The Map of Time (22 page)

While Lucy scanned their fellow passengers, listing the names of those present in a way that clearly revealed her likes and dislikes, Claire gazed in awe at the marble figure of a man not yet born. The twice life-size statue of Derek Shackleton on his pedestal looked like some strange descendant of the Greek gods, fixed in a similarly heroic and gallant pose, except that the casual nudity usually flaunted by the Greeks was in this case concealed by something more substantial than a fig leaf. The captain wore a suit of elaborately riveted armor apparently designed to protect as much of his body as possible from the enemy, and which even included a sophisticated helmet that left only his jutting chin visible. Claire was disappointed by the headdress as she would have liked to see what the face of a savior of the human race looked like. She was convinced the ironclad visage could not possibly resemble anyone she knew. It had to be a face that did not yet exist, a face that only the future could produce. She imagined a noble, calm expression with eyes radiating confidence— not for nothing was he commanding an army—casually revealing, almost like a natural secretion, his proud, indomitable spirit. Although now and then the dark desolation surrounding him would cloud those handsome eyes with tears of nostalgia, for a vestige of sensitivity still survived in his warrior’s soul. Finally, giving in to her romantic nature, Claire also imagined a glimmer of yearning in his gaze, especially during those moments of intense loneliness that would assail him between battles. And what was the cause of his sorrow? Naturally, it could be none other than the absence of a beloved face to contemplate, a smile that would give him courage in moments of weakness, a name he could whisper in his sleep like a comforting prayer, an embrace to return to when the war was over. For a brief moment, Claire pictured that brave, indestructible man, so tough on the battlefield, murmuring her name at night like a helpless boy: “Claire, darling Claire …” She smiled to herself; it was only a silly fantasy, and yet she was surprised at the thrill she felt when she imagined being loved by that warrior of the future. How was it possible that a man who had not yet been born could stir her feelings more than any of the young dandies courting her? The answer was simple: she was projecting onto that faceless statue everything she yearned for and could not have. This Shackleton fellow was probably completely different from Claire’s imagined portrait. Furthermore, his way of thinking, acting, even of loving would be utterly incomprehensible and alien to her. The century between them was more than enough time for man’s values and concerns to have changed into something unrecognizable to anyone viewing them from the past. This was one of life’s laws. If only she could glimpse his face, she thought, she might find out whether she was right, if Shackleton’s soul was made of opaque glass through which she would never be able to see, or, on the contrary, whether the years between them were merely anecdotal, because there was something inside man, an essence that was rooted in his very being, which remained unchanged over the centuries: perhaps the very air God had breathed into his creatures to give them life. But there was no way of knowing this because of that blasted helmet. Claire would never glimpse his face. She must be content with the parts of him she was able to see, which were impressive enough: his warriorlike posture, his raised sword, his right leg flexed to reveal sculpted muscles, his left firmly planted on the ground, although with the heel slightly raised off the base, as though immortalizing him in the act of charging the enemy.

Only when she followed the direction of his charge did Claire realize that his statue stood facing another to the left of the door.

Shackleton’s defiant gesture was aimed at a startling figure almost twice his size. According to the inscription on the base, this was an effigy of Solomon, king of the automatons and the captain’s archenemy, whom he defeated on May 20 in the year 2000 following an endless war that had razed London to the ground. Claire gazed at the statue uneasily, shocked at the terrifying evolution of the automaton. As a little girl, her father had taken her to see the Writer, an animated doll invented by the famous Swiss watch-maker Pierre Jaquet-Droz. Claire still recalled the smartly dressed boy with the sad, chubby face sitting at a desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell and drawing it across a piece of paper. The doll had traced each letter with the alarming slowness of someone living outside time, even pausing occasionally to stare into space, as though waiting for another wave of inspiration. The memory of the doll’s staring eyes would forever cause a shiver to go down the young Claire’s spine when she imagined the monstrous thoughts it might have been harboring. She had been unable to rid herself of this uncomfortable feeling, even after her father had shown her the interlocking rods and cogs in the phantasmagorical child’s back, with the lever that turned, bringing the parody to life. And now she could see how over time, that grotesque but ultimately harmless child had transformed into the monstrous figure towering above her. Struggling to overcome her fear, she examined it closely. Solomon’s creator, unlike Pierre Jacquet Droz, had apparently been uninterested in reproducing something as realistically human as possible, limiting himself to a rough copy of the two-legged model. For Solomon had more in common with a medieval suit of armor than a man: his body was a series of joined-up metal plates crowned by a solid, cylindrical head like a bell, with two square holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth, like a letterbox.

