Somewhere in Time (19 page)

My mind was slipping away again. This time, I did not feel apprehensive. I was confident that, when I woke, I would still be in 1896. Drifting into shadows, I applied the last of my attention to the enigma at hand. Had it all been preordained?-my seeing her photograph, falling in love with her, deciding to try and reach her, finally reaching her? Could such preordination only function if it were balanced by her knowledge of my coming?

I was too groggy to make any sense of the problem. I let it fade away and, with it, all awareness.

November 20, 1896

I know that dreams can be sensory reflections, for I was dreaming of a waterfall when I woke to hear a waterfall of rain outside the room.

Twisting around, I looked toward the window and saw a sheet of water descending from the eaves and heard it thudding loudly on the roof below.

Then, competing with the sound, I heard Robinson's snoring and looked toward the other bed. He had fallen asleep with the lights on, still dressed, sprawled on his back like a murder victim, mouth a yawning cavity, loud snores rattling from it like spasmodic leopard growls. A cigar had been between his lips and now lay on the pillow by his I head. Thank God it hadn't been lit when he fell asleep. It would have been a grisly irony to reach 1896 only to perish in a hotel fire.

I sat up guardedly so as not to wake him. The caution was unnecessary. Robinson is the sort of man who sleeps through tornadoes. I gazed at him, recalling how ungraciously he'd treated me. Because of what I'd read about him, I felt no animosity. Having godlike prescience is sometimes an advantage.

Suddenly I felt a hungering need to be with Elise and wondered how she'd react if I were to knock on her door at this hour. Even in the act of wondering, I knew it was impossible. The mores of this time forbade it-not to mention the probability that if he found out, Robinson would take a fling at thrashing me to within the accepted inch of my life.

Even so, the knowledge of how physically close she was to me after having been seventy-five years distant plagued me. What was she doing at this moment? Was she asleep, lying snug and warm in her bed? Or-uncharitably, if humanly, I hoped for this-was she standing by the window of her room, staring at the rainswept night and thinking of me?

I had only to steal from the room and make my way downstairs to find out.

For several minutes, I succeeded in driving myself half-mad by visualizing her letting me into her room. She was wearing-in my vision-a nightgown and robe and, as I held her close (in my vision, she permitted this immediately), I could feel her warm body against mine. We even kissed in my vision, her lips soft and receptive, her fingers clinging to my shoulders. Side by side, we walked into her bedroom, arms around each other.

At which point, scowling with self-reproach, I managed to terminate the vision. Step by step, I told myself. This is 1896; don't be an idiot. I drew in agitated breath and looked around for mental distraction.

Robinson's belongings on the writing table provided it. Rising, I stepped over to the table and looked at his open watch. It was seven minutes after three. A marvelous time to knock on a lady's door, I thought as I stared at the ornate case of the watch. It was gold with elaborate engraving around its rim, the figure of a lion in its center; not a living one but the stone variety, such as those in front of the New York Public Library.

Looking at Robinson's coat, which he had tossed across the chair back, I saw the tip of a pen protruding from an inside pocket and slipped it out. To my surprise, I saw that it was a fountain pen. Odd that I have been inclined to visualize this period as such a primitive one. The electric lights surprised me; now the fountain pen. This is, after all, hardly the Middle Ages. As I recall, they even have their own version of the digital clock.

Drawing out the chair, I sat down carefully and eased out the drawer of the writing table. There was a sheaf of hotel stationery inside. Setting aside Robinson's belongings-a wallet and a silver matchbox-I began to write, making my letters as small as possible and using what I remembered from the Speedwriting course I took because I had so much to recount and didn't want to run out of paper; also to prevent anyone who might see it from being able to interpret it.

I am writing now and have been doing so for hours. The rain has stopped and it is almost dawn, I think; there seems to be a grayish tinge to the sky.

I am taken by the fact that my writing style seems to have altered, as though I am attempting to keep it more in harmony with this period. Television scripts demand nothing if not economy of presentation. Dictating them increased this sparseness even more.

