The Steady Running of the Hour

by Justin Go

  —If there’s no return address?

  —Then it is undeliverable mail. It is destroyed.

  —There are no exceptions to this?

  The manager grimaces. —I doubt it. Maybe if you tell me what you need I can try to help you.

  I wipe my hand over my face and try to explain my case as reasonably as possible. The manager listens to my story without expression. He opens a door behind the counter and beckons me in.

  —Come to my office. I want to speak to you.

  I follow him through a labyrinth of low-ceilinged hallways to his office, a windowless room overflowing with mounds of curling paper. He sits down behind a steel desk and asks me to have a seat.

  —I work on cases of missing mail having value. And I also work with the post museum. So you are very lucky to have found me.

  The manager assumes an expression of immense gravity. He says he is taking the time to explain these matters to me because I am a foreigner and he knows things are different in my own country. In Europe public institutions have an important role in society, he tells me, and the postal service is no exception, for in Germany public service is a respectable occupation and not merely a final asylum for the lazy and incompetent. He allows that I am only a visitor in this country, but a visitor in any foreign country must respect its customs, and in this country it is very rude to obstruct the business of an important public institution on account of my own private whim.

  It is because I seem an intelligent and reasonable young man, the manager continues, that I ought to know better than to waste the time of himself and his employees. Common sense alone should have dictated the answer to my question; it did not require the molesting of one postal employee, let alone five agents and a manager, to determine that unclaimed poste restante was not kept for eighty years. He finishes by explaining that in this country such institutions as this one are required to be transparent, and for this reason he will now listen to whatever queries I might have.

  —But I didn’t make up the story. It’s all true.

  The manager smiles. He takes a form off a filing rack and places it before me. He apologizes that they don’t have this form in English, directing me to the blanks on the page.

  —Here you write the sender’s name. Here the name of the receiver. Here you write poste restante. Here you write your name, address, e-mail and telephone number. You sign here.

  The manager hands me a ballpoint pen and leans back in his chair, explaining that in order for public institutions to be fair there must be regularity in the disposal of their services. It is for this reason, he says, that both legitimate inquiries and those of doubtful value must be impartially processed. It is not the civil servant’s role to pass judgment. He urges me to fill out this form, for although he may have reservations about my inquiry, he will make certain that every effort is made to fulfill it.

  I fill out the form and hand it back to the manager. He looks at it and smiles darkly.

  —Tristan Campbell, he reads. But Tristan, where is your Isolde?

  He puts the form in another rack on his desk and swivels his chair back to his computer. I leave the office without saying good-bye.

  27 February 1924

  Theobald’s Road

  Bloomsbury, Central London

  Ashley carries an umbrella in his right hand, but in spite of the rain he does not open it. He walks quickly, the pavement slick beneath his leather-soled shoes.

  He sees a figure ahead of him sitting against a building and he moves to cross the street, waiting on the curb for a motorcar to pass. Suddenly Ashley turns and walks up to the crippled man. His crutches are leaned against the wall and one of his legs is amputated below the knee, the trouser leg folded and speared with a large safety pin. Beside him is a tin full of matchboxes for sale.

  Ashley feels in his coat pocket for a coin. His finger touches the folded sheet of the telegram and it gives him a surge of pleasure.

  —Where were you wounded?

  The man cocks his hat back with his thumb to look at Ashley, but the rain comes at his face.

  —Ypres. Bleeding hole called Château Wood.

  Ashley finds a half-crown in his other pocket and sets it in the man’s palm. He turns onto Bedford Row, the water rushing in the gutter beside him. The duckboards, he thinks. The planks of wood, the stilts strung over the muddy torrents of Château Wood. Ashley stifles this thought, but he feels it more in the stifling so he lets it loose again.

  He walks along the row of brick town houses, entering the white-columned doorway at number 18. The front office bustles with hushed activity: rows of clerks copying sheets of foolscap, a young woman clattering away at a typewriter. A bald man in a bow tie and waistcoat hovers over one of the clerks. His eyebrows spring up when he sees Ashley.

