The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(163)
“Yes, Mr. Harrington, of course I remember you,” he said, pleased to see the young man was still alive and his efforts had not been in vain. “How good it is to meet you.” “Likewise, Mr. Wells,” said Andrew.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, grinning idiotically.
“Did you destroy the time machine?” enquired Andrew.
“Er … yes, yes,” stammered Wells, and quickly tried to change the subject. “What brings you here? Did you come to watch the dawn?” “Yes,” the other man confessed, turning to look at the sky, which just then was a palette of beautiful orange and purple hues.
“Although, in actual fact I’m trying to see what’s behind it.” “What’s behind it?” asked Wells, intrigued.
Andrew nodded.
“Do you remember what you told me after I came back from the past in your time machine?” he said, rummaging for something in his coat pocket. “You assured me I’d killed Jack the Ripper, in spite of this newspaper clipping contradicting it.” Andrew showed Wells the same yellowed cutting he had presented to him in the kitchen of his house in Woking a few weeks before. “Jack the Ripper Strikes Again!” the headline announced, going on to list the ghastly wounds the monster had inflicted on his fifth victim, the Whitechapel prostitute whom the young man loved. Wells nodded, unable to help wondering, as everyone did in those days, what had happened to the ruthless murderer, why he had suddenly stopped killing and had disappeared without a trace.
“You said it was because my action had caused a bifurcation in time,” Andrew went on, slipping the cutting back in his pocket.
“A parallel world I think you called it, a world in which Marie Kelly was alive and living happily with my twin. Although, unfortunately, I was in the wrong world.” “Yes, I remember,” said Wells cautiously, uncertain what the young man was driving at.
“Well, Mr. Wells. Saving Marie Kelly encouraged me to forget about suicide and to carry on with my life. And that is what I am doing. I recently became engaged to an adorable young woman, and I am determined to enjoy her company and to savor the small things in life.” He paused and looked up at the sky again. “And yet I come here each dawn to try to see the parallel world you spoke of, and in which I am supposedly living happily with Marie Kelly.
And do you know what, Mr. Wells?” “What?” asked the writer, swallowing hard, afraid the young man was about to turn round and punch him, or seize him by the lapels and throw him into the river, out of revenge for having deceived him in such a childish way.
“Sometimes I can see her,” said Andrew, in an almost tremulous whisper.
The author stared at him, dumbfounded.
“You can see her?” “Yes, Mr. Wells,” the young man affirmed, smiling like one who has had a revelation, “sometimes I see her.” Whether or not Andrew really believed this or had chosen to believe it Wells did not know, but the effect on the young man appeared to be the same: Wells’s fabrication had preserved him, like a bed of ice. He watched the young man contemplating the dawn, or perhaps what was “behind” it, an almost childlike expression of ecstasy illuminating his face, and could not help wondering which of them was more deluded: the skeptical writer, incapable of believing the things he himself had written, or the desperate young man, who in a noble act of faith had decided to believe Wells’s beautiful lie, taking refuge in the fact that no one could prove it was untrue.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Mr. Wells,” Andrew suddenly said, turning to shake his hand.
“Likewise,” replied Wells.
After they had said good-bye, Wells stood for a few moments watching the young man cross the bridge unhurriedly, swathed in the golden light of dawn. Parallel worlds. He had completely forgotten about the theory he had been obliged to make to save the young man’s life. But did they really exist? Did each of man’s decisions give rise to a different world? In fact, it was na?ve to think there was only one alternative to each predicament. What about the unchosen universes, the ones that were flushed away, why should they have less right to exist than the others? Wells doubted very much whether the structure of the universe depended on the unpredictable desires of that fickle, timid creature called man. It was more reasonable to suppose that the universe was far richer and more immeasurable than our senses could perceive, that when man was faced with two or more options, he inevitably ended up choosing all of them, for his ability to choose was simply an illusion. And so, the world kept splitting into different worlds, worlds that showed the breadth and complexity of the universe, worlds that exploited its full potential, drained all of its possibilities, worlds that evolved alongside one another, perhaps only differentiated by an insignificant detail such as how many flies were in each, because even killing one of these annoying insects implied a choice: it was a insignificant gesture that gave birth to a new universe all the same.
And how many of the wretched creatures buzzing around his windows had he killed or allowed to live, or simply mutilated, pulling off their wings while he thought about how to resolve a dilemma in one of his novels? Perhaps this was a silly example, reflected Wells, as such an action would not have changed the world in any irreversible way. After all, a man could spend his entire life pulling off flies” wings without altering the course of history.
But the same reasoning could be applied to far more significant decisions, and he could not help remembering Gilliam Murray’s second visit. Had Wells not also been torn between two possible choices, and, intoxicated with power, had he not opted to squash the fly, giving rise to a universe in which a company offering trips to the future existed, the absurd universe in which he was now trapped. But, what if he had opted instead to help Murray publish his novel? Then he would be living in a world similar to the one he was in now, only in which the time travel company did not exist, a world in which one more book would have to be added to the necessary bonfire of scientific novels: Captain Derek Shackleton, The True and Exciting Story of a Hero of the Future, by Gilliam F.