Read a new short story by Cynthia Ozick, in which the main character discovers a one-of-a-kind doll that “was itself a grownup thing.”
I obeyed, and stepped in my socks into the luxurious caress of that green and flowery meadow. All around were, to my eyes, the furnishings of a palace. A mahogany breakfront, its four glass panels inscribed with inlaid wood tracings, a dark walnut sideboard on curled legs, and Chinese wallpaper—wallpaper!—all waterfalls and tiny footbridges. And, at the center of these marvels, a round table swathed in a damask cloth, and four chairs with elegantly carved backs.
“Go ahead, touch the hands,” she instructed me. A command, but also a witch’s enticement. “Just give them a bit of a tug, not too hard. Here, let me do it for now and you’ll see for yourself.” It came to me then, when the doll was already familiar in my hands and I tweaked the ribbons and the music began its loops, that the rite of the brick-red blouse and of the silver key had a single intent. Was the doll in her fanciful dress meant to mimic the widow of Isidore Atlas, or was the widow purposefully got up like the doll? And meanwhile the nickels had stopped. I hardly minded.
I comprehended none of this. Was she speaking of the pulses and vibrations that scrolled out of the doll as a kind of sacrament? What I heard was something else: an engulfing and unholy fury. Her husband, she let out in that crushing operatic voice, was a musician, a musician and more, and yes, he had performed backstage in silent-movie theatres, that lost musical art. It was he who conjured, behind the screen, the passions and longings of the actors, and, true, the plots weren’t his, but the music was all of his own invention and inspiration. He was a composer, no different from Verdi, Puccini, Rossini, all of whom swiped their plots. . . .
November narrowed and fled. The door to 3-C remained shut and mute. There were no more lists, no more bags of coins. I went back to my colored pencils, and drew two figures—today I would call them effigies—one with stretched-out limbs, both in ornamental costumes, nearly matching, but it was a desultory scrawling.
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