Exchange Place (21 page)

Revelation

The rain was still pouring down from an apocalyptic sky. I heard the Albert Clock strike the half-hour, the same reverberating note that struck me so many times over the years, giving me that next half-hour of grace before I saw the person whom I was to meet, half an hour in which the words would come to me unbidden as I wrote them down; and I remembered countless other times writing ecstatically in a notebook, whether under an awning in the pouring rain or on the sunlit terrace of a café, scribbling for months, for years, circling round a theme that only gradually discloses itself, pages covered in words, arrows leading back to other words, words crossed out, addenda, corrigenda, pages flickering behind the page I write in now. I flicked through the previous entries.

It seems like a dream, or so it seems now when I look back at it, I had written days ago, a week ago, a month ago. The entry bore no date. Only now am I waking up to it, in a manner of speaking, said the entry. What led to it? It all depends how far back one goes. Did it begin here, in this blink of an eyelid, or elsewhere, in another? So it was written.

Contrapunctus XIV
, I had written. Journeys in fractal land are arduous. Mandelbrot: ‘length’ is not something that can be meaningfully specified. Mandelbrot quotes Edmund Whymper on mountaineering: It is worthy of remark that … fragments of rock … often represent the characteristic form of the cliffs from which they have been broken.

I am wearing a pair of Oxford brogues by ‘K’ shoes of Kendal, 1960s vintage, bought on eBay, I had written. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing them now. They had been barely worn yet when I put them on I could feel the imprint of another’s foot upon the insole, and I wondered who had walked in them before me. Kendal in the Lake District, I had written, Wordsworth country, the poet striding for miles up hill down dale as the words came to him unbidden and he cried them aloud with every step he took. There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, the earth, and common sight, to me did seem apparell’d in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream.

I paused from my writing and looked up at the sky. The rain had ceased and a sun pale as the moon drifted through the clouds. I felt that sensation of a migraine aura steal over me once again. The brickwork of the building opposite was charged with pattern, brick and mortar interstices undulating like a piece of music. I closed my book, took up my briefcase and walked out into the street, spellbound by everything I saw, the gutter heaving like a river in spate, the manhole covers under my feet like heraldic shields laid down by a forgotten empire. When I looked up I saw domes and cupolas, battlements and parapets gleaming on the skyline of the city under the leaden clouds, and my route now seemed preordained from some distant epoch. A car-horn sounded ceremonially and my whole being shimmered with the knowledge that the atoms of my brain had been forged aeons ago in the stars, billions of atoms forming dense thickets of neurons and transmission cables endlessly communicating, more active often in sleep than in waking life.

I walked towards my destination along the route that I had taken for many years, and with every footstep I took, I watched the city unfolding herself in all the beauty and the glory of her detail. And I heard the words of John the Divine, And the twelve gates of the city were twelve pearls; every gate was of one pearl; and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass. I walked among the people invisible to them, the apparition of these faces in a crowd, and I looked upon them, and I knew these nameless ones for all they knew me not. What was my name? Where was I coming from? Where was I going? I was this John, and that John, and the other John, and I was everyone and everything around me. I was yet to write the book in which all would be revealed, these lives of which I was the author, but now my path was clear, I knew the words would come when the time came, and I was filled with exaltation.

Before I knew it I was sitting under an awning outside the Morning Star. I ordered a Pernod with ice, a jug of water on the side. I poured water into the spirit and watched it slowly change from clear to cloud. The little miracle never failed to please me. I rolled a cigarette and took out my notebook. I lit the cigarette and took a sip of Pernod. I checked my watch and then thought to check the Omega I was to show my client. Both were almost exactly in synch, the second hand of the Wittnauer sweeping a little in advance of the Omega as if leading it on into the future. Beautiful watch the Omega, I was loth to part with it, maybe I could fob him off with the promise of something he would think better, a Rolex which if not exactly fake had been compromised by what they call reconditioning, covers a few sins invisible to the untrained eye. I put the Omega back in the briefcase and wrote in the notebook: I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and is to come. As I did so there was a flash of lightning followed by an almighty peal of thunder, and it started to pour rain again. It dripped from the awning spattering the words I had just written; but no matter, I moved to a more sheltered spot, taking with me my accoutrements of drink, tobacco and briefcase, and continued to write the first words that came into my mind. I heard them spoken from afar and I was merely setting down that which was dictated by another, my pen struggling to keep pace as word came after word. What thou seest, write in a book, said the voice.

