The Ocean of Time (43 page)

Phil is standing by the TV, looking down at us as we sit there, listening. Phil’s not what you’d call a handsome guy, but he’s got a nice smile and a graceful manner. Matt says he’s twenty-three, but, with his slender frame, he looks even younger, despite his receding hairline. He’s wearing a red wool shirt and jeans that are a bit too short, and scuffed Oxfords, but what strikes you most about him is his eyes. Intense green eyes. I like Phil. He’s an interesting man. Unlike Matt’s other buddy, Greg, who sits there, nursing his beer broodily, like he’s afraid to offer any kind of opinion.

Greg’s a big guy. He could easily lose four or five stone. Matt says he’s a glimpse of the future of America in that respect, but what he means by that evades me.

‘I still don’t see it,’ Matt says, picking up on Phil again. ‘Russia was just too big. So let’s say the Nazis
did
capture Moscow? Just how long would they have held it? How long would it have been before Zukhof launched a counter-offensive and took it back?’

‘Damn fine soldier, Zukhof,’ Phil comments, glowing warmly at the thought of the man. ‘Pity he put Stalin’s nose out of joint. Yeah, and he sure paid for that. Stalin sacked him as commander-in-chief in forty-six, just as soon as the war was won. His reward for being more popular than the great leader, eh?’

It’s a perceptive comment, for Stalin, like Hitler, did not –
does not?
– tolerate rivals.

‘Zukhof was lucky,’ I say. ‘At least he got to live. Stalin’s usual style was to have the man killed, then give him a state funeral!’

‘You speak as if he’s dead,’ Phil says, his eyes narrowed as he looks at me.

‘I doubt if he’ll last another year,’ I say. ‘Rumour is his health is bad.’

The fact is I know that Stalin dies next March.

‘So what do you do, Otto?’ Phil asks. ‘I mean, what do you teach?’

‘History,’ I say, and we both laugh.

‘I like history,’ Phil says. ‘But what was it like? In Germany, I mean, before the war? Was it stifling? Claustrophobic?’

‘One breathed hatred,’ I say. And I can say it with conviction. For while the Nazis are
volk
– that is, they’re on
our
side in the Game – it’s one of my least favourite periods of history. In fact, they’re odious bastards, if you want the truth.

Phil nods. ‘Here it was, well, it was like no one wanted to know. There was scarcely anything in the press or on the radio. It was like a conspiracy. A conspiracy of silence.’

‘All ’cept Phil,’ Greg chimes in, with a real southern States drawl. ‘Phil liked to keep us
all
informed.’

I look to him, then back to Phil, wondering just what the connection is, just why these two are friends.

But Phil’s looking at me, questions in his eyes. ‘So what’s your specialty?’ he asks. ‘What period?’

‘Frederick,’ I say. ‘From 1742 to 1786. You know, Prussia … the Seven Years’ War.’

‘Leuthen,’ Phil says. ‘Rossbach …’ He hesitates, then. ‘And Zorndorf?’

‘Excellent!’ I say, delighted that he knows. ‘The three great battles that assured the survival of Prussia and made Frederick’s reputation!’

‘Never heard of the man,’ Greg mumbles, but I’m conscious that Matteus is watching me, a certain glow in his eyes, for Frederick is, as I’ve said before, our hero, and Matteus knows I’ve met him.

‘That’s
real
history,’ Phil says and nods. ‘Real heroism. To take on the three greatest powers of the Age – France, the Austrian Empire and Russia – and defeat them, one after another, in the space of ten months.’

‘Against all odds,’ I say, and all three of us – Phil, Matteus and I – nod and smile, like we’re talking about some all-conquering baseball team.

Real history …

‘Hey, wouldn’t it be great,’ Phil says, his green eyes wide and excited, ‘if you could go back there. See it with your own eyes.
Live
it! Christ! That’d be something!’

‘Yes,’ I say, and I’m almost tempted to tell him, just to see what his reaction would be. Only I don’t.

‘What do
you
do, Phil?’ I ask. ‘I mean, aside from reading history books.’

They finally go just after midnight, leaving Matteus and I to the silence of the house. As Matteus clears away the plates and glasses, I follow him about, talking.

‘I liked him. Phil, that is. He’s an interesting guy.’

Matteus smiles. ‘Isn’t he? But wait. I want to show you something.’

He takes things through to the kitchen, then returns a moment later, a sphinx-like smile hovering on his lips.

