The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(96)
He admired the way she tried to appear blasé, as though spending her afternoons going to bed with men from the future in London boardinghouses was second nature to her. Once he had paid for the room, the two of them climbed the stairs leading to the first floor and went along the narrow corridor. As he watched her walking in front of him with a mixture of boldness and submission, Tom became aware for the first time of what was about to happen. There was no turning back: he was going to make love to the girl, he was going to hold her naked, eager, even passionate body in his arms. His whole body suddenly burned with lust, sending a shudder from head to toes. He tried to contain his excitement as they paused before the door. All at once Claire tensed.
“I know it will be wonderful,” she said suddenly, half closing her eyes as if to bolster her courage.
“It will be, Claire,” Tom echoed, trying to conceal his eagerness to undress her. “You told me so yourself.” The girl nodded and gave a sigh of resignation. Without further ado, Tom pushed open the door and gestured politely for her to go in before closing it behind them. When they had vanished inside, the narrow corridor was once more deserted. The last rays of the evening sun filtered through the grimy window at the far end. It was a fading light with coppery tones, a soft, pale, almost melancholy glow that shone onto the floating dust particles turning them into tiny glittering insects. Although, given the leisurely, hypnotic way the particles swirled at random, a spray of pollen might be a more suitable metaphor, do you not agree? From behind a few of the closed doors came the unmistakable sounds of amorous engagement: grunts, stifled cries, and even the occasional hearty slap of a hand on a tender buttock—noises which, added to the rhythmical creaking of bed frames, suggested that the lovemaking going on there was not of a conjugal nature. Mingled with a few of the guests” carnal exploits, other sounds of a less lustful nature, like snippets of conversation or a child crying, helped give the finishing touches to the chaotic symphony of the world. The corridor in the boardinghouse was some thirty yards long and decorated with prints of misty landscapes, with several oil lamps attached to the walls.
As was his custom, the landlord, Mr. Pickard (I feel it would be churlish not to introduce him by name even though he will not be appearing again in this tale), was at that very moment preparing to light the lamps, in order not to leave it in darkness, which could have led to all sorts of mishaps when his guests later left the establishment.
Those were his footsteps echoing on the stairs. Each night he found them more difficult to climb, for the years had taken their toll, and recently he could not help giving a triumphant sigh when he reached the top. Mr. Pickard took the box of matches out of his trouser pocket and began lighting the half dozen lamps dotted along the wall in the corridor. He did so very slowly, slipping the match under each lampshade like a skilled swordsman performing a final thrust, and holding it there until the oil-soaked wick caught alight. Time had transformed this gesture into an almost mechanical ceremony he performed mechanically. None of the guests would have been able to tell what Mr. Pickard was thinking as he performed his daily lamp-lighting ritual, but I am not one of the guests and, as with all the other characters in this novel, his innermost thoughts are not off limits to me. Mr. Pickard was thinking about his little granddaughter Wendy, who had died of scarlet fever more than ten years earlier: he could not help comparing the act of lighting those lamps with the manner in which the Creator behaved towards all his creatures, allowing them to burn, then snuffing them out whenever he felt like it, without any explanation or consideration for those he left plunged into darkness. When Mr. Pickard had lit the last lamp, he walked back down the passageway and descended the stairs, exiting this tale as discreetly as he had entered it.
After he had gone, the corridor was once more deserted, although brightly lit. You are probably hoping I will not describe it to you again, but I am afraid I will, as I have no intention of crossing the threshold into the room Tom and Claire are in and rudely intruding on their privacy. Take pleasure in the flickering shadows on the flowery wallpaper, and play at seeing bunnies, bears, and puppy dogs in their shifting shapes as evening turns to night, as—oblivious of man’s concerns—minutes turn inexorably into hours, like a snowball rolling down a hill.
I will not ask you how many little animal shapes you managed to see before the door to the room finally opened and Tom stepped out. A smile of satisfaction playing on his lips, he tucked his shirt into his trousers and pulled on his cap. Gently extricating himself from Claire’s embrace, he had told her he must go before the hole in time closed up. She had kissed him with the solemnity of one who knows she is kissing the man she loves for the very last time, and with the kiss still imprinted on his lips, Tom Blunt began descending the stairs, wondering how it was possible to feel like the happiest man in the world and at the same time the most despicable creature in the universe.
28
Two days had gone by since their meeting, and, to his surprise, Tom was still alive.
No one had shot him in the head as he sat up with a start in his bed, or followed him through the streets waiting to thrust a thirsty blade into his side in the midst of a crowd, or tried to run him down in a carriage, or push him in front of a train. Tom could only presume that this agonizing calm, this excruciating slowness in finishing him off was either their way of tormenting him or that no one was going to make him pay for what he had done. More than once, unable to bear the strain, Tom was on the point of ending it all himself, slitting his throat, or throwing himself off a bridge into the Thames, in the family tradition. Either method seemed a good way of escaping from the apprehension that had even infiltrated his dreams, transforming them into nightmares in which Solomon roamed the streets of London with his metal insect gait, making his way through the crowds thronging the pavements with their hats and coats, and clambering with difficulty up the stairs to his room. Tom awoke when the automaton broke down his door, and for a few bewildered moments believed he really was the brave Captain Shackleton, who had escaped from the year 2000 and was hiding in 1896. He was powerless to dispel those dreams, but if at night he was at the mercy of his fears, in the daytime he was able to overcome them; by keeping a level head, he had managed to compose himself and was even prepared to accept his fate with calm resignation. He would not take his own life. It was far more dignified to die looking his killers straight in the eye, whether they were made of flesh and blood or of cast iron.