The Lost Time Accidents (59 page)

“A hack job,” I managed to stammer. Haven shrugged and continued.

“Your great-grandfather must have known, when he finally returned to Masarykovo Square at thirteen hundred CET on the day of his departure, that his duration was about to conclude. But I choose to believe, as he saw Herr Bachling’s Daimler bearing down on him, that he found solace in two certainties.” Haven held up two fingers. “Firstly, that his discovery had been borne out by his own direct experience; and secondly, that his legacy was assured. Half his notes—the three most precious pages—were still in his mistress’s possession; and he’d entrusted the rest to his twin granddaughters, with his very own hands, on June eighth, 1970, at twelve forty-seven, Central European Time, at the very spot where you and I now stand.”

I thought hard for a moment after Haven had finished. He reclined against the wall and indulged me. Everything I did that day seemed to delight him.

“What you’ve just told me makes no sense at all,” I said.

“‘Sense’ is a quality of human consciousness, pal. ‘Time’ is a quality of the physical universe, as our consciousness perceives it. To make any true progress—to attain the slightest degree of freedom—one has to be willing to part ways with both.” He snuffled. “I’m disappointed in you, Waldy. Saint Augustine knew as much in 397
C
.
E
.”

Even as I scoffed at this—even as my mind fought to reject his account as impossible—I recalled the trip Enzie and Genny had taken to Znojmo. It was suddenly clear to me that the beginning of the change in my father—his withdrawal from the world, his growing fear of his sisters, and even his mental decline—could be dated from my aunts’ return from Europe. If they’d told Orson what Haven was telling me now—and if he’d swallowed it whole, as he may well have done—what chance did
I
have to resist?

But at the same time, Mrs. Haven—in some neglected, underventilated shaftway of my brain—I was having none of it. It was Waldemar, in his sick and wounded egotism, who’d first thought of warping the chronoverse; his father may have lusted after knowledge of time, but never after influence over its course. I already knew that my aunts had told Haven one lie. Who was to say they hadn’t told a second?

“I’m going to point something out to you, Waldy, and you aren’t going to like it.” Haven set aside his paper. “We’re not so very different, you and I.”

I took another step backward. “Your wife said something like that to me once.”

“Ah,” he said slowly. “My wife.”

“You’ve missed her.”

“What’s that, pal?”

“You’ve missed her,” I repeated. “She’s halfway to Vienna by now.”

His lips gave a barely perceptible twitch. “My wife is in the honeymoon suite of the Hotel Zrada at present, in the company of certain men in my employ.”

I let out a small, sharp cough and doubled over.

“How are you feeling, pal? Would you like to sit down?”

I shook my head.

“Good boy. Now here’s what’s going to happen next.” He gestured to Little Brother, who stood just a few steps behind me, breathing musically through his nose. “My colleague and I are going to search you, right here on the street, and you’re going to cooperate fully. Then we’ll return to the Zrada to collect my dear Hildy and the papers you entrusted to her care. At that point, we—my wife, my associates and myself; not you, of course—are going to get on a plane.” He smiled at me and shrugged his boyish shoulders. “Where we go in that plane—
how
we go, for that matter, and when—will depend on what those documents contain.”

“Those ‘documents,’ if you want to call them that, were written in 1903. What are you expecting to find in them, Haven? A set of directions?”

I’d meant this mockingly, of course, but his smile only sharpened. A set of directions was exactly what he was hoping to find. I felt a powerful urge to lie down in the street.

“Can I ask one last favor?”

“I’d say that depends.”

Little Brother frisked me in silence and brought my arms together behind me. It took less than ten seconds. No one looked out their windows or opened their doors.

“It’s about your wife,” I said.

“I suspected it might be.”

“Don’t be too hard on her.”

“Hard on her, pal?” Haven looked at me blankly. “Why on earth would I be
hard
on her?”

I was confused for an instant; no longer than that. He watched the understanding hit and didn’t say a word. I have no idea how my face looked to him, Mrs. Haven, but what he saw there seemed to gratify him deeply.