It almost made Claire’s head spin to think that the two statues facing one another commemorated an event that had not yet happened. These characters were not only not dead, they had not even been born. Although, in the end, she reflected, no one there could be blamed for mistaking them for memorials, because, like the dead, neither the captain nor his nemesis were among the living who were paying tribute to their memory. It made no difference whether they had already left or had not yet arrived: the main thing was they were not there.

Lucy interrupted Claire’s reverie by tugging on her arm and dragging her towards a couple waving at her from across the room. A short, prissy-looking man in his fifties crammed into a light-blue suit with a flowery waistcoat whose buttons looked as though they might pop under the strain of his girth, was waiting for her with open arms and a grotesquely welcoming smile plastered on his face.

“My dear girl,” he declared in a fatherly tone of voice. “What a surprise to see you here. I had no idea your family were going on this little trip. I thought that rascal Nelson suffered from sea-sickness!” “My father isn’t coming, Mr. Ferguson,” Lucy confessed, smiling apologetically. “Actually, he doesn’t know my friend and I are here, and I’m hoping he won’t find out.” “Have no fear, my dear child,” Ferguson hastened to reassure her, delighted by this display of disobedience for which he would not have hesitated to hang his own daughter up by her thumbs.

“Your secret is safe with us, isn’t it, Grace?” His wife nodded with the same syrupy smile, rattling the strings of pearls draped around her neck like a luxurious bandage. Lucy showed her gratitude with a charming little pout, then introduced them to Claire, who tried to hide her revulsion as she felt the man’s greasy lips on her hand.

“Well, well,” said Ferguson, after the introductions were over, beaming affectionately at one girl then the other, “Isn’t this exciting? We’ll be on our way to the year 2000 in a few minutes, and on top of that, we’re going to see a real battle.” “Do you think it might be dangerous?” asked Lucy, a little uneasily.

“Oh no, not in the slightest,” Ferguson dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. “A good friend of mine, Ted Fletcher, who went on the first expedition, assured me there’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. We’ll be viewing the battle from a perfectly safe distance—although that also has its drawbacks. Unfortunately, we won’t see a lot of the details. Fletcher warned us not to forget our opera glasses. Have you brought yours?” “No,” replied Lucy, dismayed.

“In that case, stay close with us and you can share ours,” Ferguson advised her. “You don’t want to miss a thing if you can possibly help it. Fletcher told us the battle we’re going to see is worth every penny of the small fortune we paid.” Claire frowned at this repulsive little man who had blatantly reduced the battle that would decide the fate of the planet to the vulgar level of a variety show. She could not help smiling with relief when Lucy greeted another couple walking by, and beckoned them to join the group.

“This is my friend Madeleine,” Lucy declared excitedly, “and her husband Mr. Charles Winslow.” Claire’s smile froze when she heard the name. She had heard a lot about Charles Winslow—one of the richest and most handsome young men in London—although they had never been introduced, something over which she had lost no sleep, as the admiration he inspired in her friends had been enough to make her dislike him. She could easily picture him as an arrogant, self-satisfied young man whose main interest in life was to attempt to seduce any young girl who crossed his path with his sweet talk.

Claire was not in the habit of going to parties, but she had met quite a few young men cut from the same cloth: conceited, spoiled fellows who—thanks to their father’s fortunes—lived reckless, unconventional youthful existences they went to great lengths to prolong. Although, apparently, Winslow had decided to settle down; the last she had heard he had married one of the wealthy young Keller sisters, much to the distress of many a young lady in London, amongst whom naturally she did not include herself.

