Somewhere in Time

by Richard Matheson

  I drove up underneath the porte cochere before and an attendant parked my car, a porter took my bags; he looked a little startled at the weight of my second suitcase. I followed him up a red-carpeted ramp to the foyer, circled a white metal bench with a planter in the middle, stepped into the lobby, signed the register, and was led across this patio. Birds were fiercely noisy inside trees so thickly foliaged I couldn’t even see the birds.

  Now the trees are still, the patio is still.

  I’m looking at it from the fifth-floor balcony; at chairs and tables with umbrellas, banks of flowers. This is a chimerical place. I’m looking at an American flag flying high above the tower. What’s up there? I wonder.

  Too hungry to wait for dinner service; six p.m. in the Prince of Wales Grille, six thirty in the Coronet Room. It’s only five. If I drink for an hour, I’ll be out of it and I don’t want that. I intend to savor this place.

  I’m sitting in the almost empty Coronet Room by one of the picture windows; asked and was told that I could still get limited lunch service. Adjoining is the massive Crown Room, used only, I gather, for banquets. Outside, I see the place where I first drove up. Was it only forty minutes ago?

  This room is beautiful. Wall panels of red-and-gold-textured material, above them panels of richly finished wood curving to a ceiling three or four stories high. White-clothed tables, candles lit in dark yellow tubes, tall metal goblets waiting for the dinner guests. All most gracious-looking.

  The waitress just brought my soup.

  Eating now, superb, thick navy-bean soup with chunks of ham. Delicious. I’m really hungry. Which may be pointless in the long run but is something to be relished at the moment. This stunning room. This good, hot soup.

  I wonder if I have enough money to stay here indefinitely. At twenty-five dollars a day, my pot wouldn’t go very far. I imagine they have monthly rates but even so I’d probably be destitute before departed.

  How long has this hotel been here? There’s a sheet of information in my room I’ll look at later. It’s an old place though. En route to the lobby via a basement corridor leading from the Prince of Wales Grille, I passed through a marvelous old barroom with a palatial counter; I must have a drink there tomorrow. Also saw an arcade with a barbershop and jewelry shop, peeked into a side room filled with game machines, glanced momentarily at some period photos on the wall. Will take a look at them as well. Later, when I’ve fed my ravenous body.

  Too dark now to see much outside. Shadowy trees nearby some parked cars, and, beyond that, the multicolored lights of San Diego in the distance. Reflected in the window is the huge, hanging light fixture, a crown of lights suspended in the night. This is not like being in the beached and overrun Queen Mary. This is the Queen still ruling the seas.

  Only one thing wrong: the music. Inappropriate. Should be something more genteel. A string quartet playing Lehár.

  I’m sitting in a giant armchair on the mezzanine above the lobby In front of me is an enormous chandelier with tiers of red-shaded lights and necklaces of crystal dangling from its bottom. The ceiling overhead is intricate and heavy-looking, dark paneled sections polished to a high gloss. I can see a massive, paneled column, the main staircase, and the gilded grillwork of the elevator shaft. I came up by another staircase. There was a silence on it I could feel in my flesh.

  This chair is something else. The back is far above my head, two plump urchins flanking its scroll. Both arms end in winged dragons whose scaly serpent forms extend to the seat. Where the arms join in back, two figures loll, one a childlike Bacchus, the other a staring, fur-legged Pan, playing on his pipes.

  Who sat on this chair before me? How many have looked across that railing down into the lobby at the men and women sitting, standing, chatting, entering, and leaving? In the 1930s,’20s,’10s.

  Even in the’90s?

  I’m sitting in the Victorian Lounge, drink in hand, staring at a stained-glass window. Lovely room. Lush red upholstery in the booths; looks like velvet. Paneled columns, paneled ceiling squares, a chandelier with hanging crystal pendants.

  Nine twenty p.m. Showered, legs all tired, lying on my bed, looking at the information sheet. This place was built in 1887. That’s incredible. And I knew that something about it looked familiar. Not déjà vu unfortunately. Billy Wilder used it filming Some Like It Hot.