  —Mr. Walsingham. Good morning. Mr. Twyning is expecting you—

  One of the clerks takes Ashley’s mackintosh and hat and umbrella. Ashley follows the bald man up a flight of stairs. They pass a padded telephone box on the landing and enter Twyning’s office, a half-lit chamber with damask wallpaper and tall mahogany bookcases. Papers are cluttered everywhere, books and ledgers stacked in piles on the floor and mantelpiece.

  Twyning rises from his desk to shake Ashley’s hand. He wears a three-piece suit and a neat mustache. His hair is parted with shining pomade.

  —Sit down, sit down. We’ve been at sixes and sevens since Monday, but I daresay we’ve succeeded. I’ve reviewed the papers and they look first-rate, given the complexities. Mr. Hotchkin, have the copies and originals brought up, if you please.

  Ashley sits down on a buttoned leather chair. Twyning clears a space at the center of his desk, shifting a stack of papers to a pile behind him. He shakes his head.

  —I must say, Ashley, I thought we had an understanding. God knows I’ve tried not to pester you while you were away. But it doesn’t follow that I should manage things in utter ignorance of your aims, only for you to turn up at the last moment demanding wild changes. When do you go?

  —Friday. We’ve the Wayfarers Club dinner in Liverpool tomorrow, then we sail the next morning.

  Twyning sighs. —Look here, it’s your money to do with as you like. But it’s my job to make these arrangements work perfectly, and no matter how we arrange this, it’s bound to look suspect by reason of the timing. That makes it vulnerable to lawsuit. What do your people say about this?

  —I haven’t told them.

  —And you don’t intend to?

  —No.

  Twyning raps his pen on his blotter. He shakes his head.

  —This may surprise you Ashley, but I didn’t get into this line to be the architect of the twentieth century’s Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Is the expedition really so dangerous? I’d no idea you entertained the notion of not returning.

  —None of the climbers have been killed on the last two expeditions. Some porters have been. I thought you were all for keeping the papers up-to-date.

  Twyning flashes a smile. —I shan’t argue with that. To give her a reasonable legacy, fine. When you put her in years ago, I uttered not a word of protest. But to do as you have now—it raises legal and moral issues, if I may say so.

  —Moral issues?

  A clerk comes in carrying a black metal deed box painted G. RISLEY on the front. Twyning takes the folders from the box and unties their ribbons, arranging the papers on his desk. He glances up at Ashley.

  —Do you imagine this is what he intended for the estate? Tossed outside the family within a generation?

  —I don’t know what he intended. I suppose he’d be surprised. What are the legal issues?

  Twyning throws an empty folder onto his desk.

  —Drastic changes before an event such as you’re undertaking—your testamentary capacity could be challenged. It’s made doubly worse by your choice of beneficiary. One could argue you weren’t mentally sound—

  —Who would argue? My mother?

  —She could.

  —She wi
ll not.

  —It would be a terrible mess if she did.

  Twyning walks to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

  —Not to mention the issue we haven’t discussed. Why in God’s name leave money to a missing person? Even supposing she is alive, it seems exceedingly unlikely she shall ever collect it.

  —She’s alive.

  Twyning looks at Ashley. —You know that for a fact? If so, you must tell me. Otherwise, frankly it smacks of delusion, which is itself a legal issue. Indeed, if you know anything with regard to her whereabouts—

  —I know nothing. But I don’t believe she’s dead.

  —If we can’t find her, Twyning insists, it makes no difference whether she’s alive or not.

  —Can’t you put it in trust?

  —We can. It’s all been drawn up. But it’s complicated. It requires a good deal of paperwork. And even if it’s never contested in court, the administration of the trust will siphon money from the estate so long as it goes on. Which is fine by me. But I doubt your people will be happy about it.