Now that she finally had him in front of her, she had to confess he was indeed a handsome fellow; that at any rate would make his exasperating company less insufferable.

“We were just remarking on how exciting this all is,” declared the irrepressible Ferguson, once more taking the lead. “We are about to see London reduced to rubble, and yet when we get back it will still be intact, as though nothing had happened—which it hasn’t, if we regard time as a linear succession of events. And I have no doubt that after such a terrible sight we will only appreciate this noisy city all the more, don’t you agree?” “Well, that’s a very simple way of looking at it,” observed Charles nonchalantly, avoiding looking at Ferguson.

There was a moment’s silence. Ferguson glowered at him, unsure whether to be insulted or not.

“What are you insinuating, Mr. Winslow?” he asked finally.

Charles carried on staring at the ceiling for a moment, perhaps wondering whether up there, like in the mountains, the air might be purer.

“Traveling to the year 2000 isn’t like going to see the Niagara Falls,” he replied casually, as though completely unaware of having upset Ferguson in any way. “We are traveling into the future, to a world run by automatons. You may be able to forget all about it after you come back from your sightseeing trip, imagining it has nothing to do with you, and yet that is the world our grandchildren will be living in.” Ferguson looked at him, aghast.

“Are you suggesting we take part in this war?” he asked, visibly outraged, as though Charles had just suggested they play at changing bodies round in a graveyard. For the first time, Charles deigned to glance at the man he was talking to, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.

“You should look at the bigger picture, Mr. Ferguson,” he said reprovingly. “There’s no need for us to take part in this war; it would be enough to prevent it.” “Prevent it?” “Yes, prevent it. Isn’t the future always a result of the past?” “I’m still not with you, Mr. Winslow,” replied Ferguson, coldly.

“The seed of this war is here,” Charles explained, gesturing at their surroundings with a vague nod of his head. “It is in our hands to stop what is going to happen, to change the future. Ultimately, the war that will end up razing London to the ground is our responsibility—although I’m afraid that even if mankind knew this, he would not consider it a good enough reason to stop producing automatons.” “But that’s absurd. Fate is fate,” objected Ferguson. “It can’t be changed.” “Fate is fate …” repeated Charles, sardonically. “Is that what you really believe? Do you honestly prefer to hand over responsibility for your actions to the alleged author of some play we are compelled to take part in from birth?” Claire tensed as Charles glanced questioningly at the other members of the group. “Well, I don’t. What’s more, I firmly believe we are the authors of our own fate—we write it each day with every one of our actions. If we really had a mind to, we could prevent this future war. Although, I imagine, Mr. Ferguson, that your toy factory would lose a great deal of money if you stopped producing mechanical toys.” Ferguson was taken aback by the last gibe whereby the insolent young man, besides blaming him for something that had not yet happened, revealed he knew perfectly well who Ferguson was. He gazed at Charles open-mouthed, not knowing what to say, astonished rather than upset by the jaunty bonhomie with which the fellow delivered his barbed comments. Claire admired Winslow’s way of disguising his observations as frivolous, protecting himself from possible angry ripostes as well as relegating his sharp remarks to the category of impromptu asides, spontaneous reflections, which even he did not appear to take seriously. Ferguson went on opening and closing his mouth while the others looked shocked and Charles smiled elusively.

All of a sudden, Ferguson appeared to recognize a young man wandering lost in the crowd. This gave him the perfect excuse to leave the group and rush to the fellow’s aid, thus avoiding the need to respond to Winslow, who did not appear to be expecting a reply anyway. Ferguson returned with an impecunious-looking youth, whom he pushed into the center of the group, before introducing him as Colin Garrett, a new inspector at Scotland Yard.

While the others greeted the newcomer, Ferguson beamed contentedly, as though he were showing off the latest rare bird in his collection of acquaintances. He waited for the round of greetings to finish, then spoke to the young inspector, as though hoping to make the others forget his discussion with Charles Winslow.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Garrett. I didn’t know an inspector’s salary stretched this far.” “My father left me a little money,” stuttered the inspector, needlessly attempting to justify himself.