  Various quotations from the sheet:

  “Structure resembling a castle.”

  “Last of the extravagantly conceived seaside hotels.”

  “A monument to the past.”

  “Turrets, tall cupolas, hand-carved wooden pillars, and Victorian gingerbread.”

  I’m listening to a sound I haven’t heard since childhood: the thumping of a radiator.

  Astonishing silence in the corridors. As though time itself has collected in them, filling the air.

  Wonder if it fills this room as well. Is there anything inside it left from yesteryear? That speckled gold-brown-yellow carpeting? I doubt it. The bathroom? Probably didn’t even have a bathroom then. The wicker chairs? Perhaps. Certainly not the beds or end tables nor the lamps; God knows, not the telephone. Those prints on the wall? Unlikely. The drapes or venetian blinds? Nope. Even the window glass has probably been replaced. The bureau or the mirror hanging over it? Don’t think so. The wastebasket? Sure. How about the TV set? Yeah, yeah.

  Not much of the past at all in here. A shame.

  My name is Richard Collier. I’m thirty-six years old, a television writer by profession. I’m six foot two and weigh one hundred and eighty-seven pounds. I’ve been told I look like Newman; maybe they meant the cardinal. I was born in Brooklyn on February 20, 1935, almost went to Korea but it ended, graduated from the University of Missouri in 1957, bachelor of journalism degree. Got a job with ABC in New York after graduating, started to sell scripts in 1958, moved to Los Angeles in 1960. My brother moved his printing business to L.A. in 1965 and I moved into the guest house behind his house the same year. I left there this morning because I’m going to die in four to six months and thought I’d write a book about it while I traveled.

  A large amount of verbiage to get myself to say those words. Okay, they’re said. I have a temporal-lobe tumor, inoperable. Always thought the morning headaches were caused by tension. Finally went to Dr. Crosswell; Bob insisted, drove me there himself. Big tough Bob who runs his business with an iron hand. Cried like a kid when Dr. Crosswell told us. Me the one who had it, Bob the one who cried. Lovely man.

  All that less than two weeks ago. Up till then I thought I’d live a long time. Pop cut off at sixty-two only because of excessive drinking. Mom, seventy-three, healthy and active. Figured there was lots of time to get married, have a family; never panicked even though I never seemed to meet The One. Now it’s done. X rays, spinal taps, the works confirm it. Collier kaput.

  I could have stayed with Bob and Mary. Taken X-ray treatments. Lived a few extra months. Vetoed that. All I had to see was one look exchanged by them; one pained, awkward, and uncomfortable look which people always seem to exchange in the presence of the dying. Knew I had to cut. Couldn’t stand to see that look day after day.

  I’m writing this section instead of dictating it into my recorder. Bad habit I got into, anyway, doing scripts entirely on cassettes. To lose the feel of putting words on paper is a bad thing for a writer.

  Can’t dictate now because I’m listening to Mahler’s Tenth with my headphones; Ormandy the Philadelphia. A little hard to dictate when you can’t hear the sound of your voice.

  Amazing job Cook did orchestrating the sketches. Sounds just like Mahler. Maybe not as rich but indisputably his.

  I know why I love his music; it just came to me. He’s present in it. As the past haunts this hotel, so Mahler haunts his work. He’s in my head at this moment. “He lives on in his work” is a trite phrase, rarely pertinent. In Mahler’s case it’s literal truth. His spirit resides in his music.

  The final movement now. Inevitably, the loosening sensation at th
e corners of my eyes, the swallowing, the swell of emotion in my chest.

  Has there ever been a more heartbreaking farewell to life expressed in music?

  Let me die with Mahler in my head.

  I’m looking at a face in a mirror. Not my face; Paul Newman’s, circa 1960. I’ve been staring at it such a long time, I feel objective about it. People do that sometimes; gaze at their reflection until—zap—it’s a strange face looking at them. Sometimes, a scary face too, so alien is it.

