The Map of Time (33 page)

As he walked back to London across country, keeping away from the roads, pausing and tensing at the slightest sound, he realized something had changed: he no longer wanted to die. And not because his life suddenly seemed more worth living than before, but because he had to reply to the girl’s letter. He had to keep himself alive in order to keep Claire alive.

Once in the city, he stole some writing paper from a stationer’s shop, and, satisfied that Gilliam’s thugs had not followed him nor were posted round his lodgings, he locked himself away in his room in Buckeridge Street. Everything seemed quiet. The usual afternoon noises wafted up to his window from the street, a harmonious melody in which no discordant notes were struck. He pushed the chair up to the bed to make an improvised desk, and spread the paper out on the seat together with the pen and ink he had purloined. He took a deep breath. After half an hour of grappling with the page, deeply frustrated, he realized writing was not as easy as he had imagined. It was far more arduous than reading. He was appalled to discover it was impossible for him to transfer the thoughts in his head onto paper. He knew what he wanted to say, but each time he started a sentence his original idea seemed to drift away and become something entirely different. He still remembered the rudiments of writing that Megan had taught him, but he did not know enough grammar to be able to form proper sentences, and, more importantly, he did not know how to express his ideas with the same clarity as she had. He gazed down at the indecipherable jumble of letters and crossings out that defiled the pristine page. The only legible words were the “Dear Claire” with which he had so optimistically begun his missive. The rest was simply a pitiful demonstration of a semi-illiterate man’s first attempt at writing a letter. He screwed up the sheet of paper, bowing to the inevitable. If Claire received a letter like this she would end up taking her own life anyway, incapable of understanding why the savior of mankind wrote like a chimpanzee.

He wanted to reply, yet was unable to. But Claire had to find a letter at the foot of the oak tree in two days” time, or she would end up taking her own life! Tom lay back on the bed, trying to gather his thoughts. Clearly he needed help. He needed someone to write the letter for him, but who? He did not know anyone who could write. It could not be just any person, for example, a schoolteacher whom he could force to write it, threatening to break his fingers if he refused. The chosen person not only had to be able to write properly, he had to have enough imagination to play a spirited part in the charade. And on top of that, he needed to be capable of corresponding with the girl in the same passionate tone. Who could he find who possessed all those qualities? It came to him in a flash. He leapt to his feet, thrust aside the chair, and pulled open the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers.

There it was, like a fish gasping out of water: the novel. He had purchased it when he first started working for Murray, because his boss had told him it was thanks to this book that his business had been such a success. And Tom, who had never owned a book in his life, had gone out and bought it straightaway. Actually reading it, however, had been too exacting a task for Tom, and he had given up after the third page, yet he had held on to it, not wanting to resell the book because in some sense he owed who he was now to that author. He opened the book and studied the photograph of the writer on the inside flap. The caption below said he lived in Woking, Surrey. Yes, if anyone could help him it had to be the fellow in the photograph, this young man with birdlike features named H. G. Wells.

With no money to hire a carriage and reluctant to risk hiding on a train bound for Surrey, Tom concluded that the only way for him to reach the author’s house was by walking. The three-hour coach ride to Woking would take him three times as long on foot, so that if he left straightaway, he would reach his destination in the early hours of the morning, obviously not the best time to turn up unexpectedly at someone’s house, except in case of an emergency, which this was. He put Claire’s letter in his pocket, pulled on his cap, and left the boardinghouse for Woking without a second thought. He had no choice and was not in the least daunted by the walk. He knew he could count on his sturdy legs and stamina to complete the marathon journey without weakening.

