Read Online The Map of Time by Félix J. Palma - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Félix J. Palma
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even slipping back into the elegant clothes he always left judiciously in a bundle on the seat. That night there was no longer any need to for secrecy. When they arrived at the mansion, Andrew stepped out of the carriage, asked Harold to stay where he was, and hurried into the house. The coachman nodded his head in dismay as he watched him run up the steps in those rags, and wondered if he would hear Mr. Harrington’s shouts from there.
Andrew had forgotten his father had a meeting with businessmen that night until he staggered into the library, and a dozen men stood gaping at him in astonishment. This was not the situation he had anticipated, but he had too much alcohol in his blood to be put off. He searched for his father amid the array of dinner jackets, and finally found him standing by the fireplace, next to his brother Anthony. Glass in one hand and cigar in the other, both men looked him up and down in utter astonishment. But his clothing was the least of it, as they would soon discover, thought Andrew, who in the end felt pleased to have an audience. Since he was about to stick his head in the noose, better to do so in front of witnesses than alone with his father in his study. He cleared his throat loudly under the fixed gaze of the gathering, and said: “Father, I’ve come here to tell you I’m in love.” His words were followed by a heavy silence, broken only by an embarrassed cough here and there.
“Andrew, this is hardly a suitable moment to …” his father began, visibly irritated, before Andrew silenced him with a sudden gesture of his hand.
“I assure you, father, this is as unsuitable a moment as any,” he said, trying to keep his balance so he would not have to finish his bravura performance flat on his face.
His father bridled but forced himself to remain silent. Andrew took a deep breath. The moment had come for him to destroy his life forever.
“And the woman who has stolen my heart … ” he declared, “is a Whitechapel whore by the name of Marie Kelly.” Having finally unburdened himself in this way, he smiled defiantly at the gathering. Faces fell, heads were clutched in hands, arms flapped about in the air, but no one said a word: they all knew they were witnessing a melodrama with two protagonists, and of course, it was William Harrington who must speak. All eyes were fixed on the host. Staring down at the pattern on the carpet, his father shook his head, let out a low, barely repressed growl, and put down his glass on the mantelpiece, as though it were suddenly encumbering him.
“Contrary to what I’ve so often heard you maintain, gentlemen,” Andrew went on, unaware of the rage stirring in his father’s breast, “whores aren’t whores because they want to be. I assure you that any one of them would choose to have a respectable job if they could. Believe me, I know what I’m saying.” His father’s colleagues went on demonstrating their ability to express surprise without opening their mouths. “I’ve spent a lot of time in their company these past few weeks. I’ve watched them washing in horse troughs in the mornings, seen them sitting down to sleep, held against the wall by a rope if the could not find a bed …” And the more he went on speaking in this way about prostitutes, the more Andrew realized his feelings for Marie Kelly were deeper than he had imagined. He gazed round with infinite pity at all these men with their orderly lives, their dreary, passionless existences, who would consider it impractical to yield to an uncontrollable urge. He could tell them what it was like to lose one’s head, to burn up with feverish desire. He could tell them what the inside of love looked like, because he had split it open like a piece of fruit, he had removed its shell as you would the casing on a watch to see how the cogs inside made the hands slice time into segments. But Andrew could not tell them about this or anything else, because at that very moment his father,
Andrew had forgotten his father had a meeting with businessmen that night until he staggered into the library, and a dozen men stood gaping at him in astonishment. This was not the situation he had anticipated, but he had too much alcohol in his blood to be put off. He searched for his father amid the array of dinner jackets, and finally found him standing by the fireplace, next to his brother Anthony. Glass in one hand and cigar in the other, both men looked him up and down in utter astonishment. But his clothing was the least of it, as they would soon discover, thought Andrew, who in the end felt pleased to have an audience. Since he was about to stick his head in the noose, better to do so in front of witnesses than alone with his father in his study. He cleared his throat loudly under the fixed gaze of the gathering, and said: “Father, I’ve come here to tell you I’m in love.” His words were followed by a heavy silence, broken only by an embarrassed cough here and there.
“Andrew, this is hardly a suitable moment to …” his father began, visibly irritated, before Andrew silenced him with a sudden gesture of his hand.
“I assure you, father, this is as unsuitable a moment as any,” he said, trying to keep his balance so he would not have to finish his bravura performance flat on his face.
His father bridled but forced himself to remain silent. Andrew took a deep breath. The moment had come for him to destroy his life forever.
“And the woman who has stolen my heart … ” he declared, “is a Whitechapel whore by the name of Marie Kelly.” Having finally unburdened himself in this way, he smiled defiantly at the gathering. Faces fell, heads were clutched in hands, arms flapped about in the air, but no one said a word: they all knew they were witnessing a melodrama with two protagonists, and of course, it was William Harrington who must speak. All eyes were fixed on the host. Staring down at the pattern on the carpet, his father shook his head, let out a low, barely repressed growl, and put down his glass on the mantelpiece, as though it were suddenly encumbering him.
“Contrary to what I’ve so often heard you maintain, gentlemen,” Andrew went on, unaware of the rage stirring in his father’s breast, “whores aren’t whores because they want to be. I assure you that any one of them would choose to have a respectable job if they could. Believe me, I know what I’m saying.” His father’s colleagues went on demonstrating their ability to express surprise without opening their mouths. “I’ve spent a lot of time in their company these past few weeks. I’ve watched them washing in horse troughs in the mornings, seen them sitting down to sleep, held against the wall by a rope if the could not find a bed …” And the more he went on speaking in this way about prostitutes, the more Andrew realized his feelings for Marie Kelly were deeper than he had imagined. He gazed round with infinite pity at all these men with their orderly lives, their dreary, passionless existences, who would consider it impractical to yield to an uncontrollable urge. He could tell them what it was like to lose one’s head, to burn up with feverish desire. He could tell them what the inside of love looked like, because he had split it open like a piece of fruit, he had removed its shell as you would the casing on a watch to see how the cogs inside made the hands slice time into segments. But Andrew could not tell them about this or anything else, because at that very moment his father,
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