The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  “All right, Charles, you win,” he muttered. “Let’s see what this is all about.” He picked the sheet of paper up off the floor and examined it.

  It was a faded sky-blue handbill. He read it, unable to believe that what it said could be true. Amazing though it seemed, he was holding the advertisement for a company called Murray’s Time Travel that offered journeys in time. This was what it said: Tired of traveling through space? Now you can travel through time, into the fourth dimension.

  Make the most of our special opening offer and journey to the year 2000. Witness an era only your grandchildren will live to see. Spend three whole hours in the year 2000 for a mere one hundred pounds.

  See with your own eyes the future war between automatons and humans that will change the fate of the world. Don’t be the last to hear about it.

  The text was accompanied by an illustration intended to portray a fierce battle between two powerful armies. It showed a landscape of supposedly ruined buildings, a mound of rubble before which were ranged the two opposing sides. One was clearly human; the other consisted of humanoid creatures apparently made of metal.

  The drawing was too crude to be able to make out anything more.

  What on earth was this? Andrew felt he had no choice but to unlock the door to the little room. Charles walked in, closing it behind him. He stood breathing into his hands to warm them, but beaming contentedly at having intervened to stop his cousin’s suicide. For the time being, at least. The first thing he did was seize the pistol from the bed.

  “How did you know I was here?” asked Andrew, while his cousin stood in front of the mirror waving the gun about furiously.

  “You disappoint me, cousin,” replied Charles, emptying the bullets from the chamber into his cupped hand and depositing them in his coat pocket. “Your father’s gun cabinet was open, a pistol was missing, and today is November seventh. Where else would I have gone to look for you? You may as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs.” “I suppose so,” conceded Andrew, thinking his cousin was right. He had not exactly gone out of his way to cover his tracks.

  Charles held the pistol by its barrel and handed it to Andrew.

  “Here you are. You can shoot yourself as many times as you like now.” Andrew snatched the gun and stuffed it into his pocket, eager to make the embarrassing object disappear as quickly as possible. He would just have to kill himself some other time. Charles looked at him with an expression of mock disapproval, waiting for some sort of explanation, but Andrew did not have the energy to convince him suicide was the only solution he could think of.

  Before his cousin had the chance to lecture him, he decided to sidestep the issue by inquiring about the leaflet.

  “What’s this? Some kind of joke?” he asked, waving the piece of paper in the air. “Where did you have it printed?” Charles shook his head.

  “It’s no joke, cousin. Murray’s Time Travel is a real company.

  The main offices are in Greek Street in Soho. And, as the advertisement says, they offer the chance to travel in time.” “But, is that possible … ?” stammered Andrew, taken aback.

  “It certainly is,” replied Charles, completely straight-faced.

  “What’s more, I’ve done it myself.” They stared at one another in silence for a moment.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Andrew at last, trying to detect the slightest hint in his cousin’s solemn face that would give the game away, but Charles simply shrugged.

  “I’m telling the truth,” he assured him. “Last week, Madeleine and I traveled to the year 2000.” Andrew bust out laughing, but his cousin’s earnest expression gradually silenced his guffaws.

  “You’re not joking, are you?” “No, not at all,” Charles replied. “Although I can’t say I was all that impressed. The year 2000 is a dirty, cold year where man is at war with machines. But not seeing it is like missing a new opera that’s all the rage.” Andrew listened, still stunned.

  “Even so, it’s a unique experience,” his cousin added.” If you think about it, it’s exciting because of all it implies. Madeleine has even recommended it to her friends. She fell in love with the human soldiers” boots. She tried to buy me a pair in Paris, but couldn’t find any. I suspect it’s too soon yet.” Andrew reread the leaflet to make sure he was not imagining things.

  “I still can’t believe …” he stammered.

  “I know, cousin, I know. But you see, while you’ve been roaming Hyde Park like a lost soul, the world has moved on. Time goes by even when you’re not watching it. And believe me, strange as it might seem to you, time travel has been the talk of all the salons, the favored topic of discussion, since the novel that gave rise to it all came out last spring.” “A novel?” asked Andrew, increasingly bewildered.