My roll-up had gone out and when I made to relight it, I glanced up and saw a figure sitting in the shadows under the awning. He too was drinking Pernod, an unusual enough occurrence in Belfast. Paris, yes, but not here. His face was obscured by the brim of his brown fedora, but all the same there was something in his bearing that looked familiar to me. Nice suit he was wearing too, a brown tweed not unlike the one I had looked for just before I went out. I could do something with this, I thought, but put it to one side for future reference as I kept writing: And I went unto the angel, and said to him, give me the little book. And he said unto me, Take it, and eat it up; and it shall make thy belly bitter, but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey. So absorbed was I in writing, I did not see him coming. When I looked up he was sitting before me, his face still hidden by his hat. He set a briefcase on the table. His hands were trembling.

He raised his head and looked at me. There was a flash of lightning and I saw myself looking at myself. My heart gave a great leap. Who was I? Everything went blank.

The Missing Notebook

This too is you, said John Browne. And Kilfeather held again the replica Luger pistol he had held as a child, made of convincingly heavy metal but fed by little pink plastic cartridges rather than the real thing, and he was transported back to a time when he killed and was killed to pass the time, boy soldiers throwing up their arms theatrically then falling and rolling down a grassy ridge in a simulation of dying, rising again to fight again, over and over through a long summer’s day. You don’t need real, said Browne, the man has a heart condition, he’s on a cocktail of drugs, atoravastatin, clopidogrel, and the Lord knows what else. Heavy smoker too. All it takes is a shock to the system. More likely than not the mere sight of you will be enough to tip the blood pressure over the edge. Oh, and you’ll need a hat to hide your face, more impact when you reveal yourself. Here, take mine, said Browne, and he took off his fedora and placed it on Kilfeather’s head. It was a nice fit. The sweatband was cold against his forehead. You’ve always wanted to do that, said Browne, haven’t you? Wear my hat. But you were too shy to ask. And Kilfeather knew he spoke the truth.

About quarter of an hour or so, and then we’re all set. We’ve set the time parameters so that you make the rendezvous just before the fake Kilfeather. While we’re waiting I thought you’d like to see my new work,
Contrapunctus XIV
, or hear it indeed. This way, said Browne, extending his arm. He led Kilfeather to another room.
Voilà
. Kilfeather saw before him a large panel some six feet by three. It was nothing like the work of the man he had known as John Bourne. Imagine a hundred Mark Rothkos miniaturized and patterned like a musical score, he thought, lozenges and rectangles of earth tones and purples and deep blues and burnt oranges fading and blurring into one another, intersected by diagonal slashes in brighter tones, shimmering against the lower octaves, light sounding on deep. You need the wand to get the full effect, said the man who now was Browne, and he handed him what looked like a long slim truncheon of crystal. Wave it about as your fancy takes you, said Browne, point it at the bits that engage you, and then look for bits that never caught your eye in the first place. The ‘on’ button is here. Kilfeather switched it on and immediately heard a deep melodious humming. He waved the wand before the painting and the painting emitted a music that was glassy at first, and then like wind-chimes, and then like the deep sounds of a forest floor. He waved it another way and he heard the fair weather clouds drifting across a June morning sky. He waved it again and he heard the moaning of the wind in the trees and the sad sound of November rain dripping through bare trees and it seemed to him that the permutations could go on forever. There’s never enough time, said Browne gently, for we only have so much time on earth, but when we depart there are always the others whom we might have been and are, because all of us are no one but each other. He took the wand from him.

Now you you’ll need the Changing Room, said Browne. The changing room? said Kilfeather. Well, you don’t need to change the outfit, that’s all as it should be, but you need to go through the portal, that’s the mirror, antique Venetian, mercury backing, said Browne. And I nearly forgot, you need a little drug to smooth the process, induces an aura, puts the neurons properly in synch. Remember those magic mushrooms we used to eat? He produced a miniature Pernod bottle from his pocket. Same psychoactive ingredient, synthesized, the natural stuff is too unpredictable for our purposes, we’ve got this tailored to your body weight and psychological profile, bespoke psilocybin as it were, you’ll find it does the trick. Here’s the procedure, said Browne. When you come out the other side you must proceed immediately to the Morning Star bar. You’ll know how to get there. Sit outside, under the awning. Your man will arrive in five minutes or so. Wait until he is settled, then confront him. You may or not need the gun. I’ll leave that up to you. It’s all very straightforward.
Faîtes simple
. This way. He walked over to a curtain and twitched it to one side.
Voilà
. Put the pistol in your briefcase. And this notebook, you might find it useful when the time comes. Passport in your name, ditto. Drink the drug, said Browne. Kilfeather did as he was told. He felt the effects almost immediately. The cubicle was nicely furnished, 1950s rose trellis wallpaper, and as he looked at it the roses began to shimmer. He looked at the mirror. The surface of the glass was like black ice with a faint pinpoint of light at its centre. He went over and touched the glass and it was cold and hard as ice. Takes a few minutes more to warm up, said Browne.

