The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  I feel sorry now. Maybe even a little angry with myself. Only he’s still blocking me. At least, I think he is.

  ‘Meister?’

  ‘Yes, Otto?’

  ‘Will you let me go back? To see her? To make sure she’s safe?’

  ‘No,’ Freisler says. ‘Impossible.’

  But Hecht speaks over him. ‘Okay. But only once you’ve cleared all this up. Made sense of it. Until then, well, you must be what you were trained to be, Otto Behr. Patient. Loyal.’

  I bow my head. ‘Yes, Meister.’ But inside my chest my heart is leaping.

  287

  ‘So what did Hecht say?’

  Matteus and I are sitting in Phil and Kleo’s kitchen. Our hosts have gone out somewhere, and in their absence, Matteus is in an interrogative mood. He’s guessed that I went back and, to put him off the trail, I tell him that Hecht was excited about the map.

  ‘He’s ordered us back in,’ I say. ‘He wants us to investigate it further, this time without Phil.’

  I’m sorry Phil’s out because I wanted to rehearse one or two things with him and see what he made of them.

  Matteus stares at me a while, then smiles. ‘You get some good news, Otto?’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘It’s like a cloud has lifted. You were so tense …’

  I don’t know what he means about tense, but my mood has certainly changed. Secretly I’m elated by the thought of going back to see her with Hecht’s permission, of having everything out in the open at last.

  But when Phil returns, the news he brings isn’t good.

  ‘The cops came,’ he says. ‘First thing. Took Kleo and I down to the station house. Made me make a statement.’

  He seems to make light of it, but I know how Phil feels about authority. It’s the one thing that truly fucks him up.

  ‘What did you say?’ I ask gently.

  ‘I lied. Said I wasn’t there at the house. That he must have imagined it all.’

  ‘And did they accept that?’

  ‘Not at first. So I asked them, “Was he robbed?” and they said no. “Was he threatened?” That’s when they told me about the gun. Only I must have looked as surprised as I was. You didn’t say anything about guns, Otto.’

  ‘It was Matteus, wanting a bit of excitement.’

  Phil looks at Matteus, not happy with him.

  ‘So what else did they ask?’

  Phil looks back at me, his green eyes thinking back. ‘Who you two were. Who owned the car.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I just lied. Said I was in bed. That their guy must have dreamed it all. Only I don’t think the cops are going to leave it be. They let me go but …’

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say, using every last drop of conviction I can muster. ‘If I have to I’ll make changes. But don’t worry, Phil. I won’t let them trouble you again.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Then, remembering something, he grins. ‘Hey! I almost forgot! They’re showing it! Tonight!’ he says, when we don’t respond. ‘At the Cinema Guild on Telegraph Avenue!’

  ‘Showing what?’

  ‘Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky. You know, the film. They’re showing it, tonight, and I’ve got tickets!’

  I stare at him, amazed. ‘There’s a film, about Nevsky?’

  I feel I ought to have known, but I didn’t. Phil laughs. ‘Sure. It’s a classic. Not as good as Children of Paradise, but the battle on the lake …’

  Kleo enters, then takes off her coat and steps over to the sink. Phil smiles as he watches her.

  ‘Kleo’s going to come along, too, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  But she only shrugs, upset, I guess, from having had to go down to the station house.

  ‘What time’s the show?’

  Phil looks back at me. ‘Eight fifteen. But we can get there a bit earlier. Get the good seats.’

  I nod, the urge to tell him what I’ve decided – that I’m jumping back tonight to change things – strong. But I decide against it. There’s no point spoiling the evening.

  ‘When was the film made?’

  ‘Thirty-eight. Before the pact.’

  He means the pact between Hitler and Stalin. The famous non-aggression pact. Hitler’s means of buying time to prepare Barbarossa, while Stalin foolishly stripped his officer corps bare with putsch after putsch.

  History.

  That evening we get to the cinema club just after seven thirty, but already there’s quite a crowd and Phil is a little put out that we didn’t come earlier. We find some seats. Phil sits immediately to my left, Kleo to my right, Matteus beyond her. Waiting, making small talk, I feel a strange tension in my stomach, and realise it has to do with Katerina, because this is a film about our time, set in a time and place I know only too well. I have stood on Lake Chudskoye in the depths of winter, in the shadow of Raven’s Rock where the battle took place. But it’s more than that. There’s a kind of cruel sentimentality at work here, for no matter how inaccurate this is, it cannot help but remind me of what I’ve lost.

  Kleo places her hand over my own where it rests on the arm of the chair. I turn and look at her.

  ‘Are you all right? You seemed …’

  ‘I was just remembering,’ I say. ‘You see, I was there, in Novgorod, a long time ago.’

  How long she doesn’t know. I smile and, returning my smile, she removes her hand, but I know now that she’s taken with me, and that disturbs me.

  When the darkness falls and the film starts, I am surprised by how stilted and old-fashioned it is. It’s black and white, for a start, and rather than being realistic it has a distinctly theatrical style. I like the music, yet when I get my first glimpse of their so-called thirteenth-century Russians I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘Those clothes!’

  There’s hushing noises from all sides. I sit back a little in my seat, trying not to react, but when I see the actor who’s playing Nevsky, I can’t help but be indignant. ‘Look how old he is! Alexander was barely nineteen …’

  ‘Hey! Can it, buddy!’ someone says angrily from the darkness.

  ‘Yeah! Shut it!’ another adds.

  And so I sit there, silent, watching the drama unfold, keeping my comments to myself. But it’s hard. The film’s a travesty. The outline of events is vaguely correct, but as for the rest, it’s mainly invention and propaganda.

  Afterwards we go to a small restaurant two blocks from Art Music, one of the few places Phil likes and will go to, and take a corner table, ordering coffees.

  ‘Well?’ Phil asks me excitedly. ‘What did you think?’

  I’m aware of Kleo there, watching me intently, listening to every word.

  ‘It was … interesting …’

  ‘Yeah? What do you mean by that?’

  I smile at Phil. ‘You want to know the truth?’

  ‘Sure. After all, you’re the expert.’

  ‘Well, to begin with, the film was based very heavily on the Life.’

  ‘The Life?’

  ‘Of Nevsky. It was written forty years later by a man who never even knew him.

  Metropolitan Krill …’

  ‘Metropolitan?’ Kleo asks. ‘Is that a Russian name?’

  ‘No, Metropolitan was a title given to the head of the church in a particular region. Kiev had a Metropolitan, as did Novgorod. But Krill was far from his own man. He owed his position and his power to Alexander’s first son, Daniil, the ruler of Moscow. As you can imagine, it was in Krill’s best interests to keep his sponsor happy, to tell a few lies and build up his master’s father. Not only that, but the church at that time needed to build upon the idea of a holy war between Russia and Germany, that is, between the Roman Catholic and the Orthodox church – Rome and Byzantium. Nevsky’s victory on the lake fitted the bill perfectly. Only they had to change the facts, if only to make it more heroic than it actually was.’

  Kleo looks perplexed. ‘You mean, it was all a lie?’

  ‘No. The battle happened. Only
not in the way Eisenstein depicted it. For a start, the figures quoted in the Life are ludicrous. They claim that over four hundred German knights were killed, along with thousands of Estonians, and that fifty of the Germans were captured and taken to Novgorod. If that were so, then the whole of the Teuton Knights’ strength would have had to have been there at Lake Chudskoye, and their defeat would have meant the end – the total collapse – of their crusade in the north-east. That clearly didn’t happen. And for good reason. The Brotherhood’s own estimate for losses, figures that were borne out by the historical record, was a mere twenty brothers killed and six captured. In fact, some estimates have it that they were outnumbered by the Russians by a factor of sixty to one! So as you can see, the notion of a heroic, against-the-odds victory is a spurious one. The one thing the film did get right was that there was a faction in Novgorod who didn’t want Prince Alexander to rule them. They knew what an arrogant, haughty, self-seeking son-of-a-bitch he was, and they could do without that. That’s why they got rid of him after his victory over the Swedes on the Neva in 1240. Nor was the threat chiefly from the Teuton Knights. The Lithuanians were much more of a threat.’

