The Map of Time and The Turn of the Screw. Felix J. Palma
the unusual building. As they drew closer, they understood why. A nauseating odour made them screw up their faces in disgust and invited them to regurgitate the breakfast they had just eaten. The cause of the stench was a viscous substance, which a couple of workmen, masked with neckerchiefs, were vigorously washing off part of the façade with the aid of brushes and pails of water. As the brushes made contact with the dark substance, it slopped on to the pavement, transformed into a revolting black slime.
‘Sorry about the inconvenience, gents,’ one of the workmen said, pulling down his neckerchief. ‘Some louse smeared cow dung all over the front of the building, but we’ll soon have it cleaned off.’
Exchanging puzzled looks, Andrew and Charles pulled out their handkerchiefs and, covering their faces like highwaymen, hurried through the front door. In the hallway, the evil smell was being kept at bay by rows of strategically placed vases of gladioli and roses. Just as on the outside of the building, the interior was filled with a profusion of objects whose theme was time. The central area was taken up by a gigantic mechanical sculpture consisting of an enormous pedestal out of which two articulated spider-like arms stretched towards the shadowy ceiling. They were clutching an hourglass the size of a calf embossed with iron rivets and bands. It contained not sand but a sort of blue sawdust that flowed gracefully from one section to the other and even gave off a faint, evocative sparkle when caught by the light from the nearby lamps. Once the contents had emptied into the lower receptacle, the arms turned the hourglass by means of some complex hidden mechanism, so that the artificial sand never ceased to flow, a reminder of time itself.
Alongside the colossal structure there were many other remarkable objects. Although less spectacular, they were more noteworthy for having been invented many centuries before, like the bracket clocks bristling with levers and cogs that stood silently at the back: according to the plaques on their bases, they were early efforts at mechanical timepieces. The walls were lined with hundreds of clocks, from the traditional Dutch stoelklok, adorned with mermaids and cherubs, to Austro-Hungarian examples with seconds pendulums. The air was filled with a relentless ticking, which must have become an endless accompaniment to the lives of those who worked in the building and without whose comforting presence they doubtless felt bereft on Sundays.
A young woman stood up from her desk in the corner and came over to Andrew and Charles. She walked with the grace of a rodent, her steps following the rhythm of the insistent ticking. After greeting them courteously, she informed them excitedly that there were still a few tickets left for the third expedition to the year 2000 and that they could make a reservation if they wished. Charles refused her offer with a dazzling smile, telling her they were there to see Gilliam Murray. The woman hesitated briefly, then informed them that he was in the building and, although he was a very busy man, she would do her best to arrange for them to meet him. Charles showed his appreciation of this with an even more captivating smile. Once she had managed to tear her eyes away from his perfect teeth, she wheeled round and gestured to them to follow her.
At the far end of the vast hall a marble staircase led to the upper floors. She guided the cousins down a long corridor lined with tapestries depicting various scenes from the war of the future. Naturally, the corridor, too, was replete with the obligatory clocks, hanging on the walls and standing on dressers or shelves, filling the air with their ubiquitous ticking. When they reached Murray’s ostentatious office door, the woman asked them to wait outside, but Charles ignored her request and followed her in, dragging his cousin behind him.
The gigantic proportions of the room surprised Andrew, as did the clutter of furniture and the numerous maps lining the walls. He was reminded of the campaign tents from which field marshals orchestrated wars. They had to glance around the room several times before they discovered Gilliam Murray, lying stretched out on a rug, playing with a dog.
‘Good day, Mr Murray’ said Charles, before the secretary had a chance to speak. ‘My name is Charles Winslow and this is my cousin, Andrew Harrington. We would like a word with you, if you are not too busy’
Gilliam Murray, a strapping fellow in a garish purple suit, accepted the thrust sportingly but with the enigmatic expression of a man who holds a great many aces up his sleeve, which he has every intention of pulling out at the first opportunity. ‘I always have time for two such illustrious gentlemen as yourselves,’ he said, picking himself up.
When he had risen to his full height, Andrew and Charles could see that Gilliam Murray seemed to have been magnified by some kind of spell. Everything about him was oversized, from his hands, which appeared capable of wrestling a bull to the ground by its horns, to his head, which looked more suited to a Minotaur. However, he moved with extraordinary, even graceful, agility. His straw-coloured hair was combed carefully back, and the smouldering intensity of his big blue eyes betrayed an ambitious, proud spirit, which he toned down with a friendly smile.
With a wave, he invited to them to follow him to his desk on the far side of the room. He led them along the trail he had forged between globes, tables piled with books, and notebooks strewn all over the floor. Andrew noticed there was no shortage of clocks there either. Besides those hanging from the walls and invading the bookcase, an enormous glass cabinet contained a collection of portable clocks, sundials, intricate water clocks and other artefacts showing the evolution of the display of time. It appeared to Andrew that presenting all these objects was Murray’s clever way of showing the absurdity of man’s vain attempts to capture an elusive, absolute, mysterious and indomitable force. With his colourful collection, he seemed to be saying that man’s only achievement was to strip time of its metaphysical essence, transforming it into a commonplace instrument for ensuring he did not arrive late to meetings.
Charles and Andrew lowered themselves into two plush Jacobean-style armchairs facing the majestic desk at which Murray sat, framed by an enormous window behind him. As the light streamed in through the leaded panes, suffusing the office with rustic cheer, it even occurred to Andrew that the entrepreneur had a sun all of his own, while everyone else was submerged in the dull morning light.
‘I hope you’ll forgive the unfortunate smell in the entrance,’ Murray said, with a grimace. ‘This is the second time someone has smeared excrement on the front of the building. Perhaps an organised group is attempting to disrupt the smooth running of our enterprise in this unpleasant way’ He shrugged his shoulders despairingly, as though to emphasise how upset he was about the matter. ‘As you can see, not everyone thinks time travel is a good thing for society. And yet society has been clamouring for it ever since Mr Wells’s wonderful novel came out. I can think of no other explanation for these acts of vandalism, as the perpetrators have not claimed responsibility or left any clues. They simply foul the front of our building.’
He stared into space for a moment, lost in thought. Then he appeared to rouse himself, sat upright and looked straight at his visitors. ‘But, tell me, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
‘I would like you to organise a private journey back to the autumn of 1888, Mr Murray’ replied Andrew, who had been waiting impatiently for the giant to allow them to get a word in edgeways.
‘To the Autumn of Terror?’ asked Murray, taken aback.
‘Yes, to the night of November the seventh, to be precise.’
Murray studied him silently. Finally, without trying to conceal his annoyance, he opened one of the desk drawers and took out a bundle of papers tied with a ribbon. He set them on the desk wearily, as if he were showing them some tiresome burden he was compelled to suffer. ‘Do you know what this is, Mr Harrington?’ He sighed. ‘These are the letters we receive every day from private individuals. Some want to be taken to the hanging gardens of Babylon, others to meet Cleopatra, Galileo or Plato, still more to see with their own eyes the battle of Waterloo, the building of the Pyramids or Christ’s crucifixion. Everybody wants to go back to their favourite moment in history, as though it were as simple as giving an address to a coachman. They think the past is at our disposal. I am sure you have your reasons for wanting to travel to 1888, like those who wrote these requests, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘I only need to go back eight years, Mr Murray’ replied Andrew. ‘And I’ll pay anything you ask.’
‘This