“Hildegard asked me to pass a message along to you, Waldy, before we let you go. Would you like to hear it?”

“Go to hell.”

“It’s easy to remember, luckily, because it rhymes.” He cleared his throat and leaned in close to me. When he spoke again his voice was high and dainty.

“Here lie I, Melvin Elginbrodde:—

Have Mercy on my Soul, Lord God,

As I would do, if I were God

And Ye were Melvin Elginbrodde.”

Little Brother had me in a full nelson now, with my chin driven into my chest, so that all I could see of Haven were his loafers. The cuffs of his corduroys were perfectly creased, like the brim of a child’s paper hat; his socks were red and white and blue, like barber poles. I’d seen those socks before, Mrs. Haven, though I couldn’t think where. And then it came to me.

“You were standing right there. You heard every last word.”

“You’ll have to explain that one, pal. Where and when was I standing?”

“In the kitchen at Van’s party.” My mouth had trouble forming the words. “Hildy knew you were there—she had to have known—but it made no difference.”

“I’ll need you to repeat that last bit. Couldn’t quite make it out.”

“It made no difference,” I said. “Because she had your blessing.”

Haven leaned in closer still—so close to me that I could feel his breath. It smelled rich and slightly sour, like buttermilk.

“That hurts my
feelings
, pal. If you were right, I’d be no better than a pimp.”

A white van was rounding the corner from Antonínská Street as I kicked away from Little Brother and brought my forehead down against your husband’s face. If he screamed or gasped or cursed I didn’t hear him. Little Brother yanked me back with all his might, nearly wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Blood was running from your husband’s nose and mouth, dripping from his dimpled chin onto his shirtfront.

“Goodbye, Waldemar,” he said serenely, passing the back of his hand across his bloodied lips. “I wish you an endurable completion of your term.” He wavered on his feet for a moment, then gave me a jaunty salute. “The Timekeeper sends his regards.”

*   *   *

No sooner had he said those words, Mrs. Haven, than I chrono-jumped into the future. The world went red and gold and green, then inky black; when I opened my eyes, Lazebnická Street was empty. I lay there quietly, lazily, my right cheek flush with the curbstone, until I heard the bell of Paměť Cathedral toll the hour. It was one o’clock, CET, presumably of that same afternoon. I’d traveled forward by exactly eighteen minutes.

I raised my head carefully, an inch at a time, and felt my jaw click back into alignment. A tooth sat glistening on the curb beside my cheek: a well-maintained molar, slightly yellowed at the crown. The sky was low and packed with marrow-colored clouds. I took a breath, leaned to one side, and vomited onto the pavement. Then I stood up and walked back to the hotel.

The door to our suite was open when I got there but the room beyond was dark. You were gone, Mrs. Haven, and so were your bags. The jars of pickles remained: I could smell their tang around me in the gloom. Somehow this drove the truth home better than anything else could have done. You’d left those precious jars behind, although you’d collected them so eagerly, because they served no purpose for you any longer. Even those reeking
okurky
—and the prune-faced grandmothers you’d gotten them from—had been no more than a means to an end.

I switched on a light and discovered a note, on Zrada stationery, crumpled up at the foot of the bed. It looked to have been written in a rush.

Im writing this to get things clear between us. Ive been told to write/say nothing but I want to get things clear.

The things that happened to us didnt happen. Thats the best way to see it. We never met at Markhams party. I never came to your apartment. No Vienna no Znojmo. We have no history the two of us. You never talked to me or heard my name.

Do you understand Walter? Youre alive right now because you do not matter. Theyd have killed you but this way was easier. Dont mistake it for kindness. Dont mistake this note either. You have your passport and your ticket. Go back home.

Im forgetting you Walter. Im erasing the file now and you do the same. Dont try

I set the note down with care, using both of my hands. I’d always struggled to trust in the favor you showed me. You’d complained more than once about my lack of faith, and maybe you were right to complain. But I must have had some faith in you, at least in our last weeks, because now that I was confronted with evidence to the contrary I temporarily lost direction of my body. My legs pitched me sideways, upsetting the sideboard and the jars arranged across it, and as the carpet surged upward a gurgling informed me, in a way no words could, that the term of our romance was at an end. The gurgling was coming from my own throat, I realized. It was the sound of hope escaping through my teeth.