  —They’ve enough money.

  —And she doesn’t? If she’s alive?

  Ashley looks at Twyning. —Thank you for the legal advice. It is perfectly sound and I understand it. Now may I please sign the papers?

  Twyning shakes his head. —I simply don’t understand this eleventh-hour rush. Why couldn’t you have told me sooner? Why yesterday?

  —It struck me I ought to get my affairs in order.

  —For Heaven’s sake Ashley, you can’t be serious. If she’s turned up to ask you to do this—

  —She hasn’t.

  —Or if she has turned up at all, you must tell me.

  —She hasn’t.

  —And if she hasn’t and she’s alive, you’ll excuse me but she’s probably got a castle of her own. And has no need for yours.

  —May I sign the papers or not?

  Twyning sits in the chair beside Ashley. He turns the documents around to face them.

  —I shall explain to you what we’ve done and how the trust works. But let me repeat that when you sign these pages, you create a knot that’s not easily untangled. One shudders to think of the myriad—

  —I understand.

  Twyning sighs. —You know this is a mistake.

  —Perhaps.

  —You wish to do it anyway.

  —That’s right.

  Twyning describes the purpose of each document. When he has finished he calls in two young clerks to witness the execution of the will and the trust. Ashley takes Twyning’s pen and begins to sign them quickly, one page after another, the witnesses watching over his shoulder.

  —Without a moment’s hesitation, Twyning murmurs.

  Ashley continues to turn the sheets and sign them.

  —Do they often hesitate?

  —On occasion, Twyning says, when making drastic changes. In a case like yours, I couldn’t say. It’s without precedent.

  The witnesses countersign the signature pages. They shake Ashley’s hand and wish him luck on the expedition, then they go out. Ashley stands up before Twyning, grinning to himself.

  —Nothing is without precedent. Have those fellows take a look in all those books of yours, I’d wager someone has done exactly as I have. Aren’t you chaps meant to do that sort of thing?

  —When we’re given the time.

  Twyning pages through the signed documents, setting aside the duplicates. Ashley looks around the room with a faint smile, admiring the silver inkstand on Twyning’s desk, the perpetual calendar by the window. Tuesday 26 February. Ashley walks to the calendar, turning the brass knobs to Wednesday and 27.

  —Busy morning?

  Twyning sighs, shaking his head. He taps Ashley’s copies into a neat stack and puts them in a blue solicitor’s envelope.

  —Not even a moment for a cup of tea. Not with clients like you.

  He shakes Ashley’s hand, offering the envelope.

  —Send a postcard from Bombay. It’s Bombay you’re sailing to, isn’t it? And cable if you change your mind about all this. We can set things back in order quickly.

  —I shan’t change my mind.

  —And look after yourself, Twyning says, ignoring Ashley’s remark. I don’t like this business of eleventh-hour changes. It’s not the right spirit. When do you return?

  —August.

  —Call here as soon as you can. We’ll see how you feel about this then. And best of luck. I saw your picture in The Times. They say you may be the one to finally crack Everest.

  Ashley shrugs. —There are eight climbers on the expedition. We’ll be lucky if two of us reach the top, and I’ve no Himalayan experience at all. Three of the fellows are damned fit and have been there before—

  —So it won’t be you?

  Ashley only smiles. The two men shake hands again. Ashley leaves the office and hails another motorcab from the sidewalk.

  —Jermyn Street, please. To Fagg Brothers, the bootmakers. I don’t know the number.

  Ashley takes a seat in the enclosed compartment behind the driver. He flips his watch open, wondering if they will be able to refit the boots and get them to Darjeeling before he arrives. Then he realizes that he has forgotten to bring the boots.

  —Driver, he says through the window. Rather, we’ll have to stop by Lansdowne Terrace first. Number nine.

  —Sir.

  Ashley stretches in his seat, yawning contentedly. He takes the telegram from his pocket and unfolds it. It is only the third time he has looked at it today.

