“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 mom
ent 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.
28
Two days had gone by since their meeting, and, to his surprise, Tom was still alive.
No one had shot him in the head as he sat up with a start in his bed, or followed him through the streets waiting to thrust a thirsty blade into his side in the midst of a crowd, or tried to run him down in a carriage, or push him in front of a train. Tom could only presume that this agonizing calm, this excruciating slowness in finishing him off was either their way of tormenting him or that no one was going to make him pay for what he had done. More than once, unable to bear the strain, Tom was on the point of ending it all himself, slitting his throat, or throwing himself off a bridge into the Thames, in the family tradition. Either method seemed a good way of escaping from the apprehension that had even infiltrated his dreams, transforming them into nightmares in which Solomon roamed the streets of London with his metal insect gait, making his way through the crowds thronging the pavements with their hats and coats, and clambering with difficulty up the stairs to his room. Tom awoke when the automaton broke down his door, and for a few bewildered moments believed he really was the brave Captain Shackleton, who had escaped from the year 2000 and was hiding in 1896. He was powerless to dispel those dreams, but if at night he was at the mercy of his fears, in the daytime he was able to overcome them; by keeping a level head, he had managed to compose himself and was even prepared to accept his fate with calm resignation. He would not take his own life. It was far more dignified to die looking his killers straight in the eye, whether they were made of flesh and blood or of cast iron.
Convinced he had not long to live, Tom saw no point in going to the docks to look for work: he could just as well die with empty pockets. And so he spent his days wandering aimlessly around London, like a leaf blown by the wind. Occasionally he would stretch out in some park like a drunk or a vagrant, while in his mind he went over every detail of his encounter with the girl, her ardent caresses, her intoxicating kisses, the passion and ease with which she had given herself to him. Then he told himself again that it had all been worth it, and that he had no intention of putting up any resistance when they came to kill him, to make him pay for that moment of happiness. Part of him could not help considering the bullet that was so long in coming as just punishment for his despicable behavior.
On the third day, his wanderings took him to Harrow-on-the-Hill, the place he usually went to in search of peace. He could think of no better place to wait for his killers, as he tried to understand the random sequence of events that made up his life, to try to give it some meaning even if he did not believe it. Once he arrived, he sat in the shade of the old oak and breathed in deeply as he cast a dispassionate eye over the city. Seen from the hill, the capital of empire always looked disappointing to him, like a sinister barge with pointed spires and smoking factory chimneys for masts. He exhaled slowly, trying to forget how famished he was. He hoped they would come for him today, or he would have to steal some food before nightfall to stop his stomach rumbling.
“Where were Murray’s thugs?” he wondered for the hundredth time. If they came now he would see them from his vantage point, and he would greet them with his most dazzling smile, unbutton his shirt, and point to his heart to make it easier for them. “Go ahead and kill me,” he would say, “don’t worry; I won’t really kill you later. I’m no hero. I’m just Tom, the despicable wretch Tom Blunt. You can bury me here, next to my friend John Peachey, another wretch like me.” It was at this point that, looking towards the headstone, he noticed the letter tucked under a stone beside it. For a moment he thought he was imagining things. Intrigued, he picked it up and, with an odd sensation of remembering a dream, he saw it was addressed to Captain Derek Shackleton. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do, but of course there was only one thing he could do. As he opened the envelope he could not help feeling he was trespassing, reading someone else’s correspondence. He unfolded the sheet of paper inside and discovered Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant handwriting. He began to read slowly, straining to recall the meaning of each letter, declaiming aloud, as though he wanted to explain to the squirrels the travails of men. The letter read as follows: From Claire Haggerty to Captain Shackleton Dear Derek, I was obliged to start writing this letter at least a dozen times before realizing there was only one possible way to begin, and that is to avoid all preliminary explanations and obey the dictates of my heart: I love you, Derek. I love you as I have never loved anyone. I love you now, and I will love you forever. And my love for you is the only thing that keeps me alive.
I can see the surprise on your face as you read these words written to you by an unknown woman, because I assure you I know that face well. But believe me, my sweet: I love you. Or rather, we love each other. For, although it might seem even stranger to you, as you do not know who I am, you love me, too—or you will do in a few hours, or possibly a few moments, from now. However reluctant you are, however incredible all this seems, you will love me. You simply have no choice. You will love me because you already do.
If I allow myself to address you so affectionately it is because of what we have already shared, and because you must know that I can still feel the warmth of your touch on my skin, the taste of you on my lips, I can feel you inside me. Despite my initial doubts, despite my young girl’s foolish fears, I am overwhelmed by the love you foresaw, or maybe it is an even greater love than that, a love so
great nothing will contain it.
Shake your head as much as you like as you try to understand these ravings, but the explanation is quite simple. It boils down to this: what has not yet happened to you has already happened to me. It is one of the strange anomalies that occur in time travel, when journeying back and forth across the centuries. But you know all about that, don’t you? For, if I am not mistaken, you found this letter next to the big oak tree when you stepped out of a time tunnel, so you will not find it so difficult to believe everything I am telling you. Yes, I know the place where you come out and your reason for traveling to my time, and my knowing this can only mean one thing: that what I am saying is true, it is not a hoax. Trust me, then, without reservation. And trust me above all when I tell you we love each other. Start loving me now by replying to this letter and reciprocating my feelings, please. Write me a letter and leave it beside John Peachey’s headstone on your next visit: that will be our way of communicating from now on, my love, for we still have six more letters to write to each other. Are your eyes wide with surprise? I do not blame you, and yet I am only repeating what you told me yesterday. Please write to me, my love, for your letters are all I have left of you.
Yes, that is the bad news: I will never see you again, Derek, which is why I cherish your letters. I shall go directly to the point: the love we are going profess to one another is the result of a single encounter, for we shall meet only once.
Well, twice actually, but the first time (or the last time if we follow the chronology our love has turned on its head) will only last a few minutes. Our second meeting, in my time, will last longer and be more meaningful, for it will feed the love that will rage in our hearts forever, a love our letters will keep alive for me and will initiate for you. And yet if we respect time, I will never see you again. You, on the other hand, do not yet know me, even though we made love together less than a few hours ago. Now I understand your nervousness yesterday when we met at the tearoom: I had already stirred you with my words.