“Good Joan. You’ll have some more reading on this, guys. There were nine Crusades. At the end of the eleventh century, Pope Urban, the Second, I think, asked French nobles to lead armies to retake the Holy Land. While the Crusades were going on, Europe continued to progress out of the Middle Ages and toward the Renaissance and Reformation. Can anyone think of any way the Crusades might have affected change in Europe?”
“Mr. Russell,” said Dennis Rogers, “from what I read and what you’ve said, the Crusaders had contact with different countries and different people. Wouldn’t that mean that a lot of cultures combined and that trade brought new products to lots of places?”
“The Crusades fed numerous advances not only in warfare, but also in education, art, and culture. Jerusalem remained under Muslim control. But what’s important to understand for this class is that our understanding of the current conflict would not be what it is without the Crusades. The Crusades set the stage for the next nine hundred years. Class, we’ll talk about today’s events tomorrow. Maybe by then we’ll have a better picture of what’s going on.”
Ashley joined Fritz as the periods changed. Fritz told him that he was already tired and the rest of the day wasn’t likely to get better.
“I know what you mean. I made my class write sample news stories about what happened. If they really knew—” Ashley rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know what I want more, a newspaper or a nap,” said Fritz. “I wonder what’s going on now.”
“Why don’t you call the president?”
“He’s probably a little busy right now.”
“He’s never too busy for you. Think of a reason to call him. I’ll think about it too. Gotta go. See you later.”
With only a moment before his next class came in, Ashley’s idea had him thinking. Did he have a reason to call the president? When the class began, Eric Silver raised his hand.
“Mr. R, I know we haven’t talked about the project, but maybe I could tell everyone what we came up with and see if we all want to do it?”
Thanks, Eric. You just gave me a break. He said, “Okay, Eric. Why don’t you explain it.”
“Thanks, Mr. R.” Eric almost launched himself out of his chair. From the front, Eric surveyed his classmates. “We decided that we would portray a family, from generation to generation, going through the twentieth century,” he began. “We would start as an immigrant family arriving in 1900, coming in through Ellis Island. We would settle in New York, get jobs, and try to get a feel of the new country and city. And the real us would be trying to develop a feel for the era. As the years pass, we get a chance to be part of all the events, either as spectators or participants—like the inventions, World Wars, the Great Depression, all the changes in things like music and dances.”
“Dances?” said Johnny Clayton. “You want us to learn dances?”
“Sure, it would be fun,” said Eric.
Fritz said, “Let him finish, Johnny. Actually I’d like to see you doing the Charleston.” Johnny threw his hands in the air.
“We went to the library, Mr. R, to see if we could get pictures of clothing. Some period clothes could make the scenes seem real, like Robert E. Lee in his uniform.”
Fritz asked, “Did you find places where you could get those costumes?”
“We didn’t look yet, Mr. R. We figured we should wait to see what you think. But Elaine said she thinks her mom might have some stuff in the attic.”
“I’ll bet all of your parents have some stuff in their attics,” said Fritz.
“Well, Mr. R, can we do it?” asked Eric.
“Class, what do you think? A project like this is ambitious and time-consuming.”
“Mr. R,” said Paul Karl, “three of us have football practice every day. And we’ll have games until after Thanksgiving. The girls have soccer and field hockey that long, too.”
“Is that a no, Paul?” asked Fritz.
“No, Mr. R, but I’d like to know how many scenes Eric has in mind. With sports, homework, and college applications, I don’t have a ton of free time.” Murmurs of agreement bubbled up.
“Eric, have you got a sense of what number you have in mind? Paul makes a good point.”
“I’m on the soccer team too, Mr. R. I know what Paul means. We haven’t worked it out, but we could by—” He looked around at the class. “Next week. In detail. Then you can say yes or no.”
“I already say yes,” Fritz said. “I have some ideas too. But you have to convince the class, Eric, not me. I think you should put your scenes together, figure out how much time you’ll need to prepare each, what roles you have for everyone, and we’ll revisit this next week. Fair?”
