The Power of Forgetting (53 page)

‘I would not
suggest it.’ said Oliver as if he was reading my mind.

‘Oh?’ but we
said nothing further. As we rounded the hilly banking with the cave
to the right and behind us, I saw a strange sight.

There was a low
wall, such as you might see in a herb garden in the grounds of a
big house. Then low shrubs, and a little brick path…. Then some
more criss-crossing paths like an ornamental maze. But beyond that
my attention was caught by two things: firstly, the moving colours
of people in brightly coloured clothes and the sound of distant
chatter such as you get at a well-mannered party, overlaid with a
nearer sound of wind chimes. They were hung on a rose covered
archway. That tingly sound from a few moments ago, softly
insistent, dreamlike and in some ways restful. I stepped forward.
The rest of the group were investigating to the right, following
the outer low wall. I passed through the archway and approached the
gap by a hedge of herbs. There were people there, and the distant
sound of music on the breeze. I stepped forward, they were in
little knots and groups of people and I moved through them easily.
They were taken up with their conversations but moved to let me
pass. I began to walk up some terracing, steps that went up to each
level. There was seating and little arbours and borders of summer
flowers. The sun was peeking through.

A girl in a
green silk shift that billowed gently in the breeze smiled and
moved aside. Just above a man with a tray stood, unmistakably a
waiter.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘May I be of
assistance?’ he offered the tray, so I took a drink and stared at
the glass for a moment. I could feel it in my hand, but I wasn’t
sure if it was real.

‘Sir?’ the man
passed the tray to another who was attired like himself, and bent
slightly forward; ‘I wish to assist you. How may I do so?’

‘I don’t know….
I mean… where is this place?’

‘The fourth
terrace. Naturally it is one of many such. Each Master of the craft
has a private terrace like this one.’

‘And who is
this… Master?’

‘Ah! I see that
Sir is new. I will show you the dining room. Then perhaps someone
might have a word, and you should then be able to meet your host.’
He turned and started up the set of steps. He turned to me again,
‘If you would follow me Sir.’

I was led to a
wide upper terrace upon which a string group played and thence in
through wide open French windows into a softly luxurious room. The
walls were pale and the furnishing were such as you might find in a
large house where ac are3ful collection of furniture had been
selected by one whose taste included many styles and eras, but was
able to select the individual pieces to create an eclectic opulence
that pleased the senses for its timeless pleasure. On large table
near the doors were selections of food and brightly coloured piles
of something I took at that moment to be bean bags….

‘Sir, your
hosts assistant will collect you in a moment.’

I nodded and
stayed near the door. I was still holding the glass unsure of what
to do. Something told me it would be a bad idea to drink this. I
saw another waiter pouring what was clearly champagne into a glass
exactly like, so I raised it to my lips.

‘Hello…. Mr
Arden!’

I turned and
leaving the glass on the table took a step forward.

I saw the same
man I had seen at the marble hall. But he was dressed differently.
There was something quite relieved in his face. Almost as if he had
been waiting for me, and was glad I had arrived. But he didn’t
offer his hand.

‘Mr
Charles?’

‘The very same.
We have met.’

I wasn’t sure
what to make of the way he inflected the statement. It seemed
ambivalent, neither a question nor a fact he was certain of. His
eyes were dilated, and yet he seemed quite calm. He had been in a
darker room I thought, and not outside in the last twenty minutes.
I saw the irises pulse and flicker for a moment as he looked me in
the eyes. He held my gaze, and seemed then uncertain, as if he had
been sent to check on who this person was who was here to see the
master, and wasn’t at all sure he had got the right individual.

‘I must say you
are looking the same.’ He was guessing and I knew I better be
careful how I answered.

‘Still Jared.’
I said.

‘Yes. I
understand.’ He thought for a moment, as if this was a clue to
something, or a sign he needed to interpret.

‘Perhaps we
could see the master now?’ I was beginning to wonder what the delay
was.

