The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(8)
He explained he was looking for a woman called Marie Jeannette.
One of the whores left immediately, pretending to be offended, perhaps because she did not want to waste the evening with someone who didn’t want to pay for her services, but the other, the taller of the two, decided to accept his invitation: “I suppose you mean Marie Kelly. That dratted Irishwoman, everybody wants her. I expect she’s done a few by now and is in the Britannia—that’s where we all go when we’ve made enough for a bed and a bit more besides so that we can get drunk quick and forget our sorrows,” she said, with more irony than bitterness.
“Where is this tavern?” Andrew asked.
“Near here, on the corner of Crispin Street and Dorset Street.” The least Andrew could do was thank her for the information by giving her four shillings.
“Get yourself a room,”” he recommended, with a warm smile.
“It’s too cold out there tonight to be traipsing the streets.” “Why, thank you, mister. You’re too kind, I’m sure,” said the whore, genuinely grateful.
Andrew said good-bye, politely doffing his cap.
“If Marie Kelly won’t give you what you want, come back and see me,” she shouted after him with a flash of coquettishness that was blighted by her toothless smile. “My name’s Liz. Liz Stride, don’t forget.” Andrew had no problem finding the Britannia, a seedy bar with a windowed front. Despite being brilliantly lit by oil lamps, the room was thick with tobacco smoke. At the far end was a long bar, with a couple of private rooms to the left. A crowd of noisy customers filled the large main area cluttered with tables and chairs, the floor strewn with sawdust. A fleet of bartenders in filthy aprons squeezed their way between tightly packed tables juggling metal tankards brimming with beer. In the corner, a battered old piano displayed its grubby keys to anyone wishing to enliven the evening with a tune. Andrew reached the bar, the surface of which was laden with large jugs of wine, oil lamps, and plates of cheese cut into huge chunks that looked more like bits of rubble from a dump. He lit a cigarette from one of the lamps, ordered a pint of beer, and leaned discreetly against the bar, surveying the crowd and wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of cooked sausage emanating from the kitchen. As he had been told, the atmosphere there was more relaxed than at the Ten Bells.
Most of the tables were occupied by sailors on shore leave and local people dressed as modestly as he, although he also noticed a few groups of prostitutes busy getting drunk. He sipped his beer slowly and looked for one who fitted Marie Kelly’s description, but none did. By his third beer, he had begun to despair and to wonder what on earth he was doing there, chasing an illusion.
He was about to leave when she pushed her way through the pub door. He recognized her at once. There was no doubt about it: she was the girl in the portrait, but more beautiful still for being endowed with movement. Her face looked drained, yet she moved with the same energy Andrew had imagined she would from seeing her on canvas. Most of the other customers remained oblivious to the apparition. “How was it possible for anyone not to react to the small miracle that had just taken place in the tavern?” thought Andrew. This complete indifference made him feel he was a privileged witness to the phenomenon. And he could not help recalling the time when, as a child, he had seen the wind take a leaf between invisible fingers and balance the tip of it on the surface of a puddle, spinning it like a top until a carriage wheel put an end to its dance. To Andrew it had seemed that Mother Nature had engineered that magic trick for his eyes alone. From then on, he was convinced that the universe dazzled mankind with volcanic eruptions, but had its own secret way of communicating with the select few, people like Andrew who looked at reality as though it were a strip of wallpaper covering up something else. Taken aback, he watched Marie Kelly walk towards him as if she knew him. This made his heart start pounding, but he calmed down when she propped her elbow on the bar and ordered half a pint of beer without even glancing at him.
“Having a good night, Marie?” “Can’t grumble, Mrs. Ringer.” Andrew swallowed, on the verge of blacking out. She was standing next to him! He could scarcely believe it, yet it was true.
He had heard her voice. A tired, rather husky voice, but lovely in any case. And if he really tried, ridding the air of the superfluous stench of tobacco smoke and sausages, he could probably smell her, too. Smell Marie Kelly. Mesmerized, Andrew gazed at her in admiration, rediscovering in her every gesture what he already knew. In the same way a shell holds the roar of the sea, so this frail-looking body seemed to contain within it a force of nature.
When the landlady placed the beer on the counter, Andrew realized this was an opportunity he must not waste. He rummaged swiftly in his pockets and paid before she could: “Allow me, miss.” The gesture, as unexpected as it was chivalrous, earned him an openly approving look from Marie Kelly. Being the focus of her gaze paralyzed him. As the painting had already shown, the girl’s eyes were beautiful, and yet they seemed buried beneath a layer of resentment. He could not help comparing her to a poppy field where someone has decided to dump refuse. And yet he was completely, hopelessly enthralled by her, and he tried to make that instant when their eyes crossed as meaningful to her as it was to him, but—and my apologies to any romantic souls reading these lines—some things cannot be expressed in a look. How could Andrew make her share in the almost mystical feeling overwhelming him at that moment? How could he convey, with nothing more than his eyes, the sudden realization that he had been searching for her all his life without knowing it? If in addition we consider that Marie Kelly’s existence up to that point had done little to increase her understanding of life’s subtleties, it should come as no surprise that this initial attempt at spiritual communion (for want of a better way of putting it) was doomed to failure. Andrew did his best, obviously, but the girl understood his passionate gaze just as she interpreted that of the other men who accosted her every evening.