The Map of Time (31 page)

“You risked your life to bring me my parasol,” she said slowly, as though summing up, as though suddenly she had understood the real dangers Tom had braved.

“Well, the parasol was only an excuse,” he replied, leaning over the table and gazing passionately into her eyes.

The moment had come, he said to himself. It was now or never.

“I risked my life to see you again because I love you, Claire,” he lied in the softest voice he could muster.

He had said it. Now she must say the same thing to him. Now she must confess she loved him, too, that is, that she loved the brave Captain Shackleton.

“How can you love me, you don’t even know me,” the girl teased, smiling sweetly.

This was not the response Tom had been hoping for. He disguised his dismay with another gulp of tea. Did she not realize they had no time for anything except giving themselves to one another? He only had three blasted hours! Had he not been clear enough? He replaced the cup in its saucer and glanced out of the window at the boardinghouse opposite, its beds waiting with their clean sheets, ever further out of reach. The girl was right, he did not know her, and she did not know him. And as long as they remained strangers, there was no possibility of them ever ending up in bed. He was fighting a losing battle. But what if they did know each other, he suddenly thought? Did he not come from the future? What was there to stop him claiming that from his point of view they already knew each other? Between this meeting and their encounter in the year 2000, he could make up any number of events it would be impossible for her to refute, he told himself, believing he had finally discovered the perfect strategy for leading her to the boardinghouse, meek as a lamb.

“This time you’re wrong, Claire. I know you far better than you think,” he confessed solemnly, clasping her hand in both of his, as though it were a wounded sparrow. “I know who you are, your dreams, your desires, the way you see the world. I know everything about you, and you know everything about me. And I love you, Claire. I fell in love with you in a time that doesn’t exist yet.” She looked at him, astonished.

“But if we’re never to meet again,” she mused, “how will we get to know each other? How will you fall in love with me?” Breaking out in a sudden sweat, Tom realized he had fallen into his own trap. He stifled a curse and, playing for time, gazed at the street outside. What could he say to her now? He watched the carriages go by, indifferent to his distress, making their way through the vendors” barrows. Then his eye fell on the red pillar box on the corner, solid and steadfast, sporting the insignia Victoria Regina on the front.

“I fell in love with you through your letters,” he blurted out.

“What letters? What are you talking about?” exclaimed the girl, startled.

“The love letters we’ve been sending one another all these years.” The young girl stared at him, aghast. And Tom understood that what he said next had to be credible, for it would determine whether the girl surrendered to him forever or slapped him angrily in the face. He closed his eyes and smiled weakly, pretending he was evoking some memory, while he desperately tried to think.

“It happened during my first exploratory journey to your time,” he said finally. “I came out on the hill I told you about.

From there I walked to London, where I was able to verify that the machine was completely reliable when it came to opening the hole at the specified date: I had traveled from the year 2000 to November 8, 1896.” “November 8?” “Yes, Claire, November 8, that’s to say, the day after tomorrow,” Tom confirmed. “That was my first foray into your century. But I scarcely had time to do anything else, because I had to get back to the hill before the hole closed up again. So I hurried as fast as I could, and I was about to enter the tunnel that would return me to the year 2000, when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.” “What?” she asked, burning with curiosity.

“Under a stone next to the grave marked John Peachey, I found a letter. I picked it up and discovered to my amazement it was addressed to me. I stuffed it in the pocket of my disguise and opened it in the year 2000. It was a letter from a woman I’d never met living in the nineteenth century.” Tom paused for dramatic effect, before adding: “Her name was Claire Haggerty, and she said she loved me.” The girl breathed in abruptly, as though gasping for air. Tom watched, a tender smile on his face, as she gulped, attempting to digest what she was hearing, struggling to understand that she was responsible for this whole situation, or would be responsible for it in the future. For if he loved her now it was because she had loved him in the past. Claire stared into her cup, as though she were able to see him in the tea leaves in the year 2000 reading with bewilderment the letter in which a strange woman from another century, a woman who was already dead, declared her undying love for him. A letter she had written. Tom persisted, like the lumberjack who sees the tree he has been hacking away at for hours begin to teeter and despite his exhaustion swings his axe even harder.

