she got up here? Never mind. She was here, thank God.
"I thought something terrible had happened to you," Lauper said.