“Fair enough, Mr. R,” Eric said. “Can everyone meet for a few minutes after school today?” A few responded with a little grumbling about time. “Only for five minutes. To see what you want to do. Mr. R, could we come here?”
“Sure. Come back after eighth period. I’ll be here for a few minutes. Now back to the books.” For the remainder of class, they discussed the economics of the early twentieth century, focusing on Theodore Roosevelt and the oil and steel monopolies. When they were done, Fritz sat down. In less than six months, his mindset had changed. He wanted to be a better teacher, not give it up. The portal made teaching fun again. Even better, the kids were responding. Maybe having fun rubs off. He watched the sky and hoped for more bad weather. I need to take these kids somewhere.
Before the next bell rang, Ashley stopped in.
“Did you call him?”
“No. I don’t have a reason to call him.”
“Make one up.”
“Why do I want to talk to him?”
“We want to find out what’s going on,” Ashley said.
“Ashley, I love you like a brother. Well, sort of. But you are mucho crazy. After school, I’ll find out from TV and a late edition of the newspaper, which I will drive somewhere to get.”
“I’ll go with you. Then you can call him.”
“No, then I’m going home.”
Ashley continued badgering. “I’ll come with you. Then you can call him.”
“Get outta here.”
For the next two periods, Fritz discussed the American colonies and how their economies developed independent of the British government. He talked about regional agriculture and the factors that led to the French and Indian War.
At lunch, Ashley asked again.
“You are such a nag. No, I didn’t call him. And I’m not going to. He’s been handed a mess in the Middle East, I don’t know what’s happening, and you can bet his butt’s not getting flabby waiting for the Second Coming. Stop asking.”
Ashley patted him on the shoulder. “You are so easy to irritate, and I’m so good at it.”
Fritz asked, “Did you speak to Jane?”
“Sometimes you are so myopic. Even worse, myopic with blinders. You could pull a carriage through Central Park. Wait here. I’ll get your feedbag.” He came back with two sandwiches, two cookies, and two bottles of juice.
“So what did she say?” Fritz asked.
“She said, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I told her I wasn’t doing anything. So she said I should come over, and I did.”
“What? Wait. When?”
“Last night. They’re at the airport.”
“What does any of this have to do with calling the president?”
“Nothing. But call him anyway.”
“You’re a pain. Let’s go. I’m not calling until I find out if the world’s blown up.” Thunder rumbled overhead. Before Ashley walked the rest of the way to his classroom, Fritz asked if he had found pictures. Ashley had printed pictures of the Beatles’ first US concert, Secretariat winning the Kentucky Derby, and the original poem by Francis Scott Key of the Star Spangled Banner, titled “The Defence of Fort McHenry.”
“Are they here?” Ashley had them, but he didn’t want to keep using the portal. He said he’d done enough portalling for one week. “But I would
like to go back to Paris. Maybe during the twenties. There was a bookstore called “Shakespeare and Company,” where the young writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce might be found. “I’d love to meet them.”
“So, one more time this week? What do you say? Do you have a picture?”
“Yup.” His excitement said that’s where they should go.
“Later.”
WITH ASHLEY’S tease about calling the president scratching and kicking to get out from the back of his mind, Fritz managed to complete his classes. After school, Ashley returned with a printed picture in his hand. Right behind, Fritz’s second period seniors piled in and went to the back.
Looking at the students, Ashley asked, “What’s this all about?”
“These are the kids who want to replicate the time-travel simulations.”
“So what are they doing?”
“Discussing what they have planned to find out if they really want to do it.”
“Are you helping?”
“I don’t know. Hey guys, do you need any help?
“Thanks, Mr. R,” said Eric, interrupting his explanation. “One thing seems to be a problem. We need a script for all the parts. I’ve never written one.”
Fritz looked at Ashley. “You said you had a class that wanted to write a play for the whole school. You want to give them some practice?”
“Fourth period.” Ashley stared at the ceiling above the kids’ heads, a look that said he was thinking how to make it happen. “Let me ask them.”
