Blackout

by Connie Willis

  A crump, and then a long, screaming whoosh, and a pair of explosions. It wasn’t as deafening as it had been the night before, but the rector walked over to Sir Godfrey, who was reading a letter, and said quietly, “The raids seem to be bad again tonight. Would you mind terribly, Sir Godfrey, gracing us with another performance?”

  “I should be honored,” Sir Godfrey said, folding up his letter, putting it in his coat pocket, and standing up. “What will you have? Much Ado? Or one of the tragedies?”

  “Sleeping Beauty,” Trot, on her mother’s lap, said.

  “Sleeping Beauty?” he roared. “Out of the question. I am Sir Godfrey Kingsman. I do not do pantomime,” which should have reduced Trot to tears, but didn’t.

  “Do the one about the thunder again,” she said.

  “The Tempest,” he said. “A far better choice,” and Trot beamed.

  He truly is wonderful, Polly thought, wishing she had time to watch him instead of having to practice wrapping.

  “Oh, no, do Macbeth, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum said. “I’ve always longed to see you in—”

  Sir Godfrey had drawn himself up to his full height. “Do you not know calling the Scottish play by its name brings bad luck?” he boomed at her, then looked up at the ceiling and listened for a moment to the crashing and thud of bombs as if he expected one to come down on them in retribution. “No, dear lady,” he said more calmly. “We have had enough this fortnight of overreaching ambition and violence. There are fog and filthy air enough abroad tonight.”

  He bowed sweepingly to Trot. “‘The thunder one’ it shall be, ‘full of sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.’ But if I am to be Prospero, I must have a Miranda.” He strode over to Polly and extended his hand to her. “As forfeit for having mutilated my Times,” he said, looking down at the torn newspaper, “Miss…?”

  “Sebastian,” she said, “and I’m sorry I—”

  “No matter,” he said absently. He was looking at her thoughtfully. “Not Sebastian, but his twin Viola.”

  “I thought you said her name was Miranda,” Trot said.

  “It is,” he said, and under his breath, “We shall do Twelfth Night another time.”

  He pulled her to standing. “‘Come, daughter, attend, and I shall relate how we came unto this island beset by strange winds.’” He produced his book from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Page eight,” he whispered. “Scene two. ‘If by your art, dearest father—’”

  She knew the speech, but a shopgirl in 1940 wouldn’t, so she took the book and pretended to read her line. “‘If by your art, dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar,’” she read, “‘allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch—’”

  “‘Can’st thou remember a time before we came unto this cell?’” he asked.

  “‘’Tis far off,’” she said, thinking of Oxford, “‘and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants—’”

  “‘What seest thou else,’” he said, looking into her eyes, “‘in the dark backward and abysm of time?’”

  Why, he knows I’m from the future, she thought, and then, He’s only speaking his lines, he can’t possibly know, and completely missed her cue. “‘What foul play… ’” he prompted.

  She had no idea what part of the page they were on. “‘What foul play had we that we came from thence?’” she said. “‘Or blessed was’t we did?’”

  “‘Both, both, my girl! By foul play, as thou sayst, were we heav’d thence, but blessedly holp hither,’” he said, taking hold of her hands, which still held the book, and launched into Prospero’s explanation of how they’d come to the island and then, without even a pause, into his charge to Ariel.

  She forgot the book, forgot the role of 1940s shopgirl she was supposed to be playing, forgot the people watching them and the planes droning overhead—forgot everything except for his hands holding hers captive. And his voice. She stood there facing him enrapt—“spell-stopp’d,” as if he truly were a sorcerer—and wished he would go on forever.

  When he came to “‘I’ll break my staff,’” he let go of her hands, raised his own above his head, and brought them down sharply, pantomiming the snapping of an imaginary staff, and the audience, who faced attack and annihilation nightly with equanimity, flinched at the action. The three little girls shrank against their mother, mouths open, eyes wide.

  “‘I’ll drown my book,’” he said, his voice rich with power and love and regret, “‘These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into thin air.’”

