The Time Traveller's Almanac

by Ann VanderMeer

  Manoir took the boy’s hand. Jean-Jacques let him, and this act of trust overwhelmed the man. He quickly wiped his tears away with the back of his free hand. The excited child skipped beside him.

  “Are you going to stay for a long time?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

  “You’ll have to play with me.”

  “Count on it. Do you have many toys?”

  “A whole chest full! And comics, and a train – say, how come you know me if you don’t know maman?”

  Manoir chuckled, stalling. “Well! You think of everything, don’t you! Look, the bakery’s open. Do you want some cake?”

  “There is no cake.”

  “Of course there isn’t. Some sweets, maybe?”

  “It’s not real sugar. Maman says they make your tummy hurt.”

  “I see. But you like them anyway, don’t you?”

  Jean-Jacques smiled secretively. He didn’t really mind them so much, those fake-sugar sweets that made your tummy hurt.

  Manoir walked inside the store. The baker watched them with curiosity from behind her empty glass jars. She saw the boy go by every day. Sometimes she sold him sweets made with saccharin. The father had been killed in 1940. The man looked so much like him! His brother, no doubt.

  “Good morning, madame. We’d like some sweets.”

  “Of course. Green? Yellow?”

  “A few of each. Let’s see...” Manoir pulled the few coins he had left from his pocket. “As many as these will buy.”

  “That’ll be a hundred grams.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Do you have ration coupons?”

  “Coupons? Oh no, I – I hadn’t thought...”

  The baker scratched her forehead. “A pity. I could give you the cracked ones? Without tickets...”

  “Of course. Whatever you can spare.”

  On the doorstep, Manoir handed Jean-Jacques the little bag.

  “Thanks.”

  “Call me Uncle Jean-Pierre, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Jean-Pierre.”

  They walked. Jean-Jacques crunched into the broken sweets with relish.

  “You know what’s good? The raspberry ones.”

  “And the hard mint ones, and the little eggs with liqueur centers. But—”

  “Your father sent me your photo. I don’t have it anymore. I lost it in the war.”

  “Oh. Was I a little baby in the photo?”

  “No, not a baby really, or I wouldn’t have recognized you. You were five or six.”

  They were getting close. At the next intersection, on the left, they spotted the house.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!”

  “I’m sorry.” Manoir loosened his grip. Seized with feeling, he’d been crushing the child’s hand. His heart was pounding. His mouth was dry. They rounded the corner.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “No, no.”

  From this angle, the greenish grille, spotted here and there with rust, half masked the millstone and stucco facade. He’d remembered the building being taller, larger, perforated with broad windows like so many eyes wide open on Eden. In reality, it was tiny: the smallest house on the street, nestled in its few acres between two bulging villas that drowned it in shadow.

  “C’mon, we’re here.”

  Jean-Jacques dashed off and swung briefly from the handle of the bell. It let out a feeble ring. A minute went by before a window opened upstairs.

  “Jean-Jacques? Why aren’t you at school? Who is that with you? What’s going on?”

  “It’s daddy’s cousin. I met him on the street.”

  Manoir reeled at the sound of his mother’s voice. He couldn’t, he wasn’t strong enough to see or speak to her. He’d faint, right there on the sidewalk. He had to get away. But his legs refused to obey. With one hand he hung on to the gate and closed his eyes. A thin figure appeared. He was trembling all over, his eyes clouded with tears.

  “Monsieur?”

  Manoir desperately swallowed his tears and smiled. His mother was as old as she’d ever get: thirty. The bomb would crush a short young woman with even features and skin already dulled by grief and worry. She had but an hour left to live, and stood up straight in her seamstress’ blouse over which she’d slipped a man’s jacket much too large for her.

  “Monsieur?”

  She, too, was trembling. This man looked so much like her husband! He’d never mentioned this man, but how could they not be related? He spoke. His very voice, his tone, awoke echoes. He introduced himself. He explained. He was in fact the only relative of the deceased. A few months before his death, he’d written his cousin; he’d even enclosed a photo of his young son with the letter. Manoir caressed Jean-Jacques’ hair. The boy let him. Unfortunately, Jean-Pierre Manoir had lost the letter and photo with his belongings near Sedan, in the chaos of the retreat.

  Manoir ostentatiously underlined his words with gestures of his ringed hand. Jeanne gave a start.

  “Pardon me, but that ring—”

  At that moment, Jean-Jacques, who had been watching the two adults silently, chimed in. “Yeah, did you see it, maman? He’s got the same ring as Papa. The exact same one!”