“In your letter, you told me we would meet in the future, or more precisely I would meet you, because you had already met me,” he said. “You implored me to write back, insisting you needed to hear from me. Although it all seemed very strange to me, I replied to your letter, and on my next visit to the nineteenth century two days later, I left it beside the same tombstone. On my third visit I found your reply, and that’s how our correspondence through time began.” “Good God,” the girl gasped.

“I had no idea who you were,” Tom continued, not wanting to give her any respite, “but I fell in love with you all the same, with the woman who wrote those letters. I imagined your face when I closed my eyes. I whispered your name in my sleep, amid the ruins of my devastated world.” Claire fidgeted in her seat and gave another long, bitter sigh.

“How many letters did we write to each other?” she managed to ask.

“Seven, in all,” Tom replied randomly, because it sounded like a good number; not too many and not too few. “We hadn’t time to write more before they prohibited the use of the machine, but believe me it was enough, my love.” Upon hearing the captain utter those words, Claire heaved another sigh.

“In your last letter, you named the day we would finally meet. May 20 in the year 2000, the day I defeated Salomon and ended the war. That day I did as you instructed in your letter, and after the duel I looked for a secluded spot among the ruins.

Then I saw you, and, as you had described, you dropped the parasol, which I was to return to you using the time machine.

Once I reached your era I was to go to Covent Garden Market, where we would meet, and then I was supposed to invite you to tea and tell you everything,” Tom paused, before adding wistfully: “and now I understand why. It was so these events would take place in the future. Do you see, Claire? You will write those letters to me in the future because I am telling you now that you will.” “Good God,” the woman repeated, almost out of breath.

“But there’s something else you need to know,” announced Tom, determined to fell the tree with one final blow. “In one of your letters you spoke of how we would love one another this afternoon.” “What?” the girl was scarcely able to stammer in an inaudible voice.

“Yes, Claire, this afternoon we will love one another in the boardinghouse over the road, and in your own words, it will be the most magical experience of your life.” Claire stared at him in disbelief, her cheeks flushing bright pink.

“I can understand why you’re surprised, but imagine how I felt. I was astonished when I read the letter in which you described our lovemaking, because for you it was something we’d already done, but as far as I was concerned it hadn’t happened yet.” Tom paused and smiled sweetly at her: “I’ve come from the future to fulfill my destiny, Claire, which is to love you.” “But, I—” she tried to protest.

“You still don’t understand, do you? We’ve got to make love, Claire,” said Tom, “because in reality we already have.” It was the final axe blow. And, like the oak, Claire teetered on her chair and crashed to the floor.

27

If she had wanted to draw everyone’s attention, thought Tom, she couldn’t have found a better way. Claire’s sudden fainting fit, and the din of the shattering teapot and teacups, dragged with the tablecloth onto the floor, had brought to an abrupt standstill the conversations floating through the air of the tearoom, plunging it into complete, stunned silence. From the back of the room, where he had been relegated during the ensuing commotion, Tom watched the bevy of ladies rallying round the girl. Like a rescue team with years of practice, they stretched her out on a couch, placed a pile of cushions under her feet, loosened her corset (that diabolical item of clothing entirely to blame for her fainting fit as it had prevented her from breathing in the amount of air necessary for such charged conversations), and went to fetch smelling salts in order to bring her round. Tom watched her come to with a loud gasp.

The female staff and customers had formed a sort of matriarchal screen around the girl to prevent the gentlemen in the room from glimpsing more of her flesh than was seemly. A few minutes later he saw Claire stumble through the human wall, pale as a ghost, and peer confusedly around her. He waved at her awkwardly with the parasol. After a few moments” hesitation, the girl staggered towards him through the crowd of onlookers. At least she seemed to recognize him as the person whom she had been taking tea with before she had passed out.

“Are you all right, Miss Haggerty?” he asked when she had succeeded in making her way over to him. “Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good …” The girl nodded and settled her hand on Tom’s arm like a tame falcon landing on its owner’s glove, as though going outside to get some air and escape from all those prying eyes was the best idea he had ever had. Tom led her out of the tearoom, spluttering an apology for having upset her in that manner.

Once outside, they paused on the pavement, unable to help glancing up at the boardinghouse looming across the road. With a mixture of unease and resignation, Claire, whose cheeks had recovered some of their color out in the cold air, studied the place where that afternoon she was fated to give herself to the brave Captain Shackleton, the savior of the human race, a man not yet born, and yet who was standing next to her, as if by magic, trying to avoid her eyes.