‘What?’

‘Just wait. You’ll be surprised.’

I watch him lift the lid of the gramophone, pushing it right back on the two metal extenders, then reach in and, with both hands, lift out the internal mechanism. He puts it aside, then reaches in again, this time with his right hand, removing what looks like a thin silver tile, twelve inches by twelve, covered in mesh. But I know what it is. I’ve seen one before, in the late twenty-first century. It’s a tri-vi player.

‘I thought …’ I begin, then fall silent. Matteus is breaking rules here, but he knows that, so either he’s got dispensation for this, or he’s smuggled it in.

He puts the ‘player’ down on the table, next to the diminutive television set, then tugs on the catch holding the mesh. Immediately the mesh flicks up to form a wafer-thin square three feet by two, that rests horizontally on top of the player.

Matteus’s smile broadens. He takes a tiny silver disc from his pocket and slips it into the slot. Then, stepping past me, he reaches out and switches off the overhead light. There’s a second or two of darkness and then the air above the mesh lights up.

‘It wasn’t made in 3D,’ he says, ‘but it’s a good conversion job.’

Music sounds, echoey, haunting, vaguely oriental. As words form in the air and scroll upwards, so the music changes, becoming nastier, more threatening, in line with what’s written in the air. Something about robots – Nexus 6 replicants – and advanced genetics.

‘What is this?’ I ask, as the screen fills with a nightscape of a city, great fiery flares reaching into the sky. But Matteus doesn’t answer, just lets it run.

Los Angeles
, I read,
November 2019.

‘But that’s—’

‘It’s a movie,’ he says. ‘Just watch.’

I sit on the lounger. Matteus comes and sits beside me, control in hand. The music is beautiful. The city looks like Greater Berlin eight centuries from now. And then an eyeball fills the screen, reflecting the scene.

There are two great ziggurat-like buildings in the distance. A flier makes its way towards them.

I watch, totally absorbed, as the action begins. A psychological test. A murder. Cut to Deckard, sitting in a sushi bar …

We watch maybe half an hour of the film, then Matteus jumps it forward.

‘But …’

‘We haven’t time,’ he says. ‘I want you to see the rest, or some of them. They made over forty, eventually.’

‘About Deckard?’

‘No. But by the same guy. The guy who wrote the original stories. These were the first, though. These set the standard.’

I’m still confused. But now there’s something else on the screen.

‘What’s this one called?’

‘
Total Recall
. It was massive when it first came out. The guy who plays the lead – Schwarzenegger – was the biggest thing in Hollywood at the time.’

‘Hollywood?’ And then I get it. ‘Oh, right. The place they made most of the movies.’

We watch it for a while, and then he jumps it forward again.

‘This one was made about twenty years later. It’s called
Minority Report
.’

We watch ten, maybe fifteen minutes of it, then I take the control from him and pause it.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen enough. It’s good. But why are we watching it?’

In the half-light from the paused frame, Matteus looks at me and smiles. ‘Because it’s Phil’s stuff. He’s the guy who wrote it.’

I’m stunned. ‘
Phil?
’

Matteus stands, then switches on the light. Everything seems dowdy and old-fashioned after what we’ve been watching, like it’s some kind of inferior reality.

‘That’s why I asked for this posting. So I could meet him. Become his friend. You see, this was my period. This is what I’ve researched since I was fourteen years old to the exclusion of all else. 1939 to 2020.’ He grins. ‘These are remarkable times, Otto, but the most remarkable thing about them was their ability to dream, to create powerful, dominant fictions for their time. And Hollywood … Hollywood was where it all came out of.’

He turns and crouches over the player, folding up the mesh.

‘And Phil?’

Because I still can’t believe that Phil wrote all of the stuff I’ve just seen. That it all came out of his head.

Matteus laughs. He seems half drunk. When he turns his head and looks at me, his eyes are on fire. ‘I stumbled on Phil. Discovered him by accident, almost. In fact, I didn’t make the connection at first, but then, when I did, I searched out everything I could about him. Made
him
my life’s work.’

‘And Hecht approved of this?’

He lifts the player and carries it across to the empty gramophone box. ‘Hecht didn’t know. Besides, he wanted someone here. Someone who knew the culture and the times, so he didn’t ask what my motive was. He was just glad I was ready to step in.’

‘But you said you
asked
to be here.’

I watch him drop the player into the bottom of the box, then reach out for the bulky inner mechanism of the old-fashioned gramophone. He eases it into the casing, then drops the lid.