  Manoir held out his hand. “We ordered them together from a jeweler in P——. Michel drew the chateau on the setting himself on a page of his notebook.”

  The truthful part of this new lie chased away whatever doubts lingered in the young woman’s mind. Her husband had indeed had his ring made in P——, from a sketch by his very own hand. Still, despite everything, it was strange that he’d never brought up this cousin, a dozen years his senior, whom he must have been close to in his youth, it seemed... But above all, she was inclined to rejoice in this visit that interrupted the monotony of her day and this revelation of a friendly presence in the desert of her life. She became suddenly aware of her unkempt appearance – this blouse, this shapeless jacket, really! She apologized; she’d been about to sit down to work at her machine. She did a little sewing; her war-widow’s pension was quite modest.

  They went inside. The impostor’s throat tightened as he inhaled the old smells he’d never forgotten and staggering traces of which he sometimes came across by chance on the street. Quince cheese, a canary cage, wax polish, and vegetable soup, and from Jean-Jacques’ room, the slightly acrid reek of mouse droppings. The smell of secondhand clothes, for in these penurious times, Jeanne gathered, recut, and repaired more old clothes than she made new ones. The smell of the oilcan for the sewing machine. There it was. The big black Singer with its gilt chasing sat enthroned in the living room, amidst a mess of spools and needles, chalk and scissors. But he remembered a room reserved for special occasions, where you went only if you had to, in a pair of felt slippers... that was before, of course! Before the war, and his father’s death. The living room had been turned into a workspace, and the slippers peeked out from under a sofa.

  Jeanne led them into the kitchen. He sat down in the chair she offered as though his feet had been cut out from under him. The walls, hung with plates, spun around him.

  “Jean-Pierre? I can call you Jean-Pierre, can’t I? After all, we’re related. You look quite tired!”

  “Yes. The trip—”

  “Did you come a long way?”

  “A very long way, yes.”

  He was overcome with dizziness. He closed his eyes, opened them, tried to smile. She’d turned her back on him and was heating water. Then, standing before the pantry shelves, she pushed aside empty jars and gave each white tin box a shake beside her ear.

  “Let’s see... No more tea, of course. No more real coffee, either. Herbal tea, then, or chicory.”

  Bit by bit, Manoir’s dizziness wore off. The walls slowed their spinning, the plates grew still. There were three, covered with a thin film of grease and dust. The first showed an interior scene: a woman, like Jeanne at that very moment, busying herself in her kitchen. In the second a traveler from the last century, cane in h
and, broad hat brim hiding his face, made his way through the woods. The last was a rebus. From where he was sitting he couldn’t see the elements very clearly. A note on a musical staff, a pond...

  “There, it’s steeping. It’s lime-blossom. Oh, wait, I’ve got a treat after all.”

  She pulled a plate from another cupboard. Manoir recognized the dark amber, almost brown sections she used to cut from a block of fruit jelly for his afternoon snack.

  “I don’t make it as often as I used to. It takes too much sugar. But Jean-Jacques loves it. Where has that boy gone now? Jean-Jacques?”

  A clatter of steps echoed in the stairwell. Jean-Jacques appeared.

  “What were you up to?”

  “I was cleaning my room so I could show Uncle Jean-Pierre.”

  “But Jean-Pierre isn’t your uncle. He’s your father’s cousin.”

  “Yes, but he said—”

  “No, that’s fine,” Manoir interrupted. “I’m a bit too old to be a cousin.”

  “And we’ll play, right? Like you said. I cleaned my room just so we could.”

  “Leave Jean-Pierre alone. Here, have some quince cheese. You, too, Jean-Pierre. Help yourself.”

  Man and boy started in. The pieces were a bit sticky. Jean-Jacques licked his fingers. Manoir hesitated, then, giving him a complicit glance, did the same.

  “Maman?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Am I going back to school today?”

  “Well... not this morning, at least.”

  “Not this afternoon, either!”

  “We’ll see. I’ll see. Oh, the tea’s ready.” Jeanne had taken out two bowls. Jean-Jacques didn’t much like herbal tea, and he’d just had breakfast. It didn’t stop him from digging into the quince paste. For his part, Manoir was dying to have seconds but didn’t dare.

  “Help yourself, Jean-Pierre! Really!”

  “With pleasure. It’s delicious.” He took a broken piece from the plate.

  “Hey, are you coming back?”

