My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (30 page)

‘My greatest concern is that the Time Machine has indeed been destroyed,' I said, feeling my heart sink even lower, ‘thus
confirming our worst fears!'

‘Read on!' commanded Fru Jakobsen. ‘Let us see what your young man does next!'

So I whizzed & flipped through many more pages of complaints about mysterious & possible life-threatening aches, & pains,
& bacteria, & vacuum-cleaner sketches, in search of my future husband's name, but did not see it until I spotted that he was
now called ‘our Scottish friend'.

January 5th. Our Scottish friend has insisted that I take him to
visit Else, for he is convinced she has information that might assist him
in devising a means by which to return to London. Until now he
always seemed to me quite a sane man but now he has started to talk
about rebuilding the Time Machine
himself–

(O, my brave & ingenious sweetheart, I thought: I remember cursing your interest in the Time Machine's innards, but now do
I thank Heaven indeed that you paid it the attention you did!)

–
& will not listen to my protestations, which are well-founded
enough, but tells me by way of reply that Charlotte always called me the
Crown Prince of Pessimism, & now he understands why! I was
somewhat insulted but agreed to walk him to Else's flowershop, &
besides I could not say no, for he was in quite a state of anxiety & I
feared that if I did not obey him I might suffer, the Scottish race having
a well-known propensity for violence. At the florist's, where I played the
part of translator, we apprised Else of Fergus's plight & the loss of
Charlotte, at which she was much horrified & pained, & she said we
must instantly call on the services of Gudrun Olsen, for it was she who
had supplied most of the materials for the Time Machine.

(O my fellow Østerbro Coquette, how bright you are!)

So we all went to the laundry where, surrounded by steam, as in a
sauna, Fergus, with myself interpreting, once more explained the
situation, & begged Gudrun Olsen to recall what manner of materials
Professor Krak had bade her supply for him. Seeing our Scottish
friend's desperation, she began to write a list, which heartened him
greatly, though she said she feared she could not remember it all, but he
claimed to have had a good look at the machine before it was smashed.
What had him stumped, however, were the four mysterious ingredients
ofthe secret catalysing liquid: could Gudrun remember purchasing any
bottles?

‘Aha, the catalysing ingredients! He has thought of them already, creature of genius that he is!'

The next few entries did not mention Fergus at all, & indeed there followed a section consisting merely of calculations concerning
the physics of dust-sucking. Then:

January 21st. O, fantabulosa: my cherished project, the Original
Poppersen Muhl Dust-Sucker, has come closer to reality today! These
good tidings come via our Scottish friend, with whom I have finally
(after some wrangling, I assure you: they can be tough bargainers these
futuristic types) struck a deal. Being far more mechanically-minded
than I, he has agreed to share his expertise & assist me in constructing
a prototype (see diagram, & note in particular the placement of the
outer clutch actuator in relation to the exhaust port
–
a touch of
brilliance if I say so myself): I in turn have undertaken to help him
procure the various materials he needs with which to construct a new
Time Machine, & thereby return to London, a subject on which he
speaks with increasing frequency & desperation. He at first wished to
build the thing in parts, in his bedroom at Mama & Papa's, then
assemble it on site. But when I had explained my parents' opposition to
anything they deem ‘eccentric', we settled for a side-room at Gudrun's
laundry, until such time as the structure can be moved & fully
assembled beneath the holly tree in Fru Krak's garden on Rosenvængets Allé –
this being the one location apart from the cellar that is straddled
by the Time-Sucker, or ‘worm-hole, as our Scottish friend calls it.
When I questioned him about how he hoped to keep such a thing
hidden, he revealed that he had gathered together a host of old
Christmas trees which had been left in the street for collection, &
thus added fifteen fir trees to the garden on Rosenvængets Allé – which
the couple never seemed to enter – in the space of a week. As soon as he was ready to move the Time Machine there in sections, Fergus said he would circle the contraption with them, thus camouflaging it from view.