Now, I seem to be falling into the leisurely loquaciousness of this time. It is not an unpleasant feeling. As I sit here, the scratching of this penpoint on this paper the only sound in the room save for the distant percussion of surf-- even Robinson has, temporarily at least, stilled himself- I feel very much the model of an 1896 gentleman.

I hope I have remembered everything important. I know I have missed endless moments and nuances of emotion. Words were spoken, even between Elise and myself, which I cannot recollect. Still, I think I have recalled the essential moments.

It is almost clear outside now. There is only a drip of rain from the eaves. Across Glorietta Bay, I can see a scattering of lights, up in the sky a few diamondlike stars. I can make out the dark shape of the laundry chimney on the other side of the grounds, the strand leading to Mexico, and, to my right, the ghostly outline of the iron pier jutting out into the ocean.

I wonder if it is unwise-foolish even-to consider the contradictions in what I have done. I suppose it would be best to concentrate entirely on Time 1, 1896.1 sense pitfalls in any other approach.

Still, it is difficult not to examine those contradictions, if only cursorily. What happens, for instance, on February 20, 1935? I intend to remain where I am. In that case, what happens on that future day? Will the adult me vanish spontaneously? Will the baby me live or die at birth or not be conceived at all? Worse than any of these possibilities, will my act of returning create the grotesque enigma of two Richard Colliers existing simultaneously? The concept is disturbing and I wish I'd never thought of it.

Perhaps the answer is, more simply, that, in remaining, I will gradually take on some other identity so that by 1935 there will, literally, be no Richard Collier to be replaced.

An odd thought just occurred to me; odd in the sense that it has only now occurred to me.

It is that famous men and women I have read about are now alive.

Einstein is a teen-ager in Switzerland. Lenin is a young lawyer, his revolutionary days far ahead of him. Franklin Roosevelt is a Groton student, Gandhi a lawyer in Africa, Picasso a youth, Hitler and De Gaulle schoolboys. Queen Victoria still sits on the throne of England. Teddy Roosevelt has yet to charge up San Juan Hill. H. G. Wells has only recently published The Time Machine. McKinley has been elected this very month. Henry James has just fled to Europe. John L. Sullivan is newly retired from the ring.

Crane and Dreiser and Norris are, only now, beginning to evolve the realistic school of writing.

And, even as I write these words, in Vienna, Gustav Mahler is commencing his duties as conductor of the Royal Opera.

I had better stop this kind of thinking or-

Dear God.

My hand is shaking so I can hardly hold the pen.

I've slept for hours and hours and there is no headache.

� � �

I feel as though I am still holding my breath, the change so electrifying to me that I fear to think of it.

At first, I didn't think of it. With deliberate care, I concentrated on the details of my actions. I folded the sheets of paper carefully, feeling their texture against my fingers, listening to their crackling rustle as I put them in my inside coat pocket. I looked at Robinson's watch again. It was just past six thirty. I stood and stretched. I looked at Robinson, who was still asleep, breath bubbling in his throat. I permitted myself to worry about the wrinkles in my suit.

I checked myself in the bathroom mirror after switching on the light. There was a stubble of beard on my cheeks. I looked at Robinson's shaving mug and brush on the sink. No time. I wanted to get out of there, concentrate on details, not stare at myself in a mirror. I had to avoid that all-consuming thought. I wasn't ready to confront it yet.

Quickly I splashed cold water on my face and dried it, then attempted, with little success, to comb my hair with my fingers. I had to buy myself a comb and razor, mug and shaving cup, shirt, especially-the thought embarrassed me-some socks and underwear.

I left the room as quietly as I could, trusting Robinson's oblivion to keep him from hearing the thump of the door when I shut it; as I did, I saw the number 472 on the plaque. Turning to my left, I moved to the end of the short side corridor, turned left again, saw that I was headed in the wrong direction, and reversed course.

As I descended the staircase, I was conscious of how still it was in the hotel. No automobile noises reached my ears, no roar of landing aircraft. Except for the constant boom of surf in the distance, the silence was complete, my footsteps thudding distinctly on each step.

On the second floor I moved along the corridor toward the outside stairs in order to avoid the Rotunda. As I neared the outside door I remembered that, at nine eighteen, I would sign the register and be given Room 350.