When the time was right, Kilfeather stepped up to the mirror, extending his hands like a swimmer about to take the plunge, and as his fingertips reached the dark glass it parted like liquid mercury to swallow him bit by bit until he vanished down a deep dark well. He felt himself going down for a long time, falling through time as he thought of it, second by infinitesimal second, until he emerged from the mirror in the attic of 14 Exchange Place into a drift of photocopied images, images he knew from before. He descended the stairs into the entry, turned the corner into Donegall Street, and was sitting under the awning of the Morning Star within a matter of two or three minutes. It was pouring rain when he saw the man sit down under the awning and when he approached him there was a flash of lightning and both men saw each other clearly for a split second.

A man came to some time after, not knowing who he was. On reflection he realised he must have had a bout of transient global amnesia. He remembered the aura. There was a briefcase at his feet. He opened it and took out a toy gun, a passport and Muji
A
6
notebook. He would think about the gun later. He opened the passport and looked at the photograph. He did not think it looked like him compared to how he looked now. He thought it must have been taken some time ago, when he was not the man he was now. He read the name on the passport. So that was him, then. He opened the notebook at an entry that was spattered with rain, and as he read these words he thought he might be reading a key to a book he had had in mind to write for how many years he could not remember: It begins or began with a missing notebook, an inexpensive Muji A6 notebook, with buff card covers and feint-ruled pages. On the inside cover is written, If found, please return to John Kilfeather, 41 Elsinore Gardens, Belfast
BT
15
3
FB
Northern Ireland, United Kingdom, Europe, The World.

Again a flash of lightning: he needed to write. He looked in the briefcase and found a pen. Nice vintage Waterman, marbled celluloid. He unscrewed the cap and began to write. The pen suited his hand well, it could have been his own pen, and it wrote first time, the writing both familiar and foreign. He kept on writing. The writing kept on, words appearing from nowhere.

Acknowledgements

The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge permission to include the following copyright material

BENJAMIN, WALTER
, extracts from ‘Stamp Dealer’,
One-Way Street and Other Writings
(first published as ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’) Penguin Books 2008. This selection and translation first published in Penguin Modern Classics 2009. Translation copyright © J.A. Underwood, 2008, 2009.

BENJAMIN, WALTER
, reprinted by permission of the publisher from
The Arcades Project
by Walter Benjamin, translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin, pp. 84, 112, 114, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1999 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Originally published as
Das Passagen-Werk
, edited by Rolf Tiedemann, Copyright © 1982 by Suhrkamp Verlag.

BENJAMIN, WALTER
,
Walter Benjamin’s Archive: Images, Texts, Signs,
translated by Esther Leslie (Verso, London, 2007), reproduced by kind permission of Verso Books.

BENJAMIN, WALTER
, reprinted by permission of the publisher from
Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, Volume 1, 1913–1926
, edited by Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings, pp. 478, 479, 491 Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1996 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Originally published as
Das Passagen-Werk
, edited by Rolf Tiedemann, Copyright © 1982 by Suhrkamp Verlag.

COCTEAU, JEAN
,
Mon premier voyage: tour du monde en 80 jours
(Editions Gallimard, 1936);
Round the World Again in 80 Days
, translation by Stuart Gilbert, 1937 (Tauris Parke, 2000) © Editions Gallimard 1936, reproduced by kind permission of Editions Gallimard.

FROST, ROBERT
,
The Notebooks of Robert Frost
, edited by Robert Faggen (Harvard University Press, 2007), reproduced by kind permission of the Estate of Robert Lee Frost.

MCKEE, DAVID
, extract from ‘Spaceman’,
The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr Benn
by David McKee (Hodder Children’s Books, 2009) first published in the UK by Hodder Children’s, an imprint of Hachette Children’s Books, 338 Euston Road, London, NW1 3BH.

MODIANO, PATRICK
,
Rue des boutiques obscures
(Editions Gallimard, 1978), © Editions Gallimard 1978;
La petite bijou
(Editions Gallimard, 2001), © Editions Gallimard 2001, reproduced by kind permission of Editions Gallimard.

SACKS, OLIVER
,
Migraine
(Picador, 1995), the information on migraines owes much to Sacks’ publication.

SHERRIFF, ROBERT C.
and
F.L. GREEN
, ‘Odd Man Out’,
Three British Screenplays
, edited by Roger Manvell (Methuen, 1950), reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London on behalf of the Estate of R.C. Sherriff. Copyright © R.C. Sherriff, 1947.

Every effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders before publication. If notified, the publisher will rectify any errors or omissions at the earliest opportunity.