‘What ingeniousness!' I cried. ‘Are men not wonderfully brainy creatures, Fru Jakobsen? Why, this ruse is similar to dear Georg's inspiration with the bogus travelling toilet: how the masculine mind runs along such nifty tracks! Now all Fergus has to do is assemble the machine, & find the liquid catalysing ingredients! How touching, that we are both at a parallel stage!'

‘But both seemingly stuck,' said Fru Jakobsen, pragmatically. ‘Due to the fact that the four mystery ingredients remain – well, four
mystery ingredients'
which brought me galumphingly back down to earth. My wise friend was quite right of course, & it was with a somewhat heavier
heart that I read on. The next diary entry merely engendered more confusion, & did nothing to encourage optimism, for it recorded
that Gudrun Olsen, interrogated by Fergus through the medium of Franz, had recalled that Professor Krak had often bade her
listen while he read aloud Hans Christian Andersen's
The Story of a Mother,
about a woman whose child dies, & who will do anything to get him back. Anyone who knows this tale will be aware of how gruesome
heart-breaking it is, but what was the Professor's purpose, in depressing poor Gudrun so? Apparently whenever he had finished
reading this sad, sad tale, Professor Krak would treat Gudrun most kindly, and dry her tears with his handkerchief, & pay
her an extra ten kroner on top of her wages.
Our Scottish friend & I discussed this
at length with Gudrun, who was most keen to help – but none of us could work out what the significance was,
wrote Franz.

‘What on earth might that all mean?' I queried, baffled. Fru Jakobsen merely shook her head. I read on, & learned that Fergus
did indeed begin his project of building a new Time Machine in the garden of the Krak house, & disguised it successfully with
fir trees.

The structure being complete, & corresponding in most ways to the
original Time Machine (though more chaotic & less refined in
appearance), all that now remains,
wrote Franz on January 21st,
is
to identify the four secret ingredients of the catalysing agent. Last night
our Scottish friend & I held a lengthy conversation on the subject, but
the truth is we know not where to begin, & we emerged none the wiser;
the list of possibilities being seemingly endless. Over a glass of schnapps
our Scottish friend declared himself puzzled as to the baffling contents
of the Oblivion Room: did I remember what was in it?

A stuffed orang-utan, I recalled. And there was a box with a scalpel
in it, & some books, & perhaps some pieces of old carpet, & a table
with a medicine bottle upon it. At this he became animated: what kind
of medicine, he wanted to know? I replied that I believed it was a clear
liquid, perhaps antiseptic
–
which, we agreed, could well be one
ingredient of the mixture. But what on earth were the others? And what
was that scalpel for, & did the catalysing liquid have to be ‘freshly made', & why was it designed to last a few days?

I yawned: it was by now midnight.

‘Shall we put the light out now,
skat,
& get some rest?' asked Fru Jakobsen. ‘I'm most exhausted, after such a hectic day. We still have the best part of tomorrow,
for our plane does not depart until the afternoon. And if there's any more to be done after that, why I can remain here a
few more days & you can direct my researches from London, if it seems imperative.'

‘But I need to find out if Fergus discovered –'

‘Best sleep on it,' Fru Jakobsen interrupted me in a kindly but firm manner. ‘I really do have the most enthusiastic premonition
about the way events will turn. Rest, I have always noted, is quite a problem-solver. Here, have a sleeping pill,' & she handed
me a violet-coloured capsule. Overcome by a sudden yearning for oblivion, I swallowed it obediently & was gone.

But where to? Well, to my mind it seemed the strangest place I had ever clapped eyes on: it appeared to be a jungle. Perhaps
Borneo? Yes; I was in Borneo, I knew it from the vegetation, & the way the wind shuddered high in the forest canopy above
us. Us? Yes: for there above me, high high high, I spotted Pandora swinging from branch to branch on suspended lianas, like
a trapeze artist at the circus! My O my, how beautiful & free she looked: how different from that stuffed creature, so tragic-faced,
in the glass case!