“And what if I refuse, Captain?” she spoke as though addressing the air. “What if I don’t go up there with you?” It would be fair to say that the question took Tom by surprise, for, in view of the disastrous conclusion to their meeting, he had given up all hope of accomplishing his wicked aims. However, despite her impressive fainting fit, the girl had forgotten nothing of what he had told her and was clearly still convinced by his story. Tom had improvised on the blank page of the future a chance encounter, a romance that would explain what was going to happen, and even encourage the girl to yield to it without fear or regret, and to her, this was the only possible outcome.

A momentary pang of remorse made him consider the possibility of helping the girl out of this predicament which she seemed ready to face as though it were an act of contrition. He could tell her the future was not written in stone, that she could choose.

But he had invested too much energy in this venture to abandon his prey now she was almost within reach. He remembered one of Gilliam Murray’s pet phrases, and repeated it in a suitably doom-laden voice: “I’ve no idea what effect it would have on the fabric of time.” Claire looked at him rather uneasily as he shrugged his shoulders, absolving himself of all responsibility. After all, she could not blame him for anything: he was there because she had told him to come in her letters. He had traveled through time to perform an act Claire had told him they had already performed, and with a wealth of detail, moreover. He had journeyed across time to set their romance in motion, to trigger off what had already happened but had not yet taken place. The girl seemed to have reached the same conclusion: what other choice did she have, to walk away and carry on with her life, marry one of her admirers? This was her opportunity to experience something she had always dreamt of: a great love, a love that spanned the centuries. Not seizing it would be like having deceiving herself all her life.

“The most magical experience of my life.” She smiled. “Did I really write that?” “Yes,” replied Tom emphatically. “Those were your exact words.” The girl looked at him, still hesitating. She could not go to bed with a stranger just like that. Except that this was a unique case: she had to give herself to him or the universe would suffer the consequences. She must sacrifice herself to protect the world. “But was it really a sacrifice?” she wondered. Did she not love him? Was the flurry of emotions that overwhelmed her soul whenever she looked at him not love? It had to be. The feeling that made her light up inside and go weak at the knees had to be love, because if that was not love, then what was? Captain Shackleton had told her they would make love that afternoon and then she would write him beautiful letters; why resist if that was what she really wanted? Ought she to refuse simply because she was retracing the steps of another Claire who was, after all, she herself? Ought she to refuse because it felt more like an obligation than a genuine desire, a spontaneous gesture? Try as she might, she could find no good reason for not doing what she longed to do with all her heart. Neither Lucy nor any of her other friends would approve of her going to bed with a stranger.

In the end, this was precisely what decided the matter for her.

Yes, she would go to bed with him, and she would spend the rest of her life pining for him, writing him long beautiful letters soaked with her perfume and her tears. She knew she was both passionate and stubborn enough to keep the flame of her love alive, even though she would never again see the person who had set it ablaze. It was her fate, apparently. An exceptional fate, not without a hint of tragedy, far more pleasant to bear than the dreary marriage she might enter into with one of her dull suitors.

She set her lips in a determined line.

“I hope you aren’t exaggerating to avoid a blow to your pride, Captain,” she joked.

“I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out,” Tom parried.

The girl’s determination to deal with the situation in such a good-natured way was a huge relief to Tom, who no longer felt so bad about having his way with her. He was preparing to enjoy her body by means of a despicable ploy before vanishing from her life forever, and although he considered the conceited young woman was only getting what she deserved, his own under-handed behavior made him feel surprisingly uneasy. He deduced from his sense of disquiet that he still had some scruples after all.

But he felt decidedly less guilty now that the girl also seemed set on deriving unequivocal enjoyment from offering her body to Captain Shackleton, the courageous hero who whispered her name amid the ruins of the future.

Compared to some of the places Tom was used to sleeping in, the boardinghouse was clean, even cozy. The girl might think it drab, unfit for someone of her social class, but at least there was nothing to make her flee in horror. While he was asking about a room, Tom watched the girl out of the corner of his eye as she casually surveyed the pictures decorating the modest hallway.