  Oh, don’t, Polly thought, though what came next was Prospero’s most beautiful speech. But it was about palaces and towers and “the great globe itself” being destroyed, and he must have sensed her silent plea because he said instead, “‘We, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind,’” and Polly felt her eyes fill with tears.

  “‘You do look as if you were dismayed,’” Sir Godfrey said gently, taking her hands again. “‘Be cheerful, child. Our revels now are ended,’” and the all clear sounded.

  Everyone immediately looked up at the ceiling, and Mrs. Rickett stood up and began putting on her coat. “The curtain has rung down,” Sir Godfrey muttered to Polly with a grimace and moved to release her hands.

  She shook her head. “‘It was the nightingale. It is not yet near day.’”

  He gave her a look of awe, and then smiled and shook his head. “‘It was the lark,’” he said regretfully. “Or worse, the chimes at midnight,” and let go of her hands.

  “Oh, my, Sir Godfrey, you were so affecting,” Miss Laburnum said, crowding up to him with Miss Hibbard and Mrs. Wyvern.

  “We are but poor players,” he said, gesturing to include Polly, but they ignored her.

  “You were really good, Sir Godfrey,” Lila said.

  “Even better than Leslie Howard,” Viv put in.

  “Simply mesmerizing,” Mrs. Wyvern said.

  Mesmerizing is right, Polly thought, putting on her coat and gathering up her bag and the newspaper-covered hymnal. He made me forget all about practicing my wrapping. She glanced at her watch, hoping the all clear had gone early, but it was half past six. It is the lark, she thought, feeling like Cinderella, and I’ve got to go home and wash out my blouse.

  “I do hope you’ll grace us with another performance tomorrow night, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum was saying.

  “Miss Sebastian!” Sir Godfrey extricated himself from his admiring crowd and hurried over to her. “I wished to thank you for knowing your lines—something my leading ladies scarcely ever do. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in the theater?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m only a shopgirl.”

  “Hardly,” he said. “‘Thou art the goddess on whom these airs attend, a paragon, a wonder.’”

  “‘No wonder, sir, but certainly a maid,’” she quoted, and he shook his head ruefully.

  “A maid, indeed, and were I forty years younger, I would be your leading man,” he said, leaning toward her, “and you would not be safe.”

  I don’t doubt that for a moment, she thought. He must have been truly dangerous when he was thirty, and thought suddenly of Colin, saying, “I can shoot for any age you like. I mean, not seventy, but I’m willing to do thirty.”

  “Oh, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum said, coming up. “Next time could you do something from one of Sir James Barrie’s plays?”

  “Barrie?” he said in a tone of loathing. “Peter Pan?”

  Polly suppressed a smile. She opened the door and started up the steps.

  “Viola, wait!” Sir Godfrey called. He caught up to her halfway up the steps. She thought he was going to take her hands again, but he didn’t. He simply looked at her for a long, breath-catching moment.

  Thirty, nothing, she thought. He’s dangerous now.

  “Sir Godfrey!” Miss Laburnum called from inside the door.

  He glanced behind him, and the
n back at Polly. “‘We are too late met,’” he said. “‘The time is out of joint,’” and went back down the stairs.

  Real planes, real bombs. This is no fucking drill.

  —VOICE ON THE PA OF THE OKLAHOMA, PEARL HARBOR, 7 DECEMBER 1941

  Dunkirk—29 May 1940

  MIKE STARED DAZEDLY AT THE SCENE BEFORE HIM. THE town of Dunkirk lay burning no more than a mile to the east of them, orange-red flames and clouds of acrid black smoke from the oil tanks billowing out over the docks. There were fires on the docks and on the beaches, and in the water. A cruiser lay off to the right, its stern angled out of the water. A tugboat stood alongside, taking soldiers off. South of it stood a destroyer and beyond it a Channel packet. It was on fire, too.

  Flashes of light—from artillery guns?—played along the horizon, and the destroyers’ guns answered with a deafening roar. There was an explosion on shore, and a billowing puff of flame—a gas tank exploding—and the far-off rattle of machine-gun fire. “I can’t believe it!” Jonathan shouted over the din, his voice bubbling over with excitement. “We’re actually here!”