‘You are not
worried that it could be Mr Rimmington?’

‘No.’ I
realised I was being obtuse the moment I answered him. There was
something about this whole thing that was too calm, and relaxed for
that fox. The people. They seemed happy; not nervy, and yet they
had been afraid in the marble hall.

‘They don’t
know who you are.’ Mr Charles flicked his wrist in the direction of
the garden terrace just outside the door, ‘it is alright. There
shouldn’t be any trouble from Alexander until after the
celebration.’

‘What time is
it?’ I could see a clock on the wall but somehow felt that it might
be wrong.

‘It’s three
o’clock Jared. You know that.’

‘Three?’

‘Yes. The
ceremony has been delayed until the remaining guests can get
here.’

I tried not to
react. It was clear that he was mixing me up with someone else.
There must be some confusion about it. Who had he met first? But he
regarded me with a strangely neutral expression then and turned and
led me through to other rooms. There were a few people milling
about, or sitting on chairs. But he took me to another door, which
was heavy, wooden and ornamental.

I entered a
room that was softly lit by the interplay of firelight, and
sunlight from wide windows. They looked out onto a still quiet part
of the grounds of this house… for such it must be. And the
furniture in here was all dark wood, polished and aged. The faint
scent of beeswax and the undertone of something else woody and
aromatic told me that this was the Master’s room.

Mr Charles
stood quietly and waited. It was very quiet in this room. There was
the faint tick of a clock on the mantelpiece. This had reassuring
friendly number on its face, rather than roman numerals. We stood,
and waited. After about a minute I became aware that there was
another person there. Not because I could see then. But I sensed
their breath, or the wave that travelled outwards from them. I
closed my eyes for a moment, feeling sensing the air in the room
the current of the air; the breath of Mr Charles speeding up; and
the faint pop and hiss of the fire in the grate.

‘Do you
wish….?’ Mr Charles spoke with a respectful soft and submissive
tone. The sort you would use in the presence of someone who you
admired and were please to serve or to have fellowship with.

‘Thank you….’
said a voice, then; ‘bring him where I can see him.’

Mr Charles
motioned with his hand that I should follow him round the room. We
circled to a place where we faced the windows, and near there was a
high-backed chair. The person sat in it was very still.

‘Would you like
me to go?’ Mr Charles seemed anxious then.

‘Yes,’ said the
voice again, ‘You mingle with the people. Tell them it won’t be
long now.’

Mr Charles
sighed with relief at this news and quickly left the room shutting
the door very softly behind him.

There was a
pause; long enough for that stillness to settle in again.

‘You are
Jared.’ He said.

‘Yes?’ I tried
to move my head to see him.

‘A moment.’ He
stood and stepped a little forward and to the left nearer the
fireplace.

He was tall,
and wore a long fitted jacket that was buttoned up to the neck. It
appeared to be a very dark blue – almost an indigo colour, nearly
black. He had a crown of black hair that curled around his collar
and kinked and curled down a little over his face. It was hard to
judge, but he seemed lean and muscular. He had long fingered hands;
hands of a musician or an artist. He held them both palms open. He
stared then at me. There was a pale complexion and the recent trace
of tiredness under the eyes, which were clear and unblinking, and a
slightly curving mouth, relaxing into a half smile. I couldn’t work
out if the stubble was an attempt at a proper beard or several days
of not shaving.

‘You are
Jared.’ He said again, the tone was more certain as if it meant
something more than the simple words.

I searched this
face. I stepped forward. His eyes were level with my own. We were
exactly the same height I decided… I am tall, about six, one; on a
good day….

There was a
moment then before something in my mind flipped; I saw a man who
intrigued me, something passionate in his expression, some
intensity in his eyes, which glistened and reflected the light in
the room as if he could see all ways at once.

‘Who are you?’
I said. And then I saw….