  Kleo is smiling dreamily at me now, impressed. But I’m only just getting into the swing.

  ‘Far from being a defender of the homeland, Nevsky was an out-and-out opportunist. He never looked out for anybody but himself. The film depicts him as standing up to the Mongols – or, at least, being able to set them at a distance – but the truth is he was deep in their pocket. Five times he travelled to see his Mongol overlords at Sarai and at Karakorum. Six months it would take to make the round trip, and he had to do it, otherwise the Mongols would have stripped him of his title and set another in his place, by force if necessary. That’s how “independent” and “patriotic” our hero was.’

  Phil frowns. ‘You speak like you don’t like the man.’

  ‘You’re right. He was a toad. As far from what you saw on the screen just now as …’

  Only I can’t find an ‘as’. To my mind, Prince Alexander Nevsky was a traitor to his people. The only reason the Russians keep him in place, I’m sure, is because he fathered Daniil, who in turn spawned a line of Russian kings. But I can’t say that, not with Kleo there.

  Or so I think. Because what happens next surprises me.

  ‘Did he make a play for her?’

  I look to Kleo, who has said the words. She is smiling, her eyes intent on me.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nevsky? When you met. Did he make a play for Katerina?’

  I look to Phil, then back to Kleo, and understand. He’s told her. Told her everything.

  ‘You—’

  ‘Know? Yes. Phil told me. Phil tells me everything.’

  ‘Then …’

  She looks up, past me, as the waitress returns with our coffees. We’re all silent for a moment until she’s gone, and then I lean towards her a little, keeping my voice low.

  ‘Then you know what I am, what Matteus is?’

  ‘Travellers,’ she says. ‘Reisende.’

  She pronounces the word so perfectly that I know Phil must have coached her the same way I coached him when I explained it all.

  ‘Phil says you have a box full of his books. He says—’

  I put a finger to my lips. ‘Not now,’ I say. ‘Back at the house. Let’s drink these and get back.’

  But Kleo has one further question. ‘Phil says you fought with them. The Brotherhood. Were they …?’

  ‘Like they were depicted in the film? No. The film’s a cartoon in that respect. Pure propaganda. Only …’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Only that we were better than that. And worse.’

  She waits – they all wait – for me to finish. And so I tell them about that summer day on the rocks beside the river, and of that dreadful evening and the raid on the native Prussian village.

  ‘How awful,’ Kleo says, her eyes shocked.

  ‘Yes. But the worst of it is that I knew the kind of people that the villagers were. Not individually, but I had stayed with their kind. Seen how good – how innocent – they were. So lacking in ideology.’

  Phil makes a little noise in his throat and I look to him.

  ‘That’s what kills it,’ he says, almost unable to meet my eyes. ‘Ideology. It makes men into devils. Even good men.’

  I can’t argue, and, driving back in the Tucker, I glance in the rear-view mirror, wondering whether they really understand how it feels, and what would happen if we had an accident right now and Matteus and I were to die, and Phil and Kleo carry on into the future, knowing what they know, without it being changed. That’s the risk we’re taking here. That’s why the rules are in place to prevent this from happening. Only, as I’m beginning to realise more and more, I seem to be a one-man rule-free zone. Hecht’s right. I’m a wild card. And all of it stems from that moment when I first met Katerina. When our eyes first locked. If I changed that …

  I’d be as good as dead. And besides, Reichenau would still be alive, and Kolya …

  Back in Matteus’ living room, we get out the tri-vi and show it to Kleo, and then Matteus brings in the box of Phil’s novels, and I watch Kleo’s face light up like a child’s, see how she turns to Phil, holding up one of the books, and how he grins back at her with an ‘I told you so’ expression. Only I’m conscious suddenly of just what a dangerous game we’re playing here, letting them in on all this stuff. And to make it worse, Matteus and Phil start talking about ‘the film’, and I realise, with a shock, that they aren’t talking about the Nevsky, but about the film that will make Phil’s name, thirty years from, now: Blade Runner.