During his long walk to the author’s house, while he watched night spread itself lazily over the landscape, and glanced over his shoulder every now and then to make sure neither Murray’s thugs nor Solomon were following him, Tom Blunt toyed with different ways of introducing himself to Wells. In the end, the one he decided was the cleverest also sounded the most far-fetched: he would introduce himself as Captain Derek Shackleton. He was sure the savior of mankind would be far better received at any time of the day than plain old Tom Blunt, and there was nothing to stop him successfully playing the role offstage as he had already done with Claire. As Shackleton, he could also tell the author the same tale he had told the girl and show him the letter he had found when he came through the time hole on his first visit to their time. How could this Wells fellow not be taken in if he himself had written a novel about time travel? If he were to make his story believable, though, Tom would need to think up a good reason why neither he nor anyone else from the future was able to write the letter himself.

Perhaps he could explain that in the year 2000, long before the war began, man had fallen out of the habit of writing, because the task had been given to automaton scribes. In any event, introducing himself as Captain Shackleton still seemed like the best plan: as he would later rescue the planet from the automatons, it felt preferable for the famous hero of the future to ask for help in order to save his beloved than for a nobody to wake up the famous author to beg him to get him out the predicament his desire for sex had got him into.

When he arrived in Woking in the early hours, the place was immersed in an idyllic calm. It was a cold but beautiful night.

Tom spent almost an hour reading letter boxes before coming to the one marked Wells. He was standing in front of a darkened three-storey house enclosed by a not too high fence. After studying the author’s house for a few moments, Tom took a deep breath and climbed over the fence. There was no point in waiting any longer.

He crossed the garden reverentially, as though he were walking into a chapel, climbed the steps to the front door, and was about to ring when his hand stopped short of the bell chime. The echo of a horse’s hooves shattering the nocturnal silence made him freeze. He turned slowly as he heard the animal draw near, and almost immediately saw it stop outside the author’s house.

A shiver ran down his spine as he watched the rider, barely more than a shadow, dismount and open the gate. Was it one of Murray’s thugs? The fellow made a swift gesture that left him in no doubt, pulling a gun from his pocket and pointing it straight at him. Tom instantly dived to one side, rolling across the lawn and disappearing into the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the stranger try to follow his sudden movement with the gun. Tom had no intention of making himself an easy target.

He leapt to his feet and in two strides had reached the fence. He was convinced he would feel the warm sting of the bullet entering his back at any moment, but apparently he was moving too quickly, and it did not happen. He clambered over the fence and pelted down the street until he reached the fields. He ran for at least five minutes. Only then, panting for breath, did he allow himself to stop and look behind him to see whether Gilliam’s thug was following him. All he could see was black night enfolding everything. He had managed to lose him. He was safe, at least for the moment, for he doubted that his killer would bother looking for him in that pitch blackness. He would no doubt go back to London to report to Murray. Feeling calmer, Tom found a place behind some bushes and settled down for the night.

The next morning, after making sure the thug had really gone, he would return to the author’s house and ask for his help, as planned.

29

“You saved a man’s life using your imagination,” Jane had said to him only a few hours earlier, and her words were still echoing in his head as he watched the dawn light flood in through the tiny attic window, revealing the contours of the furniture and their two figures intertwined like a Greek statue on the seat of the time machine. When he had suggested to his wife they might find a use for the seat, this was not exactly what he had had in mind, but he had thought it best not to upset her, and especially not now. Wells gazed at her tenderly. Jane was breathing evenly, asleep in his arms after giving herself to him with renewed enthusiasm, reviving the almost violent fervor of the first months. Wells had watched this passion ebb away with the resigned sorrow of one who knows only too well that passionate love does not last forever; it merely transfers to other bodies. But, there was no law, apparently, against its embers being rekindled by a timely breeze, and this discovery had left a rather foolish grin on the author’s face which he had not seen reflected in any of his mirrors for a long time. And it was all due to the words floating in his head: “You saved a man’s life using your imagination,” words that had made him shine once more in Jane’s eyes, and which I trust you have also remembered, because they link this scene and Wells’s first appearance in our tale, which I informed you would not be his last.

When his wife went down to make breakfast, the author decided to remain sitting on the machine a while longer. He took a deep breath, contented and extraordinarily at ease with himself.