  They were in Jean-Jacques’ room. Jeanne was working below. Jean-Jacques was lying on the linoleum near his toy chest. Manoir set down the little tin airplane he’d been studying.

  “Of course, if your mother wants me to.”

  “She does, I know she does!”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re family. When you’ve got family, you visit, right?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t really know. I don’t have any – except you two.”

  “Just like us – all we have is you.”

  Manoir leaned over the chest, and reached for a box of cubes. “But sometimes you live too far away to visit often.”

  “Do you live far away? In the free zone?”

  “That’s right. In the free zone.”

  “So we won’t be able to see each other.”

  Manoir had opened the box of cubes. He’d already found three faces that represented parts of a single picture. A rodeo scene, no doubt.

  “I’m moving.”

  “Really? Neat! So we’ll see each other often, then? We could go boating. Maman won’t take me. But you will, right?”

  “We’ll go everywhere! The circus, and the zoo, and the Ferris wheel at the fair.”

  “The Ferris wheel! It makes me scared to look around even when we haven’t left the ground yet!”

  “You won’t be scared with me, right?”

  “No! Definitely not!”

  Suddenly the sirens screamed. Man and boy froze.

  “Hear that? It’s the bomb warning!”

  Manoir checked his watch and nodded. Jeanne’s urgent voice reached them from below.

  “Jean-Jacques! Jean-Pierre! The sirens!”

  “Come.”

  On the threshold, before closing the door, Manoir took one last look at his childhood room. The red eiderdown on the bed, the white mouse nibbling at the bars of its cage, the plaster coin bank in the shape of a dog on the dresser, the Kipling poem in its gilded pitchpine frame. Good-bye, good-bye forever this time.

  They went down. Jeanne was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. She wasn’t alone. The neighbor stood next to her. Curiosity had brought her over, and the sirens surprised her on the front step.

  “Hurry up! Didn’t you hear the warning!”

  “Yes, but it’s not for us. I bet they’re going to bomb the station.”

  “We’re just next door! Come over, my cellar’s deeper underground, and my husband did a good job shoring it up.”

  “We don’t have time,” Manoir cut in. “Listen – they’ve started!”

  The engines’ roar had grown louder. In a few moments, the squadron would pass right over the town. Muffled explosions broke out.

  “It’s the AA guns,” Jean-Jacques shouted. “Blam! Blam! Vrrr! Vrrr! Blammm!”

  “Hurry, downstairs!”

  Jeanne grabbed the boy. She opened the cellar door and headed down the steps. Manoir stepped aside to let the neighbor by.

  Jeanne lit a small lamp. They were seated on old crates. The ground trembled without stopping. With each detonation, shockwaves shook the walls. In a corner of the cellar, empty bottles clinked.

  “They’re bombing the station. We have nothing to fear.”

  “If you say so!” The neighbor was missing her reinforced shelter and her sandbags. Jeanne was quiet. After a momentary brush with fear, Jean-Jacques had regained confidence before “Uncle Jean-Pierre’s” demeanor. Manoir smiled. He felt great peace within. Events once gone astray were about to resume their rightful course.

  Above, a bomber had been hit. It veered, losing altitude. To lighten the load, the pilot ordered all bombs to be dropped. For a moment, the bombs rocked in the air as though uncertain, then the wind on their fins stabilized them. They were falling straight down now, with a whistling that grew ever higher in pitch. The first ripped the street open two hundred yards from the house. The second crushed a gas truck at the corner of the street. In the cellar, the neighbor, the bearer of bad news, opened her mouth to cry out. Jean-Jacques pressed himself against Jeanne, his face buried in her breast. Manoir rose, threw himself upon them, and held them.

  ENOCH SOAMES: A MEMORY OF THE EIGHTEEN-NINETIES

  Max Beerbohm

  Max Beerbohm’s full name was Sir Henry Maximilian Beerbohn, once he accepted the knighthood from King George VI in 1939. An English essayist, parodist and caricaturist, his first short story was published in 1897 (“The Happy Hypocrite”), and his novel Zuleika Dobson was published in 1911, although most of his written works were nonfiction. “Enoch Soames” plays with time travel via a deal with the Devil. It was first published in 1916 in Century Magazine.

  When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson’s pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames’s failure to impress himself on his decade.

  I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian’s beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make – that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out.

  Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he
WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now.

  In the summer term of ’93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it.

  Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London.

  The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly “sat.” Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to anyone could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew everyone in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I – I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year.

  At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few – Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal.