The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(97)
Convinced he had not long to live, Tom saw no point in going to the docks to look for work: he could just as well die with empty pockets. And so he spent his days wandering aimlessly around London, like a leaf blown by the wind. Occasionally he would stretch out in some park like a drunk or a vagrant, while in his mind he went over every detail of his encounter with the girl, her ardent caresses, her intoxicating kisses, the passion and ease with which she had given herself to him. Then he told himself again that it had all been worth it, and that he had no intention of putting up any resistance when they came to kill him, to make him pay for that moment of happiness. Part of him could not help considering the bullet that was so long in coming as just punishment for his despicable behavior.
On the third day, his wanderings took him to Harrow-on-the-Hill, the place he usually went to in search of peace. He could think of no better place to wait for his killers, as he tried to understand the random sequence of events that made up his life, to try to give it some meaning even if he did not believe it. Once he arrived, he sat in the shade of the old oak and breathed in deeply as he cast a dispassionate eye over the city. Seen from the hill, the capital of empire always looked disappointing to him, like a sinister barge with pointed spires and smoking factory chimneys for masts. He exhaled slowly, trying to forget how famished he was. He hoped they would come for him today, or he would have to steal some food before nightfall to stop his stomach rumbling.
“Where were Murray’s thugs?” he wondered for the hundredth time. If they came now he would see them from his vantage point, and he would greet them with his most dazzling smile, unbutton his shirt, and point to his heart to make it easier for them. “Go ahead and kill me,” he would say, “don’t worry; I won’t really kill you later. I’m no hero. I’m just Tom, the despicable wretch Tom Blunt. You can bury me here, next to my friend John Peachey, another wretch like me.” It was at this point that, looking towards the headstone, he noticed the letter tucked under a stone beside it. For a moment he thought he was imagining things. Intrigued, he picked it up and, with an odd sensation of remembering a dream, he saw it was addressed to Captain Derek Shackleton. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do, but of course there was only one thing he could do. As he opened the envelope he could not help feeling he was trespassing, reading someone else’s correspondence. He unfolded the sheet of paper inside and discovered Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant handwriting. He began to read slowly, straining to recall the meaning of each letter, declaiming aloud, as though he wanted to explain to the squirrels the travails of men. The letter read as follows: From Claire Haggerty to Captain Shackleton Dear Derek, I was obliged to start writing this letter at least a dozen times before realizing there was only one possible way to begin, and that is to avoid all preliminary explanations and obey the dictates of my heart: I love you, Derek. I love you as I have never loved anyone. I love you now, and I will love you forever. And my love for you is the only thing that keeps me alive.
I can see the surprise on your face as you read these words written to you by an unknown woman, because I assure you I know that face well. But believe me, my sweet: I love you. Or rather, we love each other. For, although it might seem even stranger to you, as you do not know who I am, you love me, too—or you will do in a few hours, or possibly a few moments, from now. However reluctant you are, however incredible all this seems, you will love me. You simply have no choice. You will love me because you already do.
If I allow myself to address you so affectionately it is because of what we have already shared, and because you must know that I can still feel the warmth of your touch on my skin, the taste of you on my lips, I can feel you inside me. Despite my initial doubts, despite my young girl’s foolish fears, I am overwhelmed by the love you foresaw, or maybe it is an even greater love than that, a love so great nothing will contain it.
Shake your head as much as you like as you try to understand these ravings, but the explanation is quite simple. It boils down to this: what has not yet happened to you has already happened to me. It is one of the strange anomalies that occur in time travel, when journeying back and forth across the centuries. But you know all about that, don’t you? For, if I am not mistaken, you found this letter next to the big oak tree when you stepped out of a time tunnel, so you will not find it so difficult to believe everything I am telling you. Yes, I know the place where you come out and your reason for traveling to my time, and my knowing this can only mean one thing: that what I am saying is true, it is not a hoax. Trust me, then, without reservation. And trust me above all when I tell you we love each other. Start loving me now by replying to this letter and reciprocating my feelings, please. Write me a letter and leave it beside John Peachey’s headstone on your next visit: that will be our way of communicating from now on, my love, for we still have six more letters to write to each other. Are your eyes wide with surprise? I do not blame you, and yet I am only repeating what you told me yesterday. Please write to me, my love, for your letters are all I have left of you.
Yes, that is the bad news: I will never see you again, Derek, which is why I cherish your letters. I shall go directly to the point: the love we are going profess to one another is the result of a single encounter, for we shall meet only once.
Well, twice actually, but the first time (or the last time if we follow the chronology our love has turned on its head) will only last a few minutes. Our second meeting, in my time, will last longer and be more meaningful, for it will feed the love that will rage in our hearts forever, a love our letters will keep alive for me and will initiate for you. And yet if we respect time, I will never see you again. You, on the other hand, do not yet know me, even though we made love together less than a few hours ago. Now I understand your nervousness yesterday when we met at the tearoom: I had already stirred you with my words.