  “Yes. The Time Machine by H. G. Wells. It was one of the books I lent you. Didn’t you read it?” Since Andrew had shut himself away in the house, refusing to go along with Charles on those outings to taverns and brothels which he hoped would restore him to life, his cousin had started bringing him books when he went to see him. These were usually new works by unknown authors, inspired by the century’s craze for science to write about machines capable of performing the most elaborate miracles. They were known as “scientific romances”— the English publishers” translation of Jules Verne’s “extraordinary voyages,” an expression that had taken hold with amazing rapidity, and was used to describe any fantasy novel that tried to explain itself by using science. According to Charles, these scientific novels captured the spirit that had inspired the works of Bergerac and Samósata, and had taken over from the old tales of haunted castles. Andrew remembered some of the madcap inventions in those novels, such as the antinightmare helmet hooked up to a tiny steam engine that sucked out bad dreams and turned them into pleasant ones. But the one he remembered best of all was the machine that made things grow, invented by a Jewish scientist who used it on insects: the image of London attacked by a swarm of flies the size of zeppelins, crushing towers and flattening buildings as they landed on them, was ridiculously terrifying. There was a time when Andrew would have devoured such books, but much as he regretted it, the worlds of fiction were not exempt from his steadfast indifference to life: he did not want any type of balm, he wanted to stare straight into the gaping abyss, making it impossible for Charles to reach him via the secret passage of literature. Andrew assumed that this fellow Wells’s book must be buried at the bottom of his chest, under a mound of similar novels he had scarcely glanced at.

  When Charles saw the empty look on his cousin’s face, he shook his head theatrically. He gestured to him to sit back down in his chair and drew up the other one. Leaning forward slightly, like a priest about to take confession from one of his parishioners, he began summarizing the plot of the novel that according to him had revolutionized England. Andrew listened skeptically. As he could guess from the title, the main character was a scientist who had invented a time machine that allowed him to journey through the centuries. All he had to do was pull on a little lever and he was propelled at great speed into the future, gazing in awe as snails ran like hares, trees sprouted from the ground like geysers, the stars circled in the sky, which changed from day to night in a second … This wild and wonderful journey took him to the year 802,701, where he discovered that society had split into two different races: the beautiful and useless Eloi and the monstrous Morlocks, creatures that lived underground, feeding off their neighbors up above, whom they bred like cattle. Andrew bridled at this description, making his cousin smile, but Charles quickly added that the plot was unimportant, no more than an excuse to create a flimsy caricature of the society of his time.

  What had shaken the English imagination was that Wells had envisaged time as a fourth dimension, transforming it into a sort of magic tunnel you could travel through.

  “We are all aware that objects possess three dimensions: length, breadth, and thickness,” explained Charles. “But in order for this object to exist,” he went o
n, picking up his hat and twirling it in his hands like a conjuror, “in order for it to form part of this reality we find ourselves in, it needs duration in time as well as in space. That is what enables us to see it, and prevents it from disappearing before our very eyes. We live, then, in a four-dimensional world. If we accept that time is another dimension, what is to stop us from moving through it? In fact, that’s what we are doing. Just like our hats, you and I are moving forwards in time, albeit in a tediously linear fashion, without leaving out a single second, towards our inexorable end. What Wells is asking in his novel is why we can’t speed up this journey, or even turn around and travel backwards in time to that place we refer to as the past—which ultimately is no more than a loose thread in the skein of our lives. If time is a spatial dimension, what prevents us from moving around in it as freely as we do in the other three?” Pleased with his explanation, Charles replaced his hat on the bed. Then he studied Andrew, allowing him a moment to assimilate what he had just said.

  “I must confess when I read the novel I thought it was rather an ingenious way of making what was basically a fantasy believable,” he went on a moment later when his cousin said nothing, “but I never imagined it would be scientifically achievable. The book was a raging success, Andrew, people spoke of nothing else in the clubs, the salons, the universities, during factory breaks.