  The only thing that keeps me coming back is that I see Paul Newman’s lips moving and he’s saying the words I hear myself saying. So I guess it’s my face though I feel no sense of connection to it.

  The boy who owned that face was beautiful; the word was used, he heard it all the time. What did it do to him? Grown-ups—strangers even—smiled at him and, sometimes, stroked his white-blond hair and stared at his angelic features. What did that do to him? Girls stared too. Obliquely, as a rule. Sometimes straight on. The little boy did lots of blushing. Bleeding too; bullies loved to punch that face. Unfortunately, the boy was long on suffering. It wasn’t till they pounded him into a corner so tight that even he lost his temper that he fought back. Poor kid didn’t ask for that face. He never tried to cash in on it. He was grateful to get older when most bullies change their tactics to less obvious ones.

  Hell, I’m sitting here talking about my own face. Why play the third-person game? It’s me, folks. Richard Collier. Very handsome. I can talk about it all I want. No one’s listening at the keyhole. There it is, world. Da-da-a-a! And what good did it ever do the guy behind it? Will it save him? Will that face rise up and slay the treacherous tumor? No chance. So, in sum, that face is worthless, for it cannot keep its owner in this world one day beyond his measure. Well, the worms will have a pretty picnic—Jesus, what a rotten thing to say!

  What a stupid, idiotic thing to say.

  Almost midnight.

  Lying in darkness, listening to the surf. Like distant cannons being fired.

  These are the hardest hours.

  I like this place but obviously I won’t be staying more than several days. What would be the point?

  In a few days, I’ll get up one morning and start off for Denver and all points east.

  And one point west.

  Don’t be maudlin, Collier.

  Four twenty-seven a.m. Just got up to get a drink of water. Don’t like that chlorine taste at all. Wish I had some Sparklett’s like at home.

  Home?

  November 15, 1971

  Seven oh one a.m. Tried to get up. Rose, dressed, rinsed my face off, brushed my teeth, took vitamins et al. Back in bed immediately thereafter. Headache too much to cope with.

  Shame too. Gorgeous day—what I can see of it through slitted eyes. Blue sky, ocean. Empty strand of sunlit beach. Cool, crisp air.

  Can’t talk.

  Eight fifty-six a.m. Patio very quiet in the morning sun. Looking down across the railing at the green, green lawns, immaculately cared-for shrubbery, square planter in the middle, lampposts on each side of it. White tables, chairs.

  Across the red-roofed top of the hotel, I see the ocean.

  Nine oh six a.m. Breakfast in the Coronet Room. Black coffee and a shred of toast. Twelve other diners.

  Too bright in here. The room is wavering in front of me.

  The waitress enters and departs my field of vision from and to the lemon-jello haze I see. Don’t know why I came here. Could have called room service.

  Slit-eyed Mr. Dishrag mumbling to his microphone.

  Later. Don’t know what time it is, don’t care. Back on my back again. Transition a blur. Think I slept. Or fainted.

  Yow! Those airplanes come down so low. Just caught sight of it. What’s it doing, landing on the beach?

  Must be an airport nearby.

  Ten thirty-seven a.m. Lying in bed, looking at the San Diego Union. Don’t remember buying it. Must have been in a fog before. Lucky I got back at all.

  Paper in its hundred and fourth year. Long time.

  Decided I wasn’t going to keep up with the world but here I am doing it. Peking on our neck already. Mariner Nine locates a hot spot on Mars. The last coastline protection bill axed in Sacramento.

  Forget it, Collier. You can do without the news of the day.

  Tomorrow’s a new moon. That’s all you need to know.

  I’m taking a walk, inhaling fresh, clean ocean air. The smell is marvelous. I’m walking just below the tower—there’s a ballroom down there, I’ve discovered. To my left is an Olympic pool; blue, glittering water. I see folded-over lounges lined up on the other side; cabanas, Ping-Pong tables. All deserted.

