Write a short story about the grandfather's locked room
Answers
She was built like a brick house stuffed with nails. She stood almost 6' in a country of smaller people. She believed equally in God — who gave her the power of righteousness, and science — which kept her hairdo perfectly in check.
She was born in Portugal, in 1916, in a small cobble street town about a hundred kilometers southeast of Porto. She survived two world wars, one civil war, a revolution, two dictators, various scandals, the emigration of her family, and she left this earth 89 years later with no memory of any of it.
This is the story of my grandmother.
I know as much about my grandmother as I don’t. I was an eyewitness to some of her life, although not enough. The rest is contained in stories, told by relatives, which are slowly growing from parables into legend. But any time my family gathers, which is rare, the conversation will turn to my grandmother within minutes. This much is fact: she ran not just our family, but several adjacent families. Being on her good side was not to be taken for granted, and usually temporary. And there has yet to be a hurricane named after her because there hasn’t been one big enough.
And as far as I know no one has yet committed her story to print. To be fair, my family’s primary self-defense mechanism is forgetting what we’ve done in life so we can die in relative peace. This is my attempt to remember her while I can.
My grandmother with my cousin Irina.
There’s the story about how my grandparents supposedly met. My grandfather was a prison guard during Salazar’s regime. And my grandmother was bringing food to an uncle who’d been arrested as a dissident. Within months the uncle had escaped, never to be seen again. Shortly after that my grandfather left his first wife, and married my grandmother. No one in my family will actually verify this story, but no one doubts it. This is my family.
My grandmother’s name was Conceição Gouveia. In a country where every girl is named Maria and has fifteen surnames. Now, this may tell you more about the Portuguese gene pool than I care you to know about, but it’s important to the story. My grandfather’s name was Eduardo Gouveia Monteiro. Her maiden name was the same as his middle name. My grandmother didn’t take his name. She made him stop using his.
When I was born my grandmother got a hold of my birth certificate before it was filed and crossed out the Monteiro. After my parents immigrated to the United States this led to me having to carry around several documents with various official seals explaining why the name on my US ID didn’t match the name on my Portuguese passport. (My father, to her great dismay had adopted Monteiro as his true last name. Probably one of the reasons she made him emigrate. Yes, made him emigrate. But that’s a story in and of itself.)
My grandmother had one child, my father. She was unable to have more. So she called up a cousin who had five, whose husband had recently passed, and told her to send two of them down. She raised them and they called her Mom until the day she died. She didn’t ask for or grant favors. She made calculations. She leveled playing fields with the grace of a bulldozer. In the interest of fairness, as she calculated fairness to be.
She once caught a young village policeman flirting with one of her step-daughters. When she found out he was engaged, my grandmother sought him out and gave him an earful in the town square. The policeman, feeling very nervous, as a crowd gathered ‘round, said the worst thing possible:
“Senhora Gouveia, you have to respect my authority.”
My grandmother ripped the badge off his shirt, punched him in the face and replied “Where’s your authority now?” And then walked to the police station to file a complaint about him.
My grandfather had always been well-off, more than well-off, really, for as long as I can remember. I always looked forward to our school breaks, not because of school, but because that meant we would be visiting my granddad. When we neared the countryside, seeing fields and hills of green in the distance, we would wind down our windows, wide open, eager to breathe in the smell of wild, fresh air. There would be a fragrant breeze of an assortment of all kinds of fruits, vegetables, hay, and horses. The sun would shine down in sparkling rays, and warm us up, as my brother and I peeked our heads out to behold the view.
The ride would be really long, taking up a lot of the day, but it went by so pleasantly. Just me, my little brother, mum, and dad, going to visit our grandpa living luxuriously in the countryside.
Upon reaching there, tall oaks greet us, standing guard to the cobbled pathway. Amy, the maid, would be waiting for us cheerfully, her grin reaching end to end with her chubby cheeks. Zack and I would launch ourselves onto her, eager to get the most smooches, just so she would convince Calvin, the Cook, to make us his legendary blueberry pies, and fresh strawberry muffins with chocolate chips. It truly was something worth suffering for.
Our grandfather would be either in his huge study room, even bigger library, or his enormous gardens. I would giddily skip towards him as he bent down to kiss my forehead or hand to make me laugh, and pat my head, ruffling my hair in the process, accidentally-on-purpose. He owned hundreds of hectares of apples, olive and peach trees, as well as many other fruits I struggle to remember. He also owned huge amounts of livestock , and was a very well-acquainted partner with the biggest supermarkets.
I loved exploring the big mansions he owned. Hundreds of doors, thousands of corridors, millions of rooms. Every time we visited, I never managed to explore the whole of any of his buildings. I always found amazing statues, ornaments, gadgets, and gizmos. The surprises were I discovered were endlessly unpredictable, and each had a unique story to it.
After we entered the mansion, we settled down, chatting to my grandpa and snacking. I decided to go out to the gardens with Zack tagging along because he 'oh, so loves his big sister'. The grass was bright as ever, and the trees seemed evergreen. I approached a certain red velvety rose, trying to get away from Zack who had become intent on catching a certain black and orange butterfly. Just behind it, on the sky-high wall, was a small door I could barely make out, that was just big enough for Zack to fit through.
I had never noticed such a thing in the gardens. The mystery of the unknown intrigued me, pulling me towards the miniature door. It was made from thick, dark, strong wood. Shapes, symbols, and figures were carved around it. The individual lines of the wood were beautifully clear. There was also a certain shine about it that made it seem mystic. The knob was a carved diamond, and just under it was long keyhole.
Carefully grabbing the knob, I turned it. Obviously no response. Twice. Thrice. Nothing. I looked around me and touched the grass around the area. Nothing unusual. Just before I decided to leave, I took a closer look at the symbols carved. They seemed familiar. Where had I seen them?
Hurrying inside, I ran up the spiral stairs and through countless corridors, until I reached the humongous library. Darting between shelves, I found the book I sought. Ancient languages. Flipping through the huge dusty book - Narxi Rakuti. Panting, I reached outside, but not without a concerned look from Martha the chandelier duster.
Deciphering the symbols, I read:
A key you will find under the eternal tree
A drop of blood must have to seep.
The eternal tree...the Boabab Tree on the other side of the mansion! Grandpa was very proud of it and had emphasized its age. I had been on our land for generations and generations. Climbing my bike, I cycled across the lawn for about ten minutes. The tree stood high and grand. Climbing in slowly bit by bit, I sat to have a rest, when i noticed a hole. I could just make out s shiny key that reflected to sun's rays. The whole was barely big enough for my hand, yet the key was long and heavy, spanning my palm. Gently climbing back down, I got back to the door.
Now, what about the drop of blood? I decided to place the key inside its place, but try as I might, it didn't even want to touch the door. It kept bouncing back. Some sort of shield must be cast over the keyhole. With no other choice, I used a penknife I had stolen from Laurence the butler to pierce my finger. A drop of blood slipped down onto the key, suddenly transforming it's colour into black. Something definitely weird was going on. Shakily, I inserted the key in the hole, and turned the knob.