Deja vu, I thought as I stepped onto the balcony and looked across the Open Court. Although its appearance was very different-there had not been such a growth of tropical plants: figs, limes, oranges, bananas, guava, pomegranates, and the like-the sensation I experienced was like the one I had the first morning I'd been at the hotel. Except, of course, by logic, it couldn't be described as deja vu since that means "I have been here before" and, in point of fact, I will not be here for seventy-five years.

The perplexity made me uncomfortable so I pushed it from my mind as I went down the outside steps and started across the rain-soaked Court, walking past flower beds and white chairs, beneath arches cut through thick, tall hedges, past the gushing fountain, in its center the figure of a nude woman holding ajar on her head. I started as a yellow canary flashed by me and disappeared into a bush. As I passed an olive tree, I looked up as a movement caught my eye and saw, to my surprise, that a brightly plumaged parrot was sitting on a lower branch, preening itself. I smiled at it, then at this new world as a rush of joy enveloped me. I had slept, there was no headache, and I was on my way to see Elise! I entered the gloomy, silent sitting room in a state most ungloomy, with an urge to break the silence with cheery whistling. It was not until I'd reached her door that uncertainty reasserted itself. Was it still too early? Would she be disturbed, angered even, if I knocked on her door now? I didn't want to wake her. Still, thinking it over as methodically as possible, I realized that I could hardly leave and hope to see her later. If I waited until everyone was awake, her mother and Robinson would block my path again. Bracing myself, I raised my clenched fist to the dark, paneled door, stared for several moments at the number plate on it, then knocked.

Too timidly, I thought. She couldn't have heard. Still, I didn't dare to knock more loudly for fear I'd wake someone in the adjoining rooms and they would come to check on me. For all I knew, her mother was in the room next door; it seemed likely that she would be. Good God, I thought. What if Mrs. McKenna had insisted on spending the night in Elise's room?

I was wondering these things when I heard Elise's voice on the other side of the door, inquiring softly, "Yes?"

"It's me," I said. It never even crossed my mind that she might not know who "me" was.

She did know, though. I heard the sound of the door being unlocked, it was opened slowly, and she stood before me, wearing a robe even lovelier than the one I'd conjured in my fantasy: the color of pale red wine, its collar embroidered, two vertical rows of embroidery in a scroll design down the front. Her hair was down, hanging across her shoulders in gold-brown profusion, her gray-green eyes regarding me somberly.

"Good morning," I said.

She looked at me in silence. Finally, she murmured, "Good morning."

"May I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated but I sensed that it was not the hesitation of a lady doubting the propriety of admitting a man to her room under questionable circumstances. Rather, it was the hesitation of a woman who was not sure she cared to become more involved than she already was.

Her hesitation ended and, stepping back, she let me in. Closing the door, she turned to gaze at me. She looked so tired, I thought; so sad. What was I doing to her?

I was about to say something apologetic when she spoke before I had the chance. "Please sit down," she said.

There is a literal sensation of the heart sinking. I can attest to it because I felt it then. Was this to be the ultimate scene, the carefully phrased farewell? I swallowed dryly as I moved to a chair and turned.

There were no lights on in the sitting room; it was filled with great shadows. I felt myself shudder with premonition as I waited for her to sit. When she settled on the edge of the sofa, I sank to the chair, feeling as though I were a pawn in some impending scene, knowing none of the dialogue, none of the plot.

She raised her eyes and looked at me. "What is it?" I asked when she didn't speak. A heavy, tired sigh. She shook her head slowly. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she said. She sounded pained. "I've never done anything remotely like it in my life."

I know, I thought. Thank God I didn't voice the thought. But you expected me, I almost said. I decided against that too. Better to say nothing.

There was challenge in her voice as she spoke again. "My mind tells me that you and I met for the first time on the beach last night," she said, "that, until that moment, we were strangers. My mind tells me that there is no reason for me to have behaved toward you as I have. No reason at all." Her voice drifted into silence and she looked at her hands. After what seemed a very long time, she added, without looking up, "And yet I do it."