Fritz said, “Hey guys, Mr. Gilbert has a creative writing class that wants to write a play for the whole school. Do you want to consider a joint effort?”
The seniors looked at each other. Some shrugged, some nodded. After a short discussion, Elaine asked, “How do we get together with them, Mr. Gilbert?”
“Elaine, I’ll talk with them tomorrow. They’re tenth graders. Any problem with that?”
Eric said, “We were tenth graders. Working with seniors would be good for them.”
Dan said, “Yeah, and we can boss them around.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” said Fritz. “Mr. Gilbert will ask his class. Tomorrow afternoon, Eric, you come and see me, and I’ll tell you if they want to do it. You’ll need to put your scenes together quickly, so we can give them an idea of what to write. Then Mr. Gilbert and I will help you put it together. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great, Mr. Russell. We’ve agreed on who’s doing what, so we’ll do more tomorrow. Mr. Gilbert, thanks, and if one person wants to take the lead, they can work with me.”
“Then we’ll talk tomorrow, Eric,” said Fritz. “Don’t forget your homework, guys.”
With the room empty again, Ashley handed Fritz a piece of paper. “Wanna go?”
“Sure, but just for a few minutes. I want to pick up a paper and see what’s going on.” Fritz looked at the colorful picture of a shop on Paris’s Left Bank, with books filling the large window. He placed the paperclip on the street address at the bottom. “Ash, I’ve never been to Paris. So I’m counting on you to direct me.” Short of breath, his arms tingling, Fritz shared Ashley’s anticipation.
“Let’s go meet those guys. I wonder if I’ll recognize any of them,” said Ashley.
“You know, the Nazis shut the place down in 1941. I was reading about it last night.”
“I know. A guy named George Whitman reopened in a different location and that’s still in operation. Maybe we can go there sometime, too.” Ashley tapped his hands on his legs. “Let’s see if the portal’s open.”
Fritz tapped the doorknob. No buzz. He shook his head and watched the upturned lines on Ashley’s face move south. As if some magical force understood, a rumble overhead preceded a blaze of light in the hall and a sharp crack that rattled the windows. Fritz tapped again and pulled the door open. One quick step and they stood with the shop’s door just to their right, the fluorescent brownish-gray rectangle of the portal behind them, partially disguised under an awning next door.
When they entered, a round faced young woman with sharp dark eyes stood up behind a table being used as a desk. “Bonjour. Bienvenue, messieurs. Y at-il quelque chose que je peux vous aider?”
Ashley asked, “Are you Sylvia Beach?”
“I am. Have we met?”
“Not until now.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Are you busy? Do you have a moment to talk? My name is Ashley Gilbert, and my friend is Fritz Russell.” Ashley extended his hand, which she took, her eyes not wavering from his face. Then she shook Fritz’s hand.
“There is something about you two, I’m not sure. Are your clothes a new fashion we haven’t seen yet?”
Fritz said, “Ms. Beach, is there a place we could speak? Confidentially?”
“We’ve just met and you want to get me alone.” Her tone was light, teasing. “You are Americans for sure.” She turned and called across the room, “Hemingway, some Americans just walked in.”
They watched as a dark-haired, muscular young man with a pronounced widow’s peak and mustache strolled up and asked what service he could provide. His penetrating dark eyes expressed a playful curiosity. “These gentlemen want to speak to me.” She leaned toward Hemingway, and said in a conspiratorial, deep voice, “Confidentially. Would you be so kind as to be my protector?”
He snorted. “You need my protection, from any man, like I need a dress.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Hemingway.”
“Ashley Gilbert. Nice to meet you.” Fritz watched the interplay, Hemingway cocking his head to look up as he offered his hand. “This is Fritz Russell.” Fritz examined the strong face, jutting jaw, and the joined eyebrows that complemented the late afternoon shadow on his otherwise clean-shaven cheeks. The full beard had not yet become part of his persona.
