Somewhere in Time (9 page)

Well, I'll deal with that problem if it gets out of hand. Maybe it never will.

I'm thinking more and more of the fact that, in going back, I am to be the cause of the tragedy which fills this face; I have her photograph in front of me on the writing table.

Have I the right to do this to her?

I know I've already done it. Yet, there again, increasingly, I sense a variable factor in the past as well as in the future. I don't know why I feel it but I do. A feeling that I have the choice of not going back if I wish. I feel this intensely.

But why would I not go back now? Even if I knew (and I don't), that I would have no more than moments with her. After all this, to not go back? It's unthinkable.

Beyond that, I have other thoughts. Thoughts about choice which can make the situation far more complicated than it already is.

What did Priestley say? Let me check it out again.

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Here is what he says, in the final chapter, entitled "One Man and Time."

He speaks of a woman's dream in Russia; Countess Toutschkoff in 1812. She dreamed, three times in one night, that her husband, a general in the army, was going to die in a battle at a place called Borodino. When she woke up and mentioned it to her husband, they couldn't even find the name on a map.

Three months later, her husband died in the Battle of Borodino.

Priestley then mentions another dream; by an American woman in the twentieth century. This woman dreamed that her baby drowned in a stream. Months later, she found herself in the identical place she'd dreamed of, her baby dressed the same as in the dream and about to be involved in the identical predicament which resulted in its drowning in the dream.

The woman, recognizing the parallel, altered the foreseen tragedy by saving her child's life.

What Priestley suggests is that the scope of the event determines whether it is subject to alteration in any way. Such a mass of details were contributing to the actualization of the Battle of Borodino that in no way could such a complex event be interfered with.

On the other hand, the potential drowning of one baby (unless, presumably, that baby were a Caesar or a Hitler) constituted an event of such a lesser nature that it could be intervened upon and changed.

This being true of future events, I believe that the same conditions must apply to past events. I was here in 1896 and caused a change in Elise McKenna's life. But that change did not have the vastly historical scope of a Battle of Borodino. It was, like the impending death of a child, a smaller event.

Why then should I not be able to go back, just as before, but, instead of causing sorrow in her life, cause only joy? Surely that sorrow was caused not by her meeting me or by anything I did to her but by her somehow losing me to the same phenomenon of time which brought me to her. I know this sounds mad but I believe it.

I also believe that, when the moment comes, I can alter that particular phenomenon.

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Another solution occurs to me!

I'll ignore the new instruction. Since the sound of my voice distracts me, let me eliminate that sound. I'll write instructions to my subconscious-twenty-five, fifty, a hundred times each. As I do this, I'll listen to Mahler's Ninth Symphony on my headphones, let it be my candle flame, my swinging pendant as I send written instructions to my subconscious that today is November 19, 1896.

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An amendment. I will listen only to the final movement of the symphony.

The movement in which, wrote Bruno Walter, "Mahler peacefully bids farewell to the world."

I will also use it to bid farewell to this world-of 1971.

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I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.

I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.

I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.

(Written fifty times by Richard.)

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Today is Thursday, November 19, 1896. Today is Thursday, November 19, 1896. (Written one hundred times.)

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Elise McKenna is in the hotel now. (One hundred times.)

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Every moment brings me closer to Elise. (One hundred times.)

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It is now November 19, 1896.

(Sixty-one times.)

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Nine forty-seven p.m. It happened.

I don't recall exactly when. I was writing It is now November 19, 1896. My wrist and arm were aching. I seemed to be in a fog. I mean literally. A mist appeared to be gathering around me. I could hear the adagio movement in my head. I was playing it for the umpteenth time. I could see the pencil moving on the paper. It seemed to be writing by itself. The connection between myself and it had vanished. I stared at its movement, mesmerized.

Then it happened. A flicker. I can think of no better word. My eyes were open but I was asleep. No, not asleep. Gone somewhere. The music stopped and, for an instant-but a totally distinct and unmistakable instant-I was there. In 1896.