  Nobody talked anymore about the crisis in the United States and how it might affect England, or Waterhouse’s paintings or Oscar Wilde’s plays. The only thing people were interested in was whether time travel was possible or not. Even the women’s suffrage movement was fascinated by the subject and interrupted their regular meetings to discuss it. Speculating about what tomorrow’s world would be like or discussing which past events ought to be changed became England’s favorite pastime, the quickest way to liven up conversation during afternoon tea.

  Naturally, such discussions were futile, because nobody could reach any enlightened conclusions, except in scientific circles, where an even more heated debate took place, whose progress was reported on almost daily in the national newspapers. But nobody could deny it was Wells’s novel that had sparked off people’s yearning to journey into the future, to go beyond the bounds imposed on them by their fragile, destructible bodies.

  Everybody wanted to glimpse the future, and the year 2000 became the most logical objective, the year everyone wanted to see. A century was easily enough time for everything to be invented that could be invented, and for the world to have been transformed into a marvelously unrecognizable, magical, possibly even a better place. Ultimately, this all seemed to be no more than a harmless amusement, a naïve desire—that is until last October, when Murray’s Time Travel opened for business.

  This was announced with great fanfare in the newspapers and on publicity posters: Gilliam Murray could make our dreams come true, he could take us to the year 2000. Despite the cost of the tickets, huge queues formed around his building. I saw people who had always maintained that time travel was impossible waiting like excited children for the doors to open.

  Nobody wanted to pass up this opportunity. Madeleine and I couldn’t get seats for the first expedition, only the second. And we traveled in time, Andrew. Believe it or not, I have been a hundred and five years into the future and returned. This coat still has traces of ash on it; it smells of the war of the future. I even picked up a piece of rubble from the ground when no one was looking, a rock we have displayed next to the Shefeers trays in the drawing room cabinet. A replica of the rock must still be intact in some building in London.” Andrew felt like a boat spinning in a whirlpool. It seemed incredible to him that it was possible to travel in time, not to be condemned to see only the era he was born into, the period that lasted as long as his heart and body held out, but to be able to visit other eras, other times where he did not belong, leapfrogging his own death, the tangled web of his descendants, desecrating the sanctuary of the future, journeying to places hitherto only dreamt of or imagined. But for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of interest in something beyond the wall of indifference he had surrounded himself with. He immediately forced himself to snuff out the flame before it became a blaze. He was in mourning, a man with an empty heart and a dormant soul, a creature devoid of emotion, the perfect example of a human being who had felt everything there was for him to feel. He had nothing in the whole wide world to live for. He could not live, not without her.

  “That’s remarkable, Charles,” he sighed wearily, feigning indifference to these unnatural journeys. “But what has this to do with Marie?” “Don’t you see, cousin?” Charles replied in an almost scandalized tone. “This man Murray can travel into the future. No doubt if you offered him enough money, he could organize a private tour for you into the past. Then you’d really have someone to shoot.” Andrew’s jaw dropped.

  “The Ripper?” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Exactly,” replied Charles. “If you travel back in time, you can save Marie yourself.” Andrew gripped the chair to stop himself from falling off. Was it possible? Could he really travel back in time to the night of November 7, 1888, and save Marie? he wondered, struggling to overcome his astonishment. The possibility that this might be true made him feel giddy, not just because of the miracle of traveling through time, but because he would be going back to a period when she was still alive: he would be able to hold in his arms the body he had seen cut to ribbons. But what moved him most was the fact that someone should offer him the chance to save her, to put right his mistake, to change a situation it had taken him all these years to learn to accept as irreversible. He had always prayed to the Creator to be able to do that. It seemed he had been calling upon the wrong person. This was the age of science.

  “What do you say, Andrew? We have nothing to lose by trying,” he heard his cousin remark.