“So what are you vagabonds up to?” asked Hemingway.
“We’re just visiting. In fact, we hoped we would meet you both. Ms. Beach, we’re teachers from New Jersey. In our time, the year is 2015.” Ashley’s pronouncement surprised Fritz, while the others shared glances.
Beach’s mouth opened slightly, she crooked her head, and she then looked up at Hemingway. He roared. The laugh lines plowed into his cheeks and forehead, lines Ashley and Fritz knew would last through his life. “My friends, you have already been to the café I see, sampling some of its fine vintages.”
Ashley, not about to be put off, said, “If you’ll both join us for another, we’ll explain. I’m not fantasizing. Or lying.” The conviction of his last comment gained their attention. “Will you join us?”
She looked at Hemingway and shrugged. He shrugged back and nodded toward the door. Before they left, she called out. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes. Mr. Joyce, cover for me. Or I’ll burn your book.”
Ashley’s mouth headed south again. “James Joyce!”
“You seem to be a member of the literati, Mr. Gilbert. How do you know about Mr. Joyce?”
“I know you published Ulysses.”
“What’s today’s date?” Fritz asked, breaking the spell that had taken hold of them.
Heads swiveled. “April 17, 1924,” said Hemingway. “And what day is it in your galaxy?”
The tune of April in Paris scampered through his head. “Mr. Hemingway, today is September 16, 2015. I know that you don’t believe me, but we can prove it. We know about you, about this store, and Miss Beach, we know you lived in Bridgeton, New Jersey as a child.”
“We also know that you will receive a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize,” said Ashley, staring at Hemingway. Then his eyes grew wide and he bit his lip. “But about that drink. We would buy, but I don’t think our money will work.” Ashley reached into his pocket and pulled out blank pieces of paper. He looked at Fritz.
“That happened to me when we went to see Lee the first time. The past doesn’t like to be tinkered with, I’m afraid. But if you’ll just step outside, we can show you that we’re for real.”
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br /> “Wait,” said Ashley. He walked across the room and held out his hand. “Mr. Joyce, my name is Ashley Gilbert, and it’s an honor to meet you.” The stunned young man looked at Hemingway, who lifted his arms as if to say “I have no idea.”
“Lee, which Lee?” asked Beach while Ashley was shaking hands.
“Robert E. Lee.”
“Mr. Russell, my stories are dull in comparison,” Hemingway said.
The two expatriates followed Fritz to the sidewalk. Ashley strolled out, his lips upturned. Fritz pointed to the rectangle that would take him and Ashley home. “I found a way to time travel last spring, but we haven’t used it a lot. Ashley wanted to come here and meet you both. He’s an English teacher. I teach history. Miss Beach, we live in Riverboro.”
“I know where that is. I went there once for the Children’s Parade on the Fourth of July.”
“We still have it. Ashley is the regular reader of the Declaration of Independence in the park. I wish we could stay longer, but we need to go. Would it be all right if we came back some time?”
“Paris is a wonderful city, and we seem to attract all kinds of Americans,” said Beach. “I’m sure if you come again, you’ll be welcome.”
“Can you show us how your, whatever that is, operates,” Hemingway asked.
“I can’t, but the rectangle will disappear when we leave.” He tugged on Ashley’s sleeve. They shook hands, and Ashley kissed Sylvia Beach’s hand. Just before stepping through, they watched a young couple walk across the street.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald,” said Ashley, lowering his voice. “And Zelda. Fritz, we have to come back here.” They waved to their new acquaintances, and Fritz stepped through. Beach’s hand covered her open mouth and she pulled Hemingway’s arm. He turned to her, his eyes wide, his head shaking. Ashley appreciated their startled looks, held his hand up in farewell, and followed Fritz.
“That was incredible. Thanks Fritz. Hemingway, he looked so young.”
“He was, Ash. Younger than us. And a word to the wise, well, the semi-smart. You can’t tell people about their futures, or we’re messing with how things turn out.”
Sand Storm (Quantum Touch Book 2) Page 13