There were times in his life when Wells considered himself an exceptionally ridiculous human being, but he seemed now to be going through a phase where he was able see himself in a different, more charitable, and why not say it, a more admiring light.

He had enjoyed saving a life, as much because of Jane’s unexpected offering, as for the fantastic gift he had been given as a result: this machine that had arisen from his imagination, this ornate sleigh that could travel through time, at least this was what they had made Andrew Harrington believe. Contemplating it now by daylight, Wells had to admit that when he had given it that cursory description in his novel, he never imagined it might turn out to be such a beautiful object if someone actually decided to build it.

Feeling like a naughty child, he sat up ceremoniously, placed his hand with exaggerated solemnity on the glass lever to the right of the control panel, and smiled wistfully. If only the thing actually did work. If only he could hop from era to era, travel through time at his whim until he reached its farthest frontier—if such a thing existed—go to the place where time began or ended. But the machine could not be used for that. In fact, the machine had no use at all. And now that he had removed the gadget that lit the magnesium, it could not even blind its occupant.

“Bertie,” Jane called from downstairs.

Wells leapt up with a start, as though ashamed for her to discover him playing with his toy. He straightened his clothes, rumpled from their earlier passionate embraces, and hurried down stairs.

“There’s a young man to see you,” Jane said, a little uneasily.

“He says his name is Captain Derek Shackleton.” Wells paused at the foot of the stairs. Derek Shackleton? Why did the name rang a bell? “He’s waiting in the sitting room. But he said something else, Bertie …” Jane went on, hesitatingly, unsure what tone of voice she should adopt to express what she was about to say: “He says he’s from … the year 2000.” From the year 2000? Now Wells knew where he had heard that name before.

“Ah, in that case it must be very urgent,” he said, grinning mysteriously. “Let’s hurry and find out what the gentleman wants.” With these words, he strode towards the tiny sitting room, shaking his head in amusement. Next to the chimneypiece, too nervous to sit down, Wells discovered a young man dressed in modest clothing. Before saying anything, he looked the man up and down, amazed. He was quite simply a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face, and eyes brimming with ferocity like a cornered panther.

“I’m George Wells,” he introduced himself, once he had finished his examination. “How may I help you?” “How do you do, Mr. Wells,” the man from the future greeted him. “Forgive me for barging in on you so early in the morning, but it’s a matter of life or death.” Wells nodded, smiling inwardly at the rehearsed introduction.

“I’m Captain Derek Shackleton and I’ve come from the future.

From the year 2000 to be precise.” The young man stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.

“Does my name ring a bell?” he asked, on seeing the author was not overly surprised.

“Naturally, Captain,” Wells replied, grinning slightly as he riffled through a wastepaper basket next to a set of book-lined shelves. A moment later, he extracted a ball of scrunched-up paper, which he unfolded and handed to his visitor, who cautiously took it from him. “How could the name not ring a bell? I receive one of these leaflets every week without fail. You are the savior of the human race, the man who in the year 2000 will free our planet from the yoke of the evil automatons.” “That’s right,” the young man ventured, slightly unnerved by the author’s mocking tone.

A tense silence followed, during which Wells simply stood with his hands in pockets contemplating his visitor with a disdainful air.

“You must be wondering how I traveled to your time,” the young man said finally, like an actor obliged to prompt himself in order to be able to carry on his performance.

“Now you mention it, yes,” said Wells, without attempting to show the slightest curiosity.

“Then I’ll explain,” said the young man, trying to ignore Wells’s manifest indifference. “When the war first started, our scientists invented a machine capable of making holes in time, with the aim of tunneling from the year 2000 to your time. They wanted to send someone to kill the man who made automatons and prevent the war from happening. That someone is me.” Wells carried on staring at him solemnly for a moment. Finally he let out a guffaw that took his visitor aback.