  Andrew stared at the floor for a few moments, struggling to put some order into the tumult of emotions he felt. He did not really believe it was possible, and yet if it was, how could he refuse to try: this was what he had always wanted, the chance he had been waiting eight years for. He raised his head and gazed at his cousin, shaken.

  “All right,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Excellent, Andrew,” said Charles, overjoyed, and clapped him on the back. “Excellent.” His cousin smiled unconvincingly, then looked down at his shoes again, attempting to digest it all: he was going to travel back to his old haunts, to relive moments already past, back to his own memories.

  “Well,” said Charles, glancing at his pocket watch. “We’d better have something to eat. I don’t think traveling back in time on an empty stomach is a good idea.” They left the little room and made their way over to Charles’s carriage, which was waiting by the stone archway. They followed the same routine that night as though it were no different from any other one. They dined at the Café Royal, which served Charles’s favorite steak and kidney pie, let off steam at Madame Norrell’s brothel, where Charles liked to try out the new girls while they were still fresh, and ended up drinking until dawn in the bar at Claridge’s, where Charles rated the champagne list above any other. Before their minds became too clouded by drink, Charles explained to Andrew that he had journeyed into the future on a huge tramcar, the Cronotilus, which was propelled through the centuries by an impressive steam engine. But Andrew was incapable of showing any interest in the future; his mind was taken up imagining what it would be like to travel in the exact opposite direction, into the past. There, his cousin assured him, he would be able to save Marie by confronting the Ripper. Over the past eight years, Andrew had built up feelings of intense rage towards that monster. Now he would have the chance to vent them. However, it was one thing to threaten a man who had already been executed, he thought, and quite another to confront him in the flesh, in this sort of sparring match Murray was going to set up for him. Andrew gripped the pistol, which he had kept in his pocket, as he recalled the burly man he had bumped into in Hanbury Street, and tried
to cheer himself with the thought that, although he had never shot a real person before, he had practiced his aim on bottles, pigeons, and rabbits. If he remained calm, everything would go well. He would aim at the Ripper’s heart or his head, let off a few shots calmly, and watch him die a second time.

  Yes, that was what he would do. Only this time, as though someone had tightened a bolt in the machinery of the universe making it function more smoothly, the Ripper’s death would bring Marie Kelly back to life.

  7

  Despite being early morning, Soho was already teeming with people.

  Charles and Andrew had to push their way through the crowded streets full of men in bowlers and women wearing hats adorned with plumes and even the odd fake bird. Couples strolled along the pavements arm in arm, sauntered in and out of shops, or stood waiting to cross the streets. The streets were filled with a slow torrent of luxurious carriages, cabriolets, tramcars, and carts carrying barrels, fruit, or mysterious shapes covered by tarpaulins, possibly bodies robbed from the graveyard. Scruffy second-rate artists, performers, and acrobats displayed their dubious talents on street corners in the hope of attracting the attention of some passing promoter. Charles had not stopped chattering since breakfast, but Andrew could hardly hear him above the loud clatter of wheels on the cobbles and the piercing cries of vendors and would-be artists. He was content to let his cousin guide him through the gray morning, immersed in a sort of stupor, from which he was roused only by the sweet scent of violets reaching him as they passed one of the many flower sellers.

  The moment they entered Greek Street, they spotted the modest building where the office of Murray’s Time Travel was situated. It was an old theater that had been remodeled by its new owner, who had not hesitated to blight the neoclassical façade with a variety of ornamentations alluding to time. At the entrance, a small flight of steps flanked by two columns led up to an elegant sculpted wooden door crowned by a pediment decorated with a carving of Chronos spinning the wheel of the Zodiac. The god of time, depicted as a sinister old man with a flowing beard reaching down to his navel, was bordered by a frieze of carved hourglasses, a motif repeated on the arches above the tall windows on the second floor. Between the pediment and the lintel, ostentatious pink marble lettering announced to all who could read that this picturesque edifice was the head office of Murray’s Time Travel.