  A great day. Warm sun, blue sky, puffy clouds.

  I’m walking by the tennis courts. A quartet of women is playing doubles; a vision of short white skirts and skin like leather. Out beyond lies the beach. A hundred yards to the low, white, foaming surf.

  I’m looking at the hotel now, a massive structure, tower like a giant minaret, eight-sided, each side with two rows of small bay windows, on top what looks like an observation tower. Wonder if guests are allowed up there.

  I’m walking back. A modern, highrise building over there; must be condominiums or something. They look odd in contrast to this hotel.

  I’m looking at an old brick tower across the way. At what must have been the hotel boathouse long ago, now a restaurant. At what seems to be an unused railroad track. I presume trains came around the strand in those days, bringing guests.

  I’m sitting in the old barroom; it’s called the Casino Lounge. Closed for business; very still. The counter must be fifty feet long, beautifully formed and finished. At a corner of it is what looks like a shrine, inside of it the figure of what seems to be a Moor, carrying a light.

  How many shoes have worn away that brass rail?

  I was looking, just a while ago, at photographs of movie stars who’ve stayed here. June Haver. Robert Stack. Kirk Douglas. Eva Marie Saint. Ronald Reagan. Donna Reed. Back to the beauties of the Pola Negri company, back to Mary Pickford, back to Marie Callahan of the Ziegfeld Follies. How this place does go back.

  Let me record the moment: eleven twenty-six a.m.

  Returning across the patio, en route to my room, I saw a sign announcing a Hall of History in the basement.

  Intriguing place. Photographs as in the Arcade. A sample bedroom from the 1890s or the early 1900s. Display cases of historic objects from the hotel—a dish, a menu, a napkin ring, an iron, a telephone, a hotel register.

  And in one of the cases is a program for a play performed in the hotel theater (wherever that was) on November 20, 1896; The Little Minister by J. M. Barrie, starring an actress named Elise McKenna. Next to the program is a photograph of her face; the most gloriously lovely face I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I’ve fallen in love with her.

  Typical of me. Thirty-six years old, a crush here and a crush there, a random scattering of affairs that mimicked love. But nothing real, nothing that endured.

  Then, having reached a terminal condition, I proceed to lose my heart, at long last, to a woman who’s been dead for at least twenty years.

  Good show, Collier.

  That face is haunting me.

  I went back again to stare at it; stood in front of the display case for such a long time that a man who was, periodically walking in and out of a nearby employee’s entrance started looking at me as though he were wondering if I’d taken root there.

  Elise McKenna. Lovely name. Exquisite face.

  How I would have loved to sit in the theater (it was in the Ballroom, I discovered from a museum photograph) watching her perform. She must have been superb.

  How do I know? Maybe she was rotten. No, I don’t believe that.

  Seems to me I’ve heard her name before. Didn’t she do Peter Pan? If she’s the one I think she is, she was a splendid actress.

  She certainly was a beautiful one.

  No, it’s more than beauty. It
’s the expression on her face that haunts and conquers me. That gentle, honest, sweet expression. I wish I could have met her.

  I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling like a lovesick boy. I’ve found my dream woman.

  An apt description. Where else could she exist but in my dreams?

  Well, why not? My dream woman has always been unavailable to me. What difference does a mere three-quarters of a century make?

  I can’t do anything but think about that face. Think about Elise McKenna and what she was like.

  I should be dealing with Denver, my projected odyssey. Instead, I lie here like a lump, her face imprinted on my mind. I’ve been down there three more times. An obvious attempt to escape reality. Mind refusing to accept the present, turning to the past.

  But … oh, my soul, I feel, at this moment, like the butt of some sadistic practical joke. I have no desire whatever to commiserate with myself but—Jesus God!—to toss a coin, drive more than a hundred miles to a city I’ve never seen, get off a freeway on a nervous whim, cross a bridge to find a hotel I didn’t know existed, and see, there, the photograph of a woman dead these many years and, for the first time in my life, feel love?