“I’ll grant you have an impressive imagination, young man,” he said.

“You don’t believe me?” the other man asked, although the tinge of regret in his voice gave his question the air of bitter acknowledgment.

“Of course not,” the author declared, cheerily. “But don’t be alarmed, it’s not because you failed to make your ingenious lie sound convincing.” “But, then …” the youth stammered, bewildered.

“The problem is I don’t believe it’s possible to travel to the year 2000, nor that man will be at war with the automatons then.

The whole thing is just a silly invention. Gilliam Murray may be able to fool the whole of England, but he can’t fool me,” exclaimed Wells.

“So … you know the whole thing is a fraud?” murmured the young man, utterly flabbergasted.

Wells nodded solemnly, glancing at Jane, who also looked bewildered.

“And you’re not going to denounce him?” the lad asked finally.

The author heaved a deep sigh before giving his reply, as though the question had been eating away at him for too long.

“No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so,” he replied.

“If people are prepared to part with good money to watch you defeat a lot of phony automatons, then maybe they deserve to be swindled. And besides, who am I to deprive them of the illusion of having traveled to the future? Must I destroy their fantasy simply because someone is getting rich from it?” “I see,” murmured the visitor, still mystified, and then with a hint of admiration he added: “you’re the only person I know who thinks it’s all a hoax.” “Well, I suppose I have a certain advantage over the rest of humanity,” replied Wells.

He smiled at the youth’s increasingly bemused face. Jane was also giving him puzzled looks. The author heaved a sigh. It was time he shared his bread with the apostles, and then they might help him bear his cross.

“A little over a year ago,” Wells explained, addressing them both, “shortly after The Time Machine was published, a man came here wanting to show me a novel he had just written. Like The Time Machine, it was a piece of science fiction. He asked me to read it and if I liked it to recommend it to my editor, Henley, for possible publication.” The young man nodded slowly, as though he had not quite understood yet what all this had to do with him. Wells turned around and began scouring the books and files lining the sitting room shelves. Finally he found what he had been looking for—a bulky manuscript, which he tossed onto the table.

“The man’s name was Gilliam Murray, and this is the novel he gave me that October afternoon in 1895.” With a wave of his hand he invited the lad to read the title page. The young man moved closer to the manuscript and read aloud clumsily, as though chewing each word: “Captain Derek Shackleton: The True Story of a Brave Hero of the Future, by Gilliam F. Murray.” “Yes,” confirmed Wells. “And do you want to know what it’s about? The novel takes place in the year 2000 and tells the story of a battle between the evil automatons and the human army led by the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Does the plot ring a bell?” The visitor nodded, but Wells deduced from his confused expression that he still did not fully understand what he was getting at.

“Had Gilliam written this novel after he set up his business, I would have no other reason, besides my natural skepticism, to question the authenticity of his year 2000,” he explained. “But he brought me his novel a whole year before! Do you understand what I’m saying? Gilliam has staged his novel, and you are its main protagonist.” He picked up the manuscript, searched for a specific page, and, to the young man’s dismay, started to read out loud: “Captain Derek Shackleton was a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face, and eyes brimming with ferocity like a cornered panther.” The lad blushed at the description. Was that what he looked like? Did he really have the eyes of a cornered animal? It was quite possible, for he had been cornered since birth, by his father, by life, by misfortune, and lately by Murray’s thugs. He stared at Wells, not knowing what to say.

“It’s a ghastly description by a talentless writer, but I have to confess you fit the part perfectly,” said Wells, hurling the manuscript back onto the table with a gesture of utter contempt.

A few moments passed in which no one spoke.

“Even so, Bertie,” Jane finally stepped in, “this young man needs your help.” “Oh, yes. So he does,” responded a reluctant Wells, who assumed that with his masterful exposure of Murray he had resolved the reason for the visit.

“What’s your real name?” Jane asked him.

“Tom Blunt, ma’am,” replied Tom, bowing politely.