  25 FE 24

  AE WALSINGHAM MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION OBTERRAS LONDON

  DEAREST ASHLEY TAKE NO RISKS YOU ARE PRECIOUS BEYOND RECORD I PROTECT YOU WITHOUT END IMOGEN

  POSTE RESTANTE

  Four days later I’m back at the Joachimstaler Straβe post office asking for a clerk who speaks English. I lean on the counter watching the patrons wait in line with parcels in their arms. The same manager lopes to the counter and nods at me gruffly. He waits for me to speak first.

  —I got an e-mail from the post office. But it was all in German.

  —What did you expect? You are in Germany.

  The manager leads me back to his office and tells me to sit. He walks down the hallway and returns with an archival box of blue cardboard. He sets the box atop the stacks of paper cluttering his desk.

  —Look inside.

  I remove the lid from the box and look at the five envelopes inside.

  —They were in the philatelic archive, he says. I suppose even eighty years ago someone knew we don’t often get poste restante from expeditions.

  The manager leans back in his chair and watches me. Then he adds, —They are the property of the archive now. Even if the addressee came to collect them she would probably be refused.

  —I don’t want to collect them. I just want to read them.

  The manager stands up and shakes his head.

  —I don’t have the authority. It’s a matter of privacy. You can make a request with the archive—

  The manager narrows his eyes at me.

  —How long are you staying in Berlin?

  —I don’t know. A few days.

  The manager nods, taking a steel ruler from a cup on his desk and tapping it against his hand.

  —Someone has opened the envelopes, maybe a worker in the archive. But I doubt if anyone has read these letters. Probably no one will read them. They will go back to the same shelf where they have been sitting for fifty years. Then they will sit there for fifty more years—

  He looks up at me.

  —You say you are related to the addressee? Your family name is not the same.

  —I’m related to the addressee and the sender.

  —Do you have any proof?

  I rummage through my bag, taking Ashley’s inscribed card from my notebook and handing it to the manager. He puts on a pair of reading glasses and examines the card. His eyeglasses are bent and one of the hinges has been mended with electri
cal tape. The manager opens the archival box and removes a letter from its envelope to compare the handwriting. Then he takes a glass loupe from his desk drawer and examines the card. He murmurs something in German, putting the loupe back on his desk.

  —It’s not typical, he says.

  The manager looks at me and asks me where I’m from. We talk about California and the manager says he has visited San Francisco several times for philatelic conferences. He asks questions about my family and my university studies, watching me closely as I talk.

  The manager grasps his steel ruler and swivels in his chair. He slaps the end of the ruler into his palm.

  —How did you know these letters were in the archive? They’re not in the public catalog.

  —I didn’t know.

  —Then why did you come here?

  —I knew the letters had been sent here and I doubted they’d been collected. So I figured I might as well ask. But I never thought anybody would have saved them.

  The manager shakes his head, tossing the ruler on his desk.

  —I would not think so either. Your grandfather sent them?

  —My great-grandfather. Ashley Edmund Walsingham.

  —Who is the woman the letters are addressed to?

  —Imogen Soames-Andersson.

  I hesitate. Then I add, —My great-grandmother.

  —She was traveling in Berlin? Or living here?

  —I don’t know.

  —Why did she not collect the letters?

  —I don’t know. Maybe I’d know if I read them.

  The manager watches me across his desk. There is a long silence. He opens a drawer in a filing cabinet and hands me a pair of thin cotton gloves. He nods at the archival box.

  —Wear the gloves, he says. There is a copying machine in the next room. Do not use the feeder, do not bend the pages. Put them in the envelopes when you are done. The correct envelopes.

  The photocopied letters in my shoulder bag  , I ride the U-Bahn back to my hostel at Rosenthaler Platz. My dorm room hovers several stories above the intersection of three busy streets. A group of Canadian backpackers greets me as I enter.

  —Are you going out?

  —Out?