You really
don’t know how I was feeling. And if you ever experience this, then
you are lying if you said it was entirely without discomfort. I
experienced in the next few minutes something like a panic attack.
At least my body reacted. But my mind was screaming with some
delirious sense of mad pleasure. It was the weirdest, and with that
the most discomforting sensation, as well as being a glorious spike
of an epiphany that went beyond just the reaction itself.

I was certainly
finding it difficult to breathe, and had to step back. I found, and
sat down in the nearest chair. He came and knelt down in front of
me but not too close. He passed me a glass of water.

‘Please…. It
will pass in a few minutes. Just try to breathe in slowly.’

‘Okay.’ I
rasped. I took the water and sipped. There was nothing in it. But
it seemed infused with the stranger’s touch. I sat back in the
chair, ‘what is happening?’

‘It is better
than most.’ He said.

‘Better?’ I
said feeling light headed.

‘Yes… please
breathe Jared. You will be alright in a minute.’

‘Not really…’ I
gritted my teeth and leaned forward, and rested my head in my
hands. He went back and sat in his chair again.

I looked up a
few moments later. The world felt as if it was tumbling over and
over. I laughed and then felt like crying, ‘You are…. You
are….’

‘Yes.’ He
said.

‘You are Jared
too.’

Ten minutes
later I had calmed down. I drank some more water. And then, as if
on cue a waiter entered with a tea tray.

Cups and
saucers.

‘I know you
don’t like biscuits.’ He said. I shook my head to clear it again.
It was like being plunged into cold water every time he spoke. I
heard my own voice, talking to me. I laughed again then reflecting
that the usual situation was of me talking to myself. I remembered
painting, and having long conversations with myself on a variety of
subjects. I guess I had it coming.

‘We don’t have
much time,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something but I think it
would create a paradox of quite epic proportions.’

‘Do I really
sound like that?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ He
smiled and his eyes seemed to crinkle up in amusement. I caught
myself thinking that he was the kind of guy I wouldn’t want as
competition if there were women around…. then realised with a start
of surprise that I was catching a glimpse of something that no one
ever sees. The perceptions of the other, as you really are from
another point of view. I wasn’t sure if I could do this for long.
Was it a temptation to fatuous pride, or ego? This was a good
looking guy. The sort that other men envied; all those girls at
parties wanted them because they were unselfconsciously having a
drink at the bar, totally unaware of the effect they are
having.

But he is me!
But is he? Oh shit! I leaned forward again.

‘I understand
this,’ he said, ‘but for now it must be borne, there is no time to
adjust properly… it is uncomfortable. And the otherness will not be
remembered, if you don’t want it to be. But I must tell you that
the person you see in front of you is an extrusion of your future
self. I am, for want of a better way of putting it… the person you
imagine me to be. But I must be clear I am NOT a copy. I am an
extension of you. That is why the strange discomfort. Meeting
oneself is really not a good idea.

‘So I need to
know my future?’

‘No…. you need
to create for yourself an alternate version of your own past…
perfect in every detail; complete and undetectable form the real
thing. So real, that in fact it becomes real. I am really you. But
I was not the result of a decision that you have been changing in
the distant past. But that is what we want everyone else to
think.’

‘Ah!’ I’m
cottoning on now, ‘does the “everyone else” include Mr
Charles?’

‘Mr Charles….
knows certain things. Although he was never told; it would be safe
to assume he does know. But he can never tell Rimmington. That is
for reasons of his own. And then again he might not know; but
simply suspect. Either way he will not give it away.’

‘It was you!
You asked him to offer me the…. job?’

‘Yes. And he
had a difficult time with the alternate. He had to leave that bit
alone. You were bound to ask… It was inevitable.’

‘Was he
hurt?’

‘No. but it
does make you sick.’

‘Ill?’

‘Yes… time
sickness debilitates some people for a quite a while. He did
well.’

‘But the
minders?’

‘That old
trick? It really is all in the mind. Concentrate on something that
has a really strong taste or scent to it, for some reason that
seems to make the psychic pass fail.’