Somewhere in Time (20 page)

"Elise-" I began to rise.

"No, don't move," she said, looking up quickly. "I want there to be ... distance between us. I want to not even see you clearly. The sight of your face-" She broke off, drawing in a ragged breath. "What I want to do is think," she said.

I waited mutely for analysis, for comprehension and perspective. Nothing came and I realized that what she'd spoken of was more a hope than a plan.

After a long while, she raised her head and looked at me. "How on earth am I to do a play tonight?" she asked.

"You will," I said. "You'll be magnificent."

She seemed to shake her head.

"You will," I told her. "I'll be watching."

She made a mirthless sound. "Which will help not at all," she said. She gazed at me in silence for a while, then reached to her right and pulled the chain switch on a table lamp. I blinked as the bulb went on.

She continued looking at me in the light, her emotion difficult to assess. Despite her grave expression, I hoped I sensed a beginning of acceptance in her. That is probably too strong a word; make it tolerance. At least I had regained that low plateau.

She declined her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm staring at you again. I don't know why I keep doing that." She sighed. "I do know, of course," she said. "It's your face." She looked up at me. "There's something there beyond its fair appearance. What is it, though?"

I wanted to speak or do something but I didn't know what. I was afraid of blundering.

She was looking at her hands again. "I thought I knew what kind of world it was," she said. "My world anyway. I thought I was adjusted to its every rhythm." She shook her head. "Now this."

I'd meant to do as she'd requested-keep my distance- but, before I was consciously aware of my intention, I found myself standing and crossing toward her. She watched me as I neared her, not exactly with uneasiness, I saw, though hardly with pleased anticipation. Sitting beside her on the sofa, I smiled as gently as I could. "I'm sorry you haven't slept," I told her.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked, and I realized that I hadn't really known until that moment.

"I didn't sleep much either," I said. "I've been-thinking most of the night." I didn't feel I should mention the writing.

"So have I," she said. Her words seemed of a sharing nature but I still felt conscious of a barrier between us. "And-?" I asked.

"And," she answered, "it's so complicated it defies my understanding."

"No," I said impulsively. "It isn't complicated at all, Elise. It's simple. We were destined to meet."

"By what?" she asked, her tone and look demanding. There was no explanation I could afford to give her. "You said you were expecting me," I answered evasively. "That sounds, to me, like destiny." "Or incredible coincidence," she said. I felt actual pain in my chest. "You can't believe that," I said.

"I don't know what to believe," she answered. "Why were you expecting me?" I asked. "Will you tell me where you came from?" she countered.

"I did tell you."

"Richard." Her tone was mild but it was obvious that she was reproving me.

"I promise that I'll tell you when the right time comes," I said. "I just can't tell you now because-" I struggled for the proper words "-it might disturb you."

"Disturb me?" Her laugh was brief and tinged with bitterness. "How can I be more disturbed than I am?"

I waited, silent. It took so long for her to speak that I decided she wasn't going to tell me. Then, at last, she broke the silence, asking, unexpectedly, "Will you laugh?"

"Is it funny?" I couldn't check the response though I regretted it the moment it passed my lips.

Happily, she took it as intended, her face softening with a tired smile. "In a way," she said. "Bizarre, at least."

"Let me decide," I asked her.

Another lengthy hesitation. Finally, stiffening her back as though to brace herself for the recountal, she began. "It comes in two parts," she said. "Late in the eighties, I don't remember the exact year, my mother and I performed in Virginia City."

November 1887, the thought came unbidden.

"One night, after the performance," she continued, "some people brought an old Indian woman to the hotel where we were staying. They told us she could predict the future, so, as a lark, I asked her to tell mine."

I felt my heartbeat growing heavier.

"She said that, when I was twenty-nine years old, I would meet the-" she stopped "-a man," she amended. "That he would come to me-" she drew in sudden breath "-under very strange circumstances."

I looked at her lovely profile, waiting. When she said no more, I prompted, "Part two?"

She spoke immediately. "There is a wardrobe mistress in our company whose mother was a Gypsy. She claims to have-what shall I call it?-the power of divination?"

The beating of my heart was very heavy now. "And?" I murmured.

"Six months ago, she told me that-" She stopped uncomfortably.

"Please tell me," I asked.

She hesitated, then began again. "That I would meet this ... man in November." I heard the sound of her swallowing. "On a beach," she said.

I couldn't speak, overwhelmed by what she'd told me. The miracle of what had taken place in my life now seemed balanced by the miracle of what had taken place in hers. Not that I believed I was the only man in the world for her; nothing like that. It was simply that I felt a sense of what can only be described as awe at the phenomenon of our coming together.

Her voice returned before mine did. She gestured with her right hand; a gesture of confusion. "At the time," she said, "I hadn't the slightest notion we'd be bringing Minister here for a tryout. The invitation came months later. And I never associated Coronado with what Marie had told me." She seemed to stare into her memory. "It wasn't until we arrived at the hotel that it all came back to me," she went on. "I was looking through that window over there on Tuesday afternoon when, suddenly, the sight of the beach made me remember what Marie had said-then what the Indian woman had said."

Turning her head, she looked at me accusingly, though, God knows, it was gentle accusation. "I've been behaving very strangely since that moment," she told me. "I was absolutely dreadful at rehearsal yesterday." I remembered what Robinson had said last night. "I forgot lines by the peck, lost hold of blocking-everything. And I never do that. Never. " She shook her head. "But I did; I could do nothing right. All I could do was think that it was November and I was near a beach and I'd been told, not once but twice, that I would meet a man at this time, in a place like this. I didn't want to meet a man. I mean-"

She broke off and I felt her agitation at having revealed more than she intended. She made a gesture with her hands as though repelling her disclosure. "At any rate," she said,

"that's why I asked 'Is it you?'-something I would never do otherwise." Again, she shook her head, this time with a rueful sound. "When you said 'Yes,' I almost fainted."

"I almost fainted when you said, 'Is it you?' "

She looked at me quickly. "You didn't know I was expecting you?"

I hoped I hadn't made a terrible mistake but knew I couldn't backtrack now. "No," I said.

"Why did you say 'Yes' then?" she asked.

"So you'd accept me," I said. "I do believe we were destined to meet. I just didn't know you were waiting."

She gazed at me intently, drawing at me with her eyes. "Where did you come from, Richard?" she asked.

I almost told her. At the time, it seemed so natural that it almost came out. Only at the last second did some inner caution prevail, making me realize that it is one thing to have the future foretold by an Indian woman and a Gypsy-born wardrobe mistress, and another to have that future brought into shocking relief by someone who has traveled backward to it.

When I failed to speak, she made a sound so despairing that it agonized me. "There it is again," she said. "This cloud you hold above me. This mystery."

"I don't mean to hold it over you," I said. "I only mean to protect you."

"From what?"

Again there was no answer I could give which would make sense to her. "I don't know," I said. As she drew away from me, I added quickly, "I only sense that it would harm you and I can't do that." I reached for her hand. "I love you, Elise."

She stood before I could touch her, moving away from the sofa with short, agitated strides. "Don't be unfair," she said.

"I'm sorry" I told her. "It's just that-"What could I say? "-I've committed myself so totally that it's difficult-" "I cannot commit myself to anything," she interrupted. I sat in numbed, defeated silence, looking at her. She was standing by the window, arms crossed, looking toward the ocean. I sensed a terrible tension in her, something she kept deep within only with the greatest effort of will. Something I could not hope to reach, not even knowing what it was. I knew only that the feeling of affinity I'd had so strongly moments earlier was, now, completely dissipated.

I think she must have felt my sense of loss; felt, at least, that she had put me down too harshly, for her posture softened and she said, "Please don't be hurt. It isn't you. It isn't that I'm not . . . attracted; obviously I am."