He admired the way she tried to appear blasé, as though spending her afternoons going to bed with men from the future in London boardinghouses was second nature to her. Once he had paid for the room, the two of them climbed the stairs leading to the first floor and went along the narrow corridor. As he watched her walking in front of him with a mixture of boldness and submission, Tom became aware for the first time of what was about to happen. There was no turning back: he was going to make love to the girl, he was going to hold her naked, eager, even passionate body in his arms. His whole body suddenly burned with lust, sending a shudder from head to toes. He tried to contain his excitement as they paused before the door. All at once Claire tensed.

“I know it will be wonderful,” she said suddenly, half closing her eyes as if to bolster her courage.

“It will be, Claire,” Tom echoed, trying to conceal his eagerness to undress her. “You told me so yourself.” The girl nodded and gave a sigh of resignation. Without further ado, Tom pushed open the door and gestured politely for her to go in before closing it behind them. When they had vanished inside, the narrow corridor was once more deserted. The last rays of the evening sun filtered through the grimy window at the far end. It was a fading light with coppery tones, a soft, pale, almost melancholy glow that shone onto the floating dust particles turning them into tiny glittering insects. Although, given the leisurely, hypnotic way the particles swirled at random, a spray of pollen might be a more suitable metaphor, do you not agree? From behind a few of the closed doors came the unmistakable sounds of amorous engagement: grunts, stifled cries, and even the occasional hearty slap of a hand on a tender buttock—noises which, added to the rhythmical creaking of bed frames, suggested that the lovemaking going on there was not of a conjugal nature. Mingled with a few of the guests” carnal exploits, other sounds of a less lustful nature, like snippets of conversation or a child crying, helped give the finishing touches to the chaotic symphony of the world. The corridor in the boardinghouse was some thirty yards long and decorated with prints of misty landscapes, with several oil lamps attached to the walls.

As was his custom, the landlord, Mr. Pickard (I feel it would be churlish not to introduce him by name even though he will not be appearing again in this tale), was at that very moment preparing to light the lamps, in order not to leave it in darkness, which could have led to all sorts of mishaps when his guests later left the establishment.

Those were his footsteps echoing on the stairs. Each night he found them more difficult to climb, for the years had taken their toll, and recently he could not help giving a triumphant sigh when he reached the top. Mr. Pickard took the box of matches out of his trouser pocket and began lighting the half dozen lamps dotted along the wall in the corridor. He did so very slowly, slipping the match under each lampshade like a skilled swordsman performing a final thrust, and holding it there until the oil-soaked wick caught alight. Time had transformed this gesture into an almost mechanical ceremony he performed mechanically. None of the guests would have been able to tell what Mr. Pickard was thinking as he performed his daily lamp-lighting ritual, but I am not one of the guests and, as with all the other characters in this novel, his innermost thoughts are not off limits to me. Mr. Pickard was thinking about his little granddaughter Wendy, who had died of scarlet fever more than ten years earlier: he could not help comparing the act of lighting those lamps with the manner in which the Creator behaved towards all his creatures, allowing them to burn, then snuffing them out whenever he felt like it, without any explanation or consideration for those he left plunged into darkness. When Mr. Pickard had lit the last lamp, he walked back down the passageway and descended the stairs, exiting this tale as discreetly as he had entered it.

After he had gone, the corridor was once more deserted, although brightly lit. You are probably hoping I will not describe it to you again, but I am afraid I will, as I have no intention of crossing the threshold into the room Tom and Claire are in and rudely intruding on their privacy. Take pleasure in the flickering shadows on the flowery wallpaper, and play at seeing bunnies, bears, and puppy dogs in their shifting shapes as evening turns to night, as—oblivious of man’s concerns—minutes turn inexorably into hours, like a snowball rolling down a hill.

I will not ask you how many little animal shapes you managed to see before the door to the room finally opened and Tom stepped out. A smile of satisfaction playing on his lips, he tucked his shirt into his trousers and pulled on his cap. Gently extricating himself from Claire’s embrace, he had told her he must go before the hole in time closed up. She had kissed him with the solemnity of one who knows she is kissing the man she loves for the very last time, and with the kiss still imprinted on his lips, Tom Blunt began descending the stairs, wondering how it was possible to feel like the happiest man in the world and at the same time the most despicable creature in the universe.