‘Fergus, come & look!' I cried, & there all at once my love materialized at my side, his daughter clamped to his back like
a baby ape, & we were waving to Pandora, & she was flipping somersaults to show off, & flinging down bunches of bananas. And
then Gudrun arrived, & her scar was gone, & she carried a book from which she began to read: it was
The
Story of a Mother
by Hans Christian Andersen, but it became too, too sad, & she had to stop, & Pandora descended from her tree & put a comforting
arm around her & the two of them wept together, & Josie looked on amazed, then cried: ‘O, look! There's Uncle Fred riding
the bicycle that doesn't go anywhere!' & we all followed him to a clearing where O joy! – there indeed was Professor Krak,
bare-chested & sweaty, pedalling furiously with a happy smile on his face. ‘Toil, toil, toil, pain, pain, pain!' he cried,
then drew from the box on the small table beside him a gleaming scalpel, with which –

O!

I woke with a start & sat upright in bed. Of course! There was the answer! It was all there, in my dream: the three products
of human pain: blood, sweat & tears! The scalpel was for the blood. The sweat came from the exercise. And the tears: first,
from
The Story ofa Mother,
which is too, too sad – & after the death of Pandora – why, her memory! That was why her stuffed body, in its glass case,
had been placed so strategically within sight of the exercise bicycle! One drop of each, mixed with ten parts of … & here
he had spoken English, had he not? ‘The great human ant–'

Eureka! For what had Franz & Fergus discussed in the last diary entry but the bottle of medicine which appeared to contain

‘Antiseptic!' I cried aloud, & leaped out of bed & shook Fru Jakobsen awake.

‘I have it! I have the answer! Blood, sweat, tears & antiseptic!'

‘Very good, dear,' she sighed sleepily. ‘I am delighted for you! Most gratifying. Now can we go back to sleep & talk about
it in the morning?'

The next day, Fru Jakobsen claimed there was a last-gasp
slut-spurt
sale at the department store Magasin, & she would like more than anything else to take a peek, despite the monstrous modern
prices: would I mind? I was quite baffled. Here we were, having finally made a discovery that might secure our happiness &
our futures, & she was contemplating a shopping trip! But she seemed quite resolute, in her genteel way, & as I am a fast
reader, I estimated I could work my way through Franz's diaries just as well on my own, & the pressure was somewhat off, now
that I had cracked the pestilential catalyser riddle, so off Fru Jakobsen went, & on I read. But as I did so, my emotions
were soon helter-skeltering floorwards. I will let Franz's diary speak.

January 25th. Fergus came to me most excited this morning &
said he had been thinking about the catalysing ingredients, & believed
he had the answer. He went on to talk in a complicated manner about
the deductions he had made through trying to analyse the significance
of the items in the Oblivion Room, to wit the stuffed monkey, the
exercise bicycle, the scalpel & the medicine bottle. On & on he went on
this track, & not wishing to arouse his Scottish wrath I gave the
appearance of listening politely whilst mentally sketching a device for
coiling electrical cords, & trying to remember whether I had warned
Mama that my system was still feeling most sensitive. I have heard
that boiled rice & bananas are an excellent cure for an upset stomach,
while in the future (about which I must never speak for fear of seeming
like a lunatic – though Lord, it is hard!) they swear by 7UP for all
intestinal misfortunes. Just as I was pondering how one might set
about reproducing such a carbonized beverage in my own era, I noticed
that our Scottish friend had stopped talking & was looking at me
expectantly, as though I should supply an answer.

‘Sorry, can you repeat what you just said?' I asked – then added hurriedly, ‘Just the last bit, of course, which I didn't quite catch. Not the whole story, I beg you.'

‘Blood, sweat, tears & antiseptic!' he cried. ‘Those are the secret
catalysing ingredients, I am sure of it! It all makes sense! Three of them easily extracted from the human body, but subject to decay – which is why it cannot be stored for more than two days. The fourth liquid – well, it was in that bottle on the table in the Oblivion Room all the time! Antiseptic: what else?

O joy! My clever man! I read on, greedily.