“Tom Blunt,” Wells echoed mockingly. “It doesn’t sound quite so heroic, of course.” Jane shot him a reproachful look. She hated it when her husband resorted to sarcasm to compensate for the terrible feeling of physical inferiority that usually assailed him when he was in the presence of someone bigger than himself.

“Tell me, then, Tom,” Wells went on, after clearing his throat, “how may I help you?” Tom sighed. No longer a brave hero from the future, just a miserable wretch, he stared down at his feet, ceaselessly wringing his hat as though trying to squeeze it dry, and attempted to tell the couple everything that had happened since his pressing need to empty his bladder had compelled him to find a quiet place on the set of the year 2000. Trying not to gabble, he told them about the girl named Claire Haggerty who had appeared out of nowhere just after he had taken off his helmet and armor, how she had seen his face, and the problems that would cause him. He was obliged to tell them about the unpleasant ways Murray had of assuring his cast of actors did not give away the hoax, and about what had happened to poor Perkins. His speculations caused the author’s wife to gasp in horror, while Wells simply shook his head as if to say he had expected as much of Gilliam Murray. Tom then told them how he had bumped into Claire Haggerty at the market and had made her agree to meet him, driven, he confessed shamefully, by his male instinct. He described how he was then forced to make up the story about the letters in order for her to agree to go with him to the boardinghouse. He knew he had done wrong, he told them, not daring to raise his eyes from the floor, and he regretted it, but they should not waste time judging his behavior because his actions had given rise to unforeseen consequences.

The girl had fallen in love with him, and, believing every word to be true, had duly written the first letter, which she had left at Harrow-on-the-Hill. He fished the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Wells, who took it from him, stunned at everything he was hearing. The author unfolded the letter and, after clearing his throat noisily, began reading aloud so that his intrigued wife could also know what it contained. He tried to read in a modulated voice, like a priest reciting the lesson, but could not avoid his voice catching when he read out certain passages. The emotions expressed were so beautiful he could not help feeling a pang of resentment towards the young man in front of him, who had undeservingly become the object of a love so absolute it forced him to question his own emotions, to reconsider his whole way of experiencing love. The look of compassion that had overtaken Jane’s face confirmed his wife was feeling something similar.

“I tried writing to her,” said Tom, “but I can barely even read.

I’m afraid if there’s no letter waiting for her on the hill tomorrow, Miss Haggerty might do something foolish.” Wells had to admit it was most likely, given the feverish tone of her missive.

“The reason I came here was to ask you to write to her on my behalf,” the young man went on to confess.

Wells looked at him, incredulous.

“What did you say?” “Three letters, that’s all, Mr. Wells. It’s nothing for you,” pleaded the youth, and then after a moment’s thought, he added: “I can’t pay you, but if you ever have a problem that can’t be dealt with in a civilized way, just call on me.” Wells could scarcely believe his ears. He was about to say he had no intention of getting involved in this mess, when he felt Jane’s hand pressing his firmly. He turned to look at his wife, who smiled at him with the same dreamy expression she wore when she finished one of her beloved romantic novels: then he looked back at Tom, who in turn was gaping at him expectantly. And he realized he had no choice: he must once more save a life using his imagination. He gazed for a long time at the pages he was holding, covered in Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant script. Deep down, he had to confess he found it tempting to carry on this fantastic story, to pretend to be a brave hero from the future caught up in a bloody war against the evil automatons, and even to tell another woman he loved her passionately, and with the approval of his own wife. As though suddenly the world had decided to nurture man’s deepest feelings, instead of keeping them in check, giving rise to a harmonious cohabitation on a planet cleansed of jealousy and prejudice, where licentious behavior had been sublimated into an almost tender, respectful friendship. The challenge excited him enormously, it was true, and as he had no choice but to accept it, he cheered himself with the notion that he might find corresponding with the unknown young woman at once amusing and exciting.