‘Here in Berkeley, I mean. And he agreed. He didn’t mind where I was, as long as I was here, in the western United States in ’52. As long as I was
in situ
. In fact, I’ve been here since ’44. Story was I was invalided out of the armed forces. But it gave me a chance to meet Phil. I used to go along to the record store where he worked, the Art Music Company on Telegraph and Channing. We used to talk about Beethoven and Wagner—’

‘You say
worked
. Has he quit that?’

‘He was fired from it last December. Fell out with his boss.’

‘Ah …’ Which again surprises me. He seems such a mild-mannered man. ‘And he’s been writing ever since?’

‘He’s always been writing. But now he does it full time. He’s sold a couple already, but, well, this is it, you see. This is where it begins. In the next year and a half he’s going to write and sell more than sixty stories!’

It seems a lot, but who am I to judge? ‘Those movies we saw …?’

‘They make them later, from the eighties onward. That’s when he becomes
really
popular. After he’s dead.’

‘And you …?’

‘I wouldn’t tell him a thing. I know the rules. Only … it’s exciting, Otto. To be near the man. To be his friend. To be able to talk to him the way I do.’

I nod. It’s how I feel about Frederick. And Peter, come to that. Only those are supposedly great men. Phil …

‘I know how it looks,’ Matteus says. ‘But there are great men and great men. And Phil, truly, is a great man. You’ll see. Even now, well, he just thinks in ways other people just don’t think. That’s what marks him out. His ability to look at things askew. He’s a shaper, Otto. What he imagines now, well, fifty years on, the rest of the world will catch up. That’s what I mean about him. He’s a visionary. A pure fucking visionary!’

I’m impressed by Matteus’s enthusiasm. ‘You think he’d make a good agent, then?’

Matteus laughs. ‘Too fucking right!’ Then, more quietly. ‘That’s one of his themes, you know. Time travel. You should talk to him about it sometime. Why, you’d think the guy had actually gone and done it.’

I’m quiet a moment, thinking about that, and then I nod. It’s after two now, and I haven’t slept in over two days. ‘Matteus …?’

‘Yes, Otto?’

‘Let’s talk some more in the morning. Right now I’m tired. Right now I could do with some sleep.’

But the truth is, when I get into my room, I find I can’t sleep. For all Matteus’s enthusiasm, I can think of only Katerina and my girls.

I sit there on the edge of my bed, staring down at my hands, a kind of awful numbness descending on me. It’s a terrible, helpless feeling, like I’ve abandoned them, left them to their fate. I want to jump back and confront Hecht – to shout at him and vent my anger and frustration – only what’s the point? It’s like Ernst said; he’d only ground me. Lock me up and throw away the key. No, there’s nothing I can do back there to change things. Which only makes it worse.

I hear an owl call in the darkness outside and, standing, go over to the window.

There’s a tree at the far end of the garden, just to the side of the barn-like garage, up against the fence. As I watch, the owl launches itself and swoops, plucking the dark shape of a mouse from the lawn.

I watch it climb, then settle on the fence, beginning to pick at its prey, to kill it, then eat it whole.

‘
Katerina
,’ I say softly, my breath clouding the glass. ‘
I will come for you. I promise. Just don’t die. Just don’t any of you fucking die before I come
.’

Matteus drives a Tucker Torpedo ’48. It’s a beautiful car and cost him $2,450 new. When I ask him where he got the money from he says he ‘won it on the gee gees’, as if that makes any sense. It’s the kind of car you drive if you want to attract attention to yourself, a big, two-ton, gas-guzzler with a 5.5-litre engine mounted above and behind the rear wheels with a top speed of 110 miles an hour. Preston Tucker, who came up with the idea, only ever produced fifty-one of his Torpedoes before he was investigated for securities fraud violations, otherwise his might have become a household name. But the Torpedo is a fine legacy, especially in gold, which Matteus’s is. I like the white-rimmed tyres, too, and the padded white interior. It’s a classy machine, unexpected in this age.

We drive over to Phil’s house, in West Berkeley. He lives at 1126 Francisco Street, across from the elementary school, in what Matteus says is ‘the shabbier part of town’. The property itself looks old and run-down, the kitchen tagged on as an afterthought. There’s no garage, but there’s a nice fig tree in the front yard. Music plays from an open window. Bach’s
St Matthew’s Passion
.