It came and went so fast, I think it may have been no longer than an eye blink.

I know it sounds insane and unconvincing. It even does to me as I hear my voice describing it. And yet it happened. Every fiber in my system knew that I was sitting here-in this exact spot-not in 1971 but in 1896.

My God, the very sound of my voice as I say 1971 makes me cringe. I feel as though I'm back in a cage. I was released before. In that miraculous instant, the door sprang open and I stepped out and was free.

I have a feeling that the headphones were responsible for it not lasting longer than it did. As much as I love the music, I'm appalled to think that I had these headphones on at that moment, holding me back.

Now that I know it works and the project is simplified to the status of repetition, a most important practical consideration occurs to me. Clothes.

Weird-but I mean weird-that, all this time, it never crossed my mind that to be in 1896 with the clothes I'm wearing now would prove so calamitous it could undo the entire project.

Obviously, I have to find myself an outfit fitting to the time I'll be in.

Where do I find it though? Tomorrow's Friday. I don't know why I have this conviction that it has to happen tomorrow. I do have the conviction though and don't intend to fight it.

Which leaves only one possibility regarding clothes.

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Looking through the Yellow Pages. Costume houses. Obviously no time to have one tailor-made. A shame I didn't foresee the need. Well, how could I? It wasn't till after noon today that I even accepted the possibility of reaching her. Last night and this morning, I was calling it a delusion. A delusion! God, that's incredible.

Here's one. The San Diego Costume Company on 7th Avenue. I'll go there first thing in the morning.

No point in continuing tonight. It might even be dangerous. What if I broke through inadvertently, wearing this damned jumpsuit? I'd look bizarre wearing an outfit like this in 1896.

Tomorrow. That's the big day. I'm so convinced of it I'd bet-

No need for betting. It's not a gamble.

Tomorrow, I'll be with her.

November 19, 1971

Five oh two a.m. Getting up now. Temptation not to move. Have to move, though, have to rise and shine? Not bloody likely. Getting up though. Even if I fall down. Get my clothes on ... get downstairs and to the beach, the air. Walk this headache into the ground.

Because today's the day.

You can't win, head. Today's the day.

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Eight forty-three a.m. On my way to San Diego. For the last time. I keep saying that. Well, it's true this time. No need to come again.

Headache's not exactly gone but not bad enough to prevent me from driving.

Odd how removed I feel from everything I see around me. Is it possible that part of me's already in 1896, waiting for the rest of me to show up? Like the part of me that stayed at the hotel the other day while the rest drove to San Diego?

Sure, it's possible. Who am I to deny anything at this point?

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Nine twenty-seven a.m. Good luck all around. There weren't a lot of choices to make but one suit in the costume house might have been made for me. It's on the seat beside me now, nestled in tissue paper in its box. I hope Elise likes it.

It's black. The coat is what they call a frock coat. Awfully long, goes down to the knees, for God's sake. The man tried to tout me on what he called a morning coat, but the way it was cut, sloping away from the front to broad tails behind, it seemed a little limited as far as use.

The pants-the trousers, sir-are rather narrow with braided side seams. I also have a high-collared white shirt, a single-breasted, beige-colored waistcoat with lapels, and an octagon tie which suspends from a band fastened behind the neck. I'll really look like a dude. I trust it's all appropriate. It looked good in the mirror. Right down to the short boots, also black.

A rather strange experience talking to the man at the costume house. Strange because I felt only partially there. He asked me why I wanted the costume. I told him I was going to an 1890s party tomorrow night-not entirely untrue now that I think about it. I told him I wanted to look as authentic as possible.

How long did I plan to rent it? I was tempted to answer: seventy-five years. Over the weekend, I told him.