“Mr. Walter?”

I kept still as long as I could. Then I rolled onto my knees, forced my bruised lips to close, and compelled myself back up onto my feet. I found Artur sitting on an empty luggage rack inside the bathroom.

“I hope, sir, that you will excuse—”

“This is not a good time, Artur.”

“I’m sorry to have entered here, Mr. Walter, into your private boudoir
.
But under the circumstances—”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I had to come here. At home I could not say this. My family was there—and also that woman.” He lowered his voice. “I do not care for that woman.”

“You can rest easy on that score. That woman is gone.”

He nodded. “Two items.”

“I’m listening.”

He held up a finger. “First item: Marta’s daybook. She kept one, Mr. Walter, and I have it here.”

“Okay. Leave it on the coffee table, and when I get a chance—”

“The
ztracené čas nehody
,” Artur cut in sharply. “The mistakes of lost time. You said to me this was important.”

Even then, in that hour—the lowest of my duration—that phrase retained some shadow of its power. “I did say that, yes. But right now, as you might have noticed—”

“I’m not blind, in fact. With a magnifying glass, I can read.”

“I’m happy to hear that. That’s fabulous news. I need you to leave.”

“I have a theory about Ottokar’s discovery. You’d be interested, I am sure, to hear it?”

I cursed him under my breath. “Weren’t you listening to what I told you in your mother’s kitchen, Artur?
Everyone
has a theory about the Lost Time Accidents. Every fool who’s ever heard the phrase. Even I, idiot that I am, with my total lack of scientific—”

“That thing is a
vtip
, Mr. Walter. A little joke.”

“What thing?” I felt my stomach twist. “The Accidents, you mean?”

He nodded. “It was nothing, Mr. Walter. No discovery, no breakthrough. He was ending with science, your grand-grandfather. He was tired of researching. Look in here, in Marta’s daybook. She writes down that this makes her very glad.”

It grew as quiet in that bathroom as in an exclusion bin.

“That’s impossible, Artur,” I heard myself answer. “Ottokar said so himself in his letter:
Today it has happened
.” I gripped the sink for support. “
The Lost Time Accidents
, he says. Not once but three times. What kind of joke is that? Both of his sons were convinced, not to mention his—”

“It was a comedy, that’s all. A kind of a game.” He pulled a battered notebook from his pocket. “Marta liked to hear nonsense. She says in this book, in this journal, that he read poems to her at their tête-à-têtes—smallish comedies, with simple puzzles in them. On this day he was late, so he took a special effort to please her. The puzzle, in this case, was one of repeated first letters. How do you say this? The first letter of each of the words?”

I stared at him a moment. “Alliteration? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes! I mean this exactly! Go and look at his note. For each ‘literation,’ count the number of alphabet stops from the repeated letter.
Bim bam boom
, for example, would be three stops—
B
to
C
to
D
—do you see?—so
D
would be the beginning of the message. And so on, Mr. Walter, getting one letter for each grouping.”

“That’s a parlor trick, Artur.” My head felt light again. “That’s a game that you’d play with a child.”

He grinned to himself in his unseeing way. “The message to Marta was one single word. Can you guess which it was?”

I shook my head slowly. He sat up with a triumphant little snort.

“
Fenchelwurst
, Mr. Walter. From the Germanic language. It means, I think, a kind of fennel sausage.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, Artur.”

“Take this book, Mr. Toula!”

I swatted the book from his hands. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me? Why did you follow me here?”

“To be honest,” he mumbled, “I did a bad thing.”

But by that point, Mrs. Haven, I was barely listening. I couldn’t accept what I was hearing—not on that day, in the state I was in. It took all my self-control to keep from hitting him.

“It may have some kind of code in it,” I said. “That may be true. But there are other sentences, aren’t there? There are whole passages with no alliteration. Those passages
must
have some other meaning—they wouldn’t be in there otherwise.” I looked at him. “Would they?”