  Mike stared at the fire-lit harbor paralyzed, afraid to let go of the railing, afraid to even move. Anything he did—or said—could have a catastrophic effect on events. “This is great!” Jonathan said. “Do you think we’ll get to see any Germans?”

  “I hope not,” Mike said, glancing up at the sky and then at the horizon, peering through the drifting smoke, trying to see if dawn was approaching. The harbor at Dunkirk had been an obstacle course of half-submerged wrecks, and they didn’t have a hope of getting through it if they couldn’t see. But they were more likely to be attacked by Stukas in daylight. And, oh, Christ, on the twenty-ninth the weather had cleared, and an offshore breeze had blown the smoke inland, away from the harbor, leaving the boats trying to load the soldiers sitting ducks. There was no breeze yet. But for how long?

  “Kansas, don’t just stand there!” the Commander shouted. “You’re supposed to be keeping the Lady Jane from ramming into something!”

  Am I? Mike thought. Or are you supposed to hit a trawler or a fishing smack and go down with all hands? It was impossible to know what to do, or what not to do—like walking through a minefield blindfolded, knowing that every step could make the whole thing blow up in your face. Only this was worse, because so could standing still. Was shouting a warning what would alter the course of history, or keeping silent?

  “Ship to starboard!” Jonathan shouted from the other side of the bow and the Commander turned the wheel, and they chugged past an oncoming minesweeper and into the harbor.

  Mike saw he needn’t have worried about their being able to see. The flames from the burning town lit the entire harbor. It was nearly as bright as day. Which was a good thing, because as they got closer in, there were more and more obstacles. A wooden crate floated by and, beyond it, straight ahead, lay a submerged sailboat, its mast sticking up out of the water.

  “Go left!” Mike shouted, waving his arm wildly to the left.

  “Left?” the Commander bellowed. “You’re on board ship, Kansas. It’s port!”

  “All right! Port! Now!”

  The Commander turned the wheel just in time, missing the mast by inches, and Mike saw that by doing so, he’d set the Lady Jane on a collision course with a half-submerged ferry. “Right!” Mike shouted. “I mean, starboard. Starboard!”

  They didn’t even have inches this time. They slid by with micrometers to spare. And were they supposed to have done that, or to have scraped a hole in the side? There was no possible way to tell, and no time to think about it. Ahead, under the water, was a huge paddle wheel, and past it, on the left, a partly sunk rowboat, its prow pointed at the Lady Jane like a battering ram. “Hard to starboard!” Jonathan shouted before Mike could, and they slid past.

  There were more and more things in the scummy water: oars, oil drums, petrol cans. An Army jacket floated past and a piece of charred planking and a life jacket. “Are there any life jackets—life belts—on board?” he called to the Commander.

  “Life belts? I thought you said you could swim, Kansas.”

  “I can,” he said angrily, “but Jonathan can’t, and if the Lady Jane hits something—”

  “That’s why I’ve got you navigating,” the Commander said. “Now get to it. That’s an order.”

  Mike ignored him. He grabbed the boat hook to snag the life jacket with and darted back to the railing, but they were already past it. He leaned over the side, hoping it wasn’t the only one, but he couldn’t see another. He saw a pair of trousers, its legs knotted to form a makeshift life-jacket, and a sock and a tangle of rope. And a body, its arms out at full-length like a crucifix. “Look there!” Jonathan shouted from the other side of the bow. “Is that a body?”

  Mike was about to say “yes” when he saw that what he’d thought was a corpse was only a military overcoat, the empty sleeves and tails of the belt drifting out at the sides. It had been abandoned by some officer as he swam out to one of the ships. Along with the rest of his clothes and probably his shoes, though those wouldn’t float.

  No, he was wrong. There was an Army boot and a ladder and, amazingly, a rifle. They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor. The Commander maneuvered past a drifting dinghy and a sail that had filled up with air, like a balloon, as the sailboat sank under it.

  No, it wasn’t a boat. It was the canvas cover of a truck that had been driven off the pier. Which meant they were getting into shallow water, where hopefully they could see the sunken wrecks before they ran into them.

  “What do you think, Kansas?” the Commander said, surveying the harbor. “What’s our best bet?”

