Open gates of such royal mansions are always a bad omen. They welcome
you with open arms to unravel their secrets hiding inside large mahogany doors
with rusty locks and dusty handles, and slow poison you with curiosity until
you decay with a mundane finality into boney ruggedness. Mr. Hansen was never a
curious man and hence was immune to such open gates. But tonight, his hands
were shaking with curious anticipation when he pushed the gate. The cautious
hands took an eternity to open it. He slid his body through the little gap it
offered and paused, his body taut, expectant. There was no one around. Hurried
steps pattered away along the zigzags towards the façade of the “House of
Sharpe.”
Although Mr. Hansen’s brain was already fuzzy with logics and
counter-logics about his recent actions quite contrary to his persona, he
couldn’t help but notice all the cactuses here and there, carefully nurtured,
by the natural instinct of a gardener. Never had he seen such a large variety
of cactuses at display inside a mansion of such stature. The owner has a queer
taste of gardening, he thought. Or he might just be like those cactuses. Mr.
Hansen shivered a little at this thought, but his legs didn’t pause or retard.
The magnificent edifice stood tall with all its loneliness and haunted
glory. As he neared, he saw that through the window of the ground floor room of
the east corner that was facing him, a shimmering light emanated, mystical,
enchanting, and most of all, alluring. Mr. Hansen approached towards the light
like a possessed somnambulist on an awakening quest.
The window was at a fair height for a plump and short man like Mr.
Hansen. He need not duck. He could stand there and eavesdrop without getting
caught unless his impatience pushed him towards some tomfoolery. And so he did.
For a brief period of 10 minutes, trivial orders and tinkling of tea-cups
slowed the time painfully. Mr. Hansen was afraid whether he would finally give
in under the surging impatience.
But a tap on his shoulder made his head spun and look up with alarming
speed. The scream that left him the next moment was unlikely from a man of his
size, enough for the windows to swing open the next instant. A man of towering
height and lean physique was gazing down upon him with a scythe whose blades
shone proudly under the lights through the open windows. A pair of surprisingly
still eyes was fixed upon him bulging through the hooded void. The man did not
kill him. It kept gazing. He now looked up. A man with a long neck and velvet
bow-tie was staring at him through the window. He seemed amused. A somber voice asked,” Who is it,
Solomon?” The long neck answered with a shrill, high-pitched voice, ”A man
without sharp features, master.” “Well, he is a guest of ours, untimely, but
still, a guest. Bring him in.”
Mr. Hansen, for a moment, contemplated running as an option until he
looked up to see the shining scythe. A side-door opened. Long neck came out
with the rest of his surprisingly thin frame. The shrill voice announced with
an assuring smile, “Master wants you to be our guest” and extended his hand.
Mr. Hansen was now a man trapped by open gates and fewest choices. He
took slow, fearful steps and entered through the door. It had to be a small
room for the pensive moments of the owner. The “master” was sitting cozily on a
couch of finest Morocco leather with his back turned towards him, with
newspapers over his face, as he scrutinized them intensely. The door closed.
Long neck was standing waiting for his master’s order with mechanical
obedience.
But the next order was for Mr. Hansen. “Come, Sit”, the voice said, “you
look shaken. Suffering of an old man, I presume? Solomon, bring him a glass of
pomegranate shake. The guest must be tired with craning necks and long
journeys.” Mr. Hansen took measured steps and sat down on the couch before the
“master”, his face reddened with guilt.
Refreshments arrived in due time. He drank to his heart’s content,
completely forgetting the embarrassment for few seconds. All these time, he was
sitting silently on the couch looking at the man with curious eyes, waiting for
the veil of Evening Times to come down to reveal the man. But the man seemed to
possess some other plans.
Just as Mr. Hansen put the glass down cautiously with a soft thud upon
the glass table, the sound of folding papers made him look up. He was still holding
the glass when the man looked into his eyes and asked with an eerie solemnity,
”So, Mr. Hansen, I assume you are looking for your umbrella?”
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