I was on the verge of leaving San Diego when it dawned on me that going back to 1896 well dressed wouldn't buy me a cup of coffee. It's incredible that I had also overlooked so elementary an item as enough cash to tide me over until I can find employment. I can't imagine what I had in mind. Asking Elise for money? The vision makes me cringe. Hello, I love you, may I borrow twenty dollars? Godamighty.

Again, good luck. The first coin and stamp shop I went to had a twenty-dollar gold certificate in good condition. It cost me sixty dollars but I felt extremely fortunate to find it. The man in the shop knew of an available twenty-dollar gold certificate that had never been circulated and I was tempted to buy it until he told me it would cost about six hundred dollars.

It's a pretty-looking note with a portrait of President Garfield on its front, a colorful red seal, and the words Twenty Dollars / in / Gold Coin / repayable to the bearer on demand. On its back is a bright orange picture of an eagle holding arrows in its talons.

For insurance, I also bought a ten-dollar silver certificate in reasonable condition (cost forty-five dollars) with a portrait of Thomas A. Hendricks on its front, whoever he may have been. Both it and the twenty-dollar note are considerably larger in size than bills of today and will, of course, be considerably larger in value to me. So I should be in good condition, moneywise.

Moneywise. Yuck. How un-Victorian.

I suppose I should have spent more time looking for money-especially since whatever I leave behind will be worthless to me-but I was anxious to get back to the hotel and begin. Time is running out.

I had a good idea as I was driving back. There's no need to wear the headphones. I'll listen to the phonograph as I sit on the bed in my 1890s outfit, writing my instructions, and waiting for the journey to begin.

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Ten oh two a.m. Ready to go.

So anxious to get started that I parked the car behind the hotel to save time. Now I've showered and shaved, combed my hair. I presume the length of it will be appropriate; nothing I can do about it if it isn't.

I've cut the labels from the frock coat, waistcoat, shirt, and tie. Two reasons. One; I wouldn't want anyone to see them in 1896; impossible to explain. More importantly, I don't want to see them myself. Once there, I intend to thrust all memories of 1971 from my mind. I've even scraped away the printing inside the boots; as little a thing as that might undo everything. No socks, no underwear; too contemporary in appearance.

All set then. Nothing of the present left to go with me; nothing noticeable, I mean. I'll write my instructions beside me on the bed instead of on my lap as before. I'm sure I'll drop the pencil when it happens. No headphones to impede me. I'm prepared for instant change.

Except in my brain, of course. That I'll have to deal with when I get there.

Of course! I'll continue writing instructions when I'm there! Reinforcing my position in 1896. Removing myself mentally from 1971 until-I can foresee it clearly-I will forget where I came from and be exclusively, body and soul, a resident of 1896. I'll get rid of the clothes and-

Good God! I almost overlooked my wristwatch!

That shook me. I'd better wait until the impression of the band wears off. I'm putting it in the drawer of the bedside table so I won't see it. I've put the telephone under the bed, put the lamp from the bedside table in the closet, removed the bedspread so all I'll see on the edges of vision will be white sheet.

For consistency's sake I'm going to stay with November 19th in my instructions. The logic of it has an extra satisfaction now because today really is the 19th of November.

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Let's see now. Is there anything I've overlooked? Anything at all?

I don't think so.

I'll turn on the music.

Last look around. I'm leaving this.

Today.

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Eleven fourteen a.m. Again!

The same thing-longer this time. Not just a flicker; more than just an instant between eye blinks. This lasted. Probably only seconds-maybe five or six-yet, under the circumstances, it was as meaningful to me as if it had been centuries.

The process is under way.

It happened on the third playing of the adagio. I was writing the instruction: I am in this room on November 19, 1896. I was in the middle of the thirty-seventh transcription of it when the change took place. The word November breaks off after the first four letters, a pencil trail descending from the e, then disappearing.

So I can estimate when it happened. The movement of the symphony was almost over when I emerged from the absorption. Therefore, it must have taken place approximately an hour after I began, the adagio being twenty-one minutes in length.