  Turning around and heading home, Mike thought. The inner harbor had been an obstacle course of half-sunk boats and equipment the Army had pushed in the water to keep them from falling into enemy hands. Even if they got in, they’d never be able to get back out—the opening to it was so narrow a rowboat could block it. And if they tried the beaches, the Lady Jane was likely to be swamped by the thousands of soldiers who’d gathered there, waiting for rescue. Or to get stuck in the shallow water and have to sit there waiting for the next high tide.

  “What did you say, Kansas?” the Commander asked, cupping his hand behind his ear. “Which way do we head?”

  There was a loud horn blast and a launch appeared out of the smoke, plowing straight toward them. A young man in a naval uniform was standing in the bow. “Ahoy!” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. “Are you empty or loaded?”

  “Empty!” Mike shouted back.

  “Head that way!” he ordered, lowering one hand to point off to the east. “They’re loading troops off the mole.”

  Oh, Christ, the eastern mole. That was one of the harbor’s most dangerous spots. It had been attacked repeatedly, and any number of ships had sunk trying to load troops off the narrow breakwater.

  “What did he say?” the Commander called to Mike.

  “He said go that way!” Jonathan cut in, pointing. The Commander nodded, snapped a salute, and headed the direction Jonathan was pointing. The motorboat came around and roared past them, leading the way.

  The breakwater stretched out beyond the inner harbor. Well, at least we won’t go aground, Mike thought, but as they came closer, he saw that the mole had been bombed. Chunks of cement were missing from the breakwater, and doors and planking had been laid across the gaps. The naval officer pointed at the mole and, as soon as the Commander began to turn the Lady Jane toward it, waved and roared off.

  The Commander began maneuvering in toward the breakwater, steering cautiously around a half-sunk tugboat and two jagged spars. The water was full of oil drums, oars, and still-burning planks. One had a name painted on it, Rosabelle—the name of a boat that had tried coming in here to take on soldiers, no doubt, and been blown to bits. “Find a spot to tie her up,” the Commander ordered Mike, and he began looking for an open berth, but the whole length of the mole was blocked by dumped Arm
y equipment and shattered boats. The rear end of a staff car driven off the side stuck up in the air.

  Beyond it was a space of open water that looked like it might be wide enough for the Lady Jane. “There!” Mike shouted, pointing, and the Commander nodded and steered toward it.

  “Slow down,” Mike ordered, leaning halfway over the side, looking for underwater obstacles and expecting the Commander to tell him to use the nautical term, whatever the hell it was, but he was apparently as worried about tearing out the Lady Jane’s bottom as Mike. He cut the engine to a quarter of its speed and eased slowly into the dock.

  “Look, there’s another body!” Jonathan shouted, and this time it was a body, face-down, drifting lazily in the wash of the Lady Jane, and over by the mole was another one, this one floating upright, its head and shoulders out of the water and its helmet still on.

  No, it wasn’t a body. It was a soldier wading out to the boat, and behind him were two more, one holding his rifle above his head. They obviously didn’t intend to wait for the Lady Jane to dock and put out a gangway. There was a splash and then another one, and when Mike looked over at the mole, he saw another soldier had jumped off it with a bedraggled dog. It paddled along beside him. Above them on the mole stood a dozen men, and farther along the breakwater, a dozen more, running this way. “Don’t jump,” Jonathan shouted to them. “We’re coming in to get you,” and the Commander eased the Lady Jane up to the mole.

  Jonathan tossed a line to the men. “Tie her up!” the Commander called to them. “Kansas, toss another line to those men in the water.”

  Mike fastened a line to the gunwales, threw it down to them, and began hauling them up, hoping by doing so he wasn’t rescuing someone who wasn’t supposed to have been rescued. But he needn’t have worried. Two of the men had climbed up over the side on their own while he was tying the rope, and the one he’d thrown the line to was busily tying it around the dog’s middle to hoist him up. Saving a dog wasn’t likely to alter events, and it couldn’t get aboard by itself. Mike hauled it up and over the side, whereupon it shook itself all over him, everyone in range, and its owner, who’d just climbed on board.