She groaned softly, turning to me. "If you knew how I have lived," she told me. "If you knew to what degree my behavior toward you is a total reversal of everything I have ever done before-"

I do know, I thought. It didn't help to know. "You saw how my mother reacted to your presence here last night," she said. "To my inviting you to dine with us. You saw how my manager reacted. They were flabbergasted; it is the only possible word." She made a sound of pained amusement. "Yet no more flabbergasted than I."

I did not respond. There was nothing more I could say, I felt. I'd made my statement, presented my case. All I could do now was back off and give her time. Time, I thought; always time. Time which had brought me to her. Time which, now, must help me win her.

"You ... flatter me with your commitment," she said, the phrase sounding too formal to reassure me. "Even though I scarcely know you, there is something in your manner I have never seen in a man. I know you intend me no harm, I even . . . trust you." Her admission was bemused, revealing clearly what her attitude toward men had been for many years. "But commitment? No."

I must have made a forlorn-looking figure, for the sight of me appeared to move her and she came back, sitting down beside me. She smiled and I was able to return it- barely.

"Do you realize-?" she started. "No, you couldn't, but believe me when I tell you that it is so-that it is nothing short of incredible for a man to be sitting next to me in my hotel room? Me wearing nightclothes? With not another soul around? It's . . . supernatural, Richard." Her smile attempted to convey to me just how supernatural it was. But, of course, I knew already and could take no cheer from it.

She made a sound of bafflement. "You cannot remain here," she said. "If my mother came and found you, at this hour, me in my gown and robe, she'd just . . . explode."

The vision of her mother exploding seemed to hit us simultaneously for we both laughed at the same time.

"Stop," she told me suddenly. "She is in the next room and will hear."

In romantic tales, laughter shared by men and women invariably results in wrought-up staring, fervent embrace, and passionate kiss. Not in our case. Both of us controlled again, she merely stood and said, "You have to go now, Richard."

"May we have breakfast together?" I asked.

There was hesitation on her part before she nodded and said, "I'll get dressed." I tried to feel a sense of victory at her acceptance but logic refused to allow it. I watched as she crossed to the bedroom, entered it, and closed the door.

I stared at it, trying as hard as I could to generate some feeling of confidence in my relationship with her. I couldn't though. Standing like a wall between us was her background and her lifestyle; what she was. Which made it difficult indeed. Fantasy had made me fall in love with a photograph and travel through time to be with her. Fantasy may even have foretold my coming to her.

Beyond that, the situation was, and is, one of absolute reality. Only real actions can determine our future now.

� � �

The sign above the door read Breakfast Room. We moved through the entry arch and a small man in a crisp black suit led us toward a table.

The room could not look more different from the room it was-the room it is to be, I mean. Only the overhead paneling is the same. There are no peripheral arches, and the room is considerably smaller than I remember it. The windows are shorter and narrower with wooden Venetian blinds hanging over them, and there are round tables as well as square, with slat chairs grouped around them, white cloths kept on each, bowls of fresh-cut flowers centered on them.

As we passed a particular table, a short, stocky man with kinky blond hair jumped to his feet and took Elise's hand, kissing it floridly; an actor, no doubt, I decided. Elise introduced him as a Mr. Jepson. Mr. Jepson eyed me with unguarded curiosity before and after we moved on, not accepting his invitation to join him.

The man seated us at a table by the window, bowed to us with a tight, mechanical smile, and departed. As I sat, I saw the reason that the room looked smaller. Where I remembered sitting previously was an outdoor veranda with rocking chairs on it.

I looked aside to see that, however glancingly, Mr. Jepson's beady eyes were still on us. "I seem to be compromising you again," I said. "I apologize."

"The deed is done, Richard," she replied. I must say that she sounded calm enough about it, giving me the impression that she doesn't permit herself to be overly disturbed by the adverse opinion of others; another point in her favor. As if she needed one.

As I picked up the napkin which was tented on the plate in front of me, I heard a man nearby say loudly, "We are a nation of seventy-five million strong, sir." The figure startled me. In excess of a hundred million more people within the next seventy-five years? I thought. Lord.

I'd missed Elise's question in the thought. I begged her pardon. "Are you hungry yet?" she repeated.