  ‘You’ve seen it?’ I ask, interrupting.

  Phil looks to Matteus and then to me. ‘Sure. I—’

  ‘I didn’t think it would harm,’ Matteus adds. ‘We were going to jump back and erase things anyway, and I thought …’

  I bite back what I was about to say, but Matteus catches my expression and, seeing my disapproval, looks away, blushing.

  And so he should, because this is the kind of thing that can leave ripples in the timestream: the kind our enemies might easily pick up on. Then again, who am I to throw the first stone?

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So what did you make of it?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult,’ Phil says. ‘I mean, think about it a second or two. The movie doesn’t get made till thirty years from now, based on a book I’ve not yet written, that I won’t have written for another sixteen years. A book that’s so far ahead of what I’m thinking right now …’

  Again, I’m shocked. ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Do Androids Dream? Sure. Matt loaned it to me.’

  Just when was this? I want to ask, only it seems I’m too late to prevent it all. I take a long breath.

  ‘So what did you make of it?’

  Phil considers a moment, then shrugs. ‘The director, Ridley Scott, he changed so much.’

  ‘That’s what Hollywood does.’

  ‘Yes,’ Phil says. ‘I know that, only, the stuff he left out, the empathy box, Mercer, the electric animals, all of the decay and degeneration, the kipple … it all had meaning. Profound meaning. I can see that. See what my later self was getting at. Without all that stuff, well, good as it is, it’s just an entertainment.’

  ‘Which did you experience first?’

  Phil looks to Matteus then back to me. ‘The book. Matt was keen for me to experience them in the order they were produced.’

  ‘And? Were the changes good or bad?’

  Phil’s face contorts as he struggles to find an adequate answer, and then he shrugs again. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I seriously don’t know. As I said, the movie changes so much. And yet, in other ways, it stays true to the original. In its feel, especially. It’s like that Scott guy got right inside my head in some ways, whereas in others …’

  He looks to Kleo, and I can see from her face that she hasn’t read the book or seen the movie.

 
‘The characters,’ he says finally. ‘That’s where the biggest changes come. I mean … Deckard, in my original, as we see him through JR Isidore’s eyes, is “unimpressive”. He’s a mundane police clerk who, as part of his job, kills androids. Whereas in the movie he’s like one of those detectives you come across in noir thrillers. You know, like Chandler’s Philip Marlowe or Hammett’s Sam Spade, complete with thirties voice-over. And then there’s Roy Batty. In my book he barely plays any part in events. I mean … Deckard retires him without any real effort, whereas in the movie …’ Phil shivers. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? I mean, I really liked what they did with that part of things. The almost child-like quality Batty showed at times, and yet a machine for all that. Ruthless, until the very end, when he lets Deckard live. And then there’s that speech he gives. Tears in rain …’

  ‘That was Rutger Hauer,’ Matteus says. ‘You know, the actor who played Batty. It was he who added those lines. They weren’t actually in the original script.’

  ‘Really?’ Phil considers that, then nods. ‘I guess they’re simply different things. Different approaches to the same material. But it’s a shame.’

  ‘A shame?’

  ‘That all of this will be gone when you leave here, Otto. Erased from my head, like the memories of a ghost.’

  ‘Or tears in rain …’

  Phil smiles at that. ‘That’s it. I mean, think of it. It would have been nice to have another pass at the novel. To pre-empt the film and get in first. To change it and make it better than it turned out to be. As it is …’

  He falls silent. I sense that he could talk all night about this, but he leaves it at that. This is weird enough as it is. So I call for drinks and Matteus opens a bottle of single malt and pours four glasses, handing them round. And then we talk, finishing the bottle and opening another, the four of us speaking of times to come and of times that were and of those that might have been. And at the end of it I feel sad, because I’ve grown very fond of Phil and Kleo, and it’s nice – very nice – to be able to be so unguarded, so among friends. But as the dawn comes up outside, I stand and, setting my glass aside, smile and say goodbye, and, right there, in front of them, I step out of the air. Back to Four-Oh. To bathe and sleep and then return … to a warm summer evening before I first met Phil.