The Map of Time

  Here, Andrew could find the classics and adventure stories by authors such as Verne and Salgari, but still more interesting to Andrew was a strange, rather picturesque type of literature many considered frivolous—novels where the authors had let their imaginations run wild, regardless of how implausible or often down-right absurd the outcome. Like all discerning readers, Charles appreciated Homer’s Odyssey and his Iliad, but his real enjoyment came from immersing himself in the crazy world of Batrocomomaquia, the blind poet’s satire on his own work in an epic tale about a battle between mice and frogs. Andrew recalled a few books written in a similar style which his cousin had lent him; one called True Tales by Luciano de Samósata which recounted a series of fabulous voyages in a flying ship that takes the hero up to the sun and even through the belly of a giant whale. Another called The Man in the Moon by Francis Godwin, the first novel ever to describe an interplanetary voyage, that told the story of a Spaniard named Domingo Gonsales who travels to the moon in a machine drawn by a flock of wild geese. These flights of fancy reminded Andrew of pop guns or firecrackers, all sound and fury, and yet he understood, or thought he did, why his cousin was so passionate about them. Somehow this literary genre, which most people condemned, acted as a sort of counterbalance to Charles’s soul; it was the ballast that prevented him from lurching into seriousness or melancholy, unlike Andrew, who had been unable to adopt his cousin’s casual attitude to life, and to whom everything seemed so achingly profound, imbued with that absurd solemnity that the transience of existence conferred upon even the smallest act.

  However, that afternoon Andrew did not have time to look at any book. He did not even manage to cross the room to the book-shelves because the loveliest girl he had ever seen stopped him in his tracks. He stood staring at her bemused as time seemed to congeal, to stand still for a moment, until finally he managed to approach the portrait slowly to take a closer look. The woman was wearing a black velvet toque and a flowery scarf knotted at the neck. Andrew had to admit she was by no means beautiful by conventional standards: her nose was disproportionately large for her face, her eyes too close together and her reddish hair looked damaged, and yet at the same time this mysterious woman possessed a charm as unmistakable as it was elusive. He was unsure exactly what it was that captivated him about her. Perhaps the contrast between her frail appearance and the strength radiating from her gaze; a gaze he had never seen before in any of his conquests, a wild, determined gaze that retained a glimmer of youthful innocence, as if every day the woman was forced to confront the ugliness of life. And yet even so, curled up in her bed at night in the dark she still believed it was only a regrettable figment of her imagination, a bad dream that would soon dissolve and give way to a more pleasant reality. It was the gaze of a person who yearns for something and refuses to believe it will never be hers, because hope is the only thing she has left.

  “A charming creature, isn’t she?” Charles’s voice came from behind him.

  Andrew jumped. He was so absorbed by the portrait he had not heard his cousin come in. He nodded as his cousin walked over to the drinks trolley. He himself could not have found any better way to describe the emotions the portrait stirred in him, that desire to protect her mixed with a feeling of admiration he could only compare—rather reluctantly, owing to the inappropriateness of the metaphor—to that which he felt for cats.

  “It was my birthday present to my father,” Charles explained pouring a brandy. “It’s only been hanging there a few days.” “Who is she?” asked Andrew. “I don’t remember seeing her at any of Lady Holland or Lord Broughton’s parties.” “At those parties?” Charles laughed. “I’m beginning to think the artist is gifted. He’s taken you in as well.” “What do you mean?” asked Andrew, accepting the glass of brandy his cousin was holding out to him.

  “Surely you don’t think I gave it to my father because of its artistic merit? Does it look like a painting worthy of my consideration, cousin?” Charles grabbed his arm, forcing him to take a few steps closer to the portrait. “Take a good look. Notice the brushwork: utterly devoid of talent. The painter is no more than an amusing disciple of Degas. Where the Parisian is gentle, he is starkly somber.” Andrew did not understand enough about painting to be able to have a discussion with his cousin, and all he really wanted to know was the sitter’s identity, and so he nodded gravely, giving his cousin to understand he agreed with his view that this painter would do better to devote himself to repairing bicycles.

  Charles smiled, amused by his cousin’s refusal to take part in a discussion about painting that would have given him a chance to air his knowledge, and finally declared: “I had another reason for giving it to him, dear cousin.” He drained his glass slowly, and gazed at the painting again for a few moments, shaking his head with satisfaction.

  “And what reason was that, Charles?” Andrew asked, becoming impatient.

  “The private enjoyment I get from knowing that my father, who looks down on the lower classes as though they were inferior beings, has the portrait of a common prostitute hanging in his library.” His words made Andrew reel.

  “A prostitute?” he finally managed to stammer.

  “Yes, cousin,” replied Charles, beaming with content. “But not a high-class whore from the brothels in Russell Square, not even one of the tarts who ply their trade in the park on Vincent Street, but a dirty, foul-smelling draggletail from Whitechapel in whose ravaged vagina the wretched of the earth alleviate their misery for a few meager pennies.” Andrew took a swig of brandy, attempting to take in his cousin’s words. There was no denying his cousin’s revelation had shocked him, as it would anybody who saw the portrait. But he also felt strangely disappointed. He stared at the painting again, trying to discover the cause of his unease. So, this lovely creature was a vulgar tart. Now he understood the mixture of passion and resentment seeping from her eyes that the artist had so skilfully captured. But Andrew had to admit his disappointment obeyed a far more selfish logic: the woman did not belong to his social class, which meant he could never meet her.

  “I bought it thanks to Bruce Driscoll,” Charles explained, pouring two more brandies. “Do you remember Bruce?” Andrew nodded unenthusiastically. Bruce was a friend of his cousin whom boredom and money had made an art collector; a conceited, idle young man who had no compunction in showing off his knowledge of paintings at every opportunity.

  “You know how he likes to look for treasure in the most unlikely places,” his cousin said, handing him the second brandy.

  “Well, the last time I saw him, he told me about a painter he’d dug up during one of his visits to the flea markets. A man called Walter Sickert, a founding member of the New English Art Club.

  His studio was in Cleveland Street, and he painted East End prostitutes as though they were society ladies. I dropped in there and couldn’t resist buying his latest canvas.” “Did he tell you anything about her?” Andrew asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “About the whore? Only her name. I think she’s called Marie Jeannette.” Marie Jeannette, Andrew muttered. The name oddly suited her, like her little hat.

  “A Whitechapel whore … ,” he whispered, still unable to get over his surprise.

  “Yes, a Whitechapel whore. And my father has given her pride of place in his library!” Charles cried, spreading his arms theatrically in a mock gesture of triumph. “Isn’t it absolutely priceless?” With this, Charles flung his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and guided him through to the sitting room, changing the subject. Andrew tried to hide his agitation, but could not help thinking about the girl in the portrait as they were planning their assault on the charming Keller sisters.

  That night, in his bedroom, Andrew lay wide awake. Where was the woman in the painting now? What was she doing? By the fourth or fifth question, he had begun calling the woman by her name, as though he really knew her and they enjoyed a nonexistent intimacy. He realized he was seriously disturbed when he began to feel an absurd jealousy towards t
he men who could have her for a few pennies, whereas for him, despite all his wealth, she was unattainable. And yet was she really beyond his reach? Surely, given his position, he could have her, physically at least, more easily than he could any other woman, and for the rest of his life. The problem was finding her. Andrew had never been to Whitechapel, but he had heard enough about the neighborhood to know it was dangerous, especially for someone of his class. It was not advisable to go there alone, but he could not count on Charles accompanying him. His cousin would not understand him preferring that tart’s grubby vagina to the sweet delights the charming Keller sisters kept hidden beneath their petticoats, or the perfumed honeypots of the Chelsea madams, where half the well-to-do West End gentlemen sated their appetites. Perhaps he would understand, and even agree to go with him for the fun of it, if Andrew explained it as a passing fancy, but he knew what he felt was too powerful to be reduced to a mere whim. Or was it? He would not know what he wanted from her until he had her in his arms. Would she really be that difficult to find? Three sleepless nights were enough for him to come up with a plan.

  And so it was that while the Crystal Palace (which had been moved to Sydenham after displaying the Empire’s industrial prowess inside its vast belly of glass and reinforced iron) was offering organ recitals, children’s ballets, a host of ventriloquists’ acts, and even the possibility of picnicking in its beautiful gardens that Andrew Harrington—oblivious to the festive spirit that had taken hold of the city—put on the humble clothes of a commoner one of his servants had lent him, and examined his disguise in the cheval glass. He could not help giving a wry smile at the sight of himself in a threadbare jacket and trousers, his fair hair tucked under a check cap pulled down over his eyes. Surely looking like that people would take him for a nobody, possibly a cobbler or a barber. Disguised in this way, he ordered the astonished Harold to take him to Whitechapel. Before leaving, he made him swear to secrecy. No one must know about this expedition to London’s worst neighborhood, not his father, not the mistress of the house, not his brother Anthony, not even his cousin Charles. No one.

  3

  In order not to draw attention to himself, Andrew made Harold pull up the luxurious carriage in Leadenhall and continued alone on foot towards Commercial Street. After wandering a good way down that evil-smelling street, he plucked up his courage and entered the maze of alleyways that made up Whitechapel. Within ten minutes, a dozen prostitutes loomed out of the fog to offer him a trip to Mount Venus for the price of a few pennies, but none of them was the girl in the portrait. Had they been draped in seaweed, Andrew might easily have mistaken them for faded, dirty ship figureheads. He refused them politely without pausing, a dreadful sadness welling up in him at the sight of those scarecrows hunched against the cold who had no better way of earning a living. Their toothless mouths attempting bawdy smiles were more repulsive than desirable. Would Marie look like that outside the portrait, far from the brushstrokes that had transformed her into an angelic creature? He soon realized he was unlikely to find her by chance. Perhaps he would have more luck if he asked for her directly. Once he was sure his disguise was convincing, he entered the Ten Bells, a popular tavern on the corner of Fournier Street and Commercial Street opposite the ghostly Christ Church. When he peered inside the pub, it looked to him like just the sort of place whores went to in search of clients. As soon as he reached the bar, two of them came up to him. Trying to look casual, Andrew offered them a glass of stout, refusing their propositions as politely as possible.

  He explained he was looking for a woman called Marie Jeannette.

  One of the whores left immediately, pretending to be offended, perhaps because she did not want to waste the evening with someone who didn’t want to pay for her services, but the other, the taller of the two, decided to accept his invitation: “I suppose you mean Marie Kelly. That dratted Irishwoman, everybody wants her. I expect she’s done a few by now and is in the Britannia—that’s where we all go when we’ve made enough for a bed and a bit more besides so that we can get drunk quick and forget our sorrows,” she said, with more irony than bitterness.

  “Where is this tavern?” Andrew asked.

  “Near here, on the corner of Crispin Street and Dorset Street.” The least Andrew could do was thank her for the information by giving her four shillings.

  “Get yourself a room,”” he recommended, with a warm smile.

  “It’s too cold out there tonight to be traipsing the streets.” “Why, thank you, mister. You’re too kind, I’m sure,” said the whore, genuinely grateful.

  Andrew said good-bye, politely doffing his cap.

  “If Marie Kelly won’t give you what you want, come back and see me,” she shouted after him with a flash of coquettishness that was blighted by her toothless smile. “My name’s Liz. Liz Stride, don’t forget.” Andrew had no problem finding the Britannia, a seedy bar with a windowed front. Despite being brilliantly lit by oil lamps, the room was thick with tobacco smoke. At the far end was a long bar, with a couple of private rooms to the left. A crowd of noisy customers filled the large main area cluttered with tables and chairs, the floor strewn with sawdust. A fleet of bartenders in filthy aprons squeezed their way between tightly packed tables juggling metal tankards brimming with beer. In the corner, a battered old piano displayed its grubby keys to anyone wishing to enliven the evening with a tune. Andrew reached the bar, the surface of which was laden with large jugs of wine, oil lamps, and plates of cheese cut into huge chunks that looked more like bits of rubble from a dump. He lit a cigarette from one of the lamps, ordered a pint of beer, and leaned discreetly against the bar, surveying the crowd and wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of cooked sausage emanating from the kitchen. As he had been told, the atmosphere there was more relaxed than at the Ten Bells.

  Most of the tables were occupied by sailors on shore leave and local people dressed as modestly as he, although he also noticed a few groups of prostitutes busy getting drunk. He sipped his beer slowly and looked for one who fitted Marie Kelly’s description, but none did. By his third beer, he had begun to despair and to wonder what on earth he was doing there, chasing an illusion.

  He was about to leave when she pushed her way through the pub door. He recognized her at once. There was no doubt about it: she was the girl in the portrait, but more beautiful still for being endowed with movement. Her face looked drained, yet she moved with the same energy Andrew had imagined she would from seeing her on canvas. Most of the other customers remained oblivious to the apparition. “How was it possible for anyone not to react to the small miracle that had just taken place in the tavern?” thought Andrew. This complete indifference made him feel he was a privileged witness to the phenomenon. And he could not help recalling the time when, as a child, he had seen the wind take a leaf between invisible fingers and balance the tip of it on the surface of a puddle, spinning it like a top until a carriage wheel put an end to its dance. To Andrew it had seemed that Mother Nature had engineered that magic trick for his eyes alone. From then on, he was convinced that the universe dazzled mankind with volcanic eruptions, but had its own secret way of communicating with the select few, people like Andrew who looked at reality as though it were a strip of wallpaper covering up something else. Taken aback, he watched Marie Kelly walk towards him as if she knew him. This made his heart start pounding, but he calmed down when she propped her elbow on the bar and ordered half a pint of beer without even glancing at him.

  “Having a good night, Marie?” “Can’t grumble, Mrs. Ringer.” Andrew swallowed, on the verge of blacking out. She was standing next to him! He could scarcely believe it, yet it was true.

  He had heard her voice. A tired, rather husky voice, but lovely in any case. And if he really tried, ridding the air of the superfluous stench of tobacco smoke and sausages, he could probably smell her, too. Smell Marie Kelly. Mesmerized, Andrew gazed at her in admiration, rediscovering in her every gesture what he already knew. In the same way a shell holds the roa
r of the sea, so this frail-looking body seemed to contain within it a force of nature.

  When the landlady placed the beer on the counter, Andrew realized this was an opportunity he must not waste. He rummaged swiftly in his pockets and paid before she could: “Allow me, miss.” The gesture, as unexpected as it was chivalrous, earned him an openly approving look from Marie Kelly. Being the focus of her gaze paralyzed him. As the painting had already shown, the girl’s eyes were beautiful, and yet they seemed buried beneath a layer of resentment. He could not help comparing her to a poppy field where someone has decided to dump refuse. And yet he was completely, hopelessly enthralled by her, and he tried to make that instant when their eyes crossed as meaningful to her as it was to him, but—and my apologies to any romantic souls reading these lines—some things cannot be expressed in a look. How could Andrew make her share in the almost mystical feeling overwhelming him at that moment? How could he convey, with nothing more than his eyes, the sudden realization that he had been searching for her all his life without knowing it? If in addition we consider that Marie Kelly’s existence up to that point had done little to increase her understanding of life’s subtleties, it should come as no surprise that this initial attempt at spiritual communion (for want of a better way of putting it) was doomed to failure. Andrew did his best, obviously, but the girl understood his passionate gaze just as she interpreted that of the other men who accosted her every evening.

  “Thanks, mister,” she replied with a lewd smile, no doubt from force of habit.

  Andrew nodded, dismissing the significance of a gesture he considered an all-important part of his strategy, then realized with horror that his careful plan had not taken into account how he was to strike up a conversation with the girl once he found her. What did he have to say to her? Or more precisely, what did he have to say to a whore? A Whitechapel whore, at that. He had never bothered speaking much to the Chelsea prostitutes, only enough to discuss positions or the lighting in the room, and with the charming Keller sisters, or his other female acquaintances— young ladies whom it would not do to worry with talk of politics or Darwin’s theories—he only discussed trivia: Paris fashions, botany, and, more recently spiritualism, the latest craze everyone was taking up. But none of these subjects seemed suitable to discuss with the woman, who was hardly likely to want to summon up some spirit to tell her which of her many suitors she would end by marrying. And so he simply stared at her, enraptured. Luckily, Marie Kelly knew a better way of breaking the ice.