The Map of Time Collection, page 88
Such were the unforeseen effects on American society of Locke’s hoax. And after recovering from his own disbelief, Locke himself learned a lesson from it all: Man needed to dream. Yes, he needed to believe in illusions, to aspire to something more than the miserable, hostile life that suffocated him. And he, Locke, had been clever enough to invent a perfect fantasy for that disenchanted dreamer. At first, this unexpected success had helped Locke weather the storm of criticisms and insults from his rivals, but as the years went by and things gradually returned to normal, and his practical joke became an amusing anecdote, Locke began to feel more and more proud of his achievement. He had given people a paradise about which they could dream, where they could take refuge from their earthly woes, and he had done so without robbing them of their free will, or forcing them to comply with absurd rules, or threatening them with hellfire and brimstone. Making others dream should not be the domain solely of religion or of artists, he told himself. No, governments the world over should create ministries devoted to helping people dream of a better world. As he entertained these thoughts, Locke began to feel more and more pleased with what he had achieved, although at the same time he was frustrated that no one else appreciated it. He had discovered that creating illusions on a grand scale had its problems, and however much he liked to think of humanity as a little child clamoring for a bedtime story, he realized not everyone was the same. Many preferred to accept the world the way it was, without the adornment of imagination. Others simply could not tolerate the idea of a power superior to the one they liked to flaunt. And all those different opinions were too much for one man to fight against. All Locke could do was share the magic potion he had stumbled upon by chance with those who really deserved it. A door-to-door effort, as it were. However, although he considered humanity as a whole worthy of the remedy, no single member of it seemed to him particularly deserving.
• • •
YET THE DAY HE held his first child in his arms, and she gazed up at him with that intense, probing look newborn babies have, Locke knew he had at last found someone who deserved the gift of a more beautiful world by rights. And so, on Eleanor’s tenth birthday, he made her a very special present. He gave her the power to dream, the physical expression of which consisted of a scroll of paper tied with a bright red ribbon. When she unfurled it, the girl saw a map of the universe drawn by Locke himself. He could no longer populate the Moon with magical creatures (the scientists had seen to that), but the universe had yet to be discovered. With each passing decade, telescopes would gradually reveal its mysteries, and men would even be able to soar through it in winged machines heavier than air. But it would be a long time before that happened, centuries perhaps. For the time being, the universe could be exactly as Locke had depicted it on that scroll of paper.
And of course, his daughter, Eleanor, never doubted for a moment that it was any different, for she was as much of a dreamer as her father. But that was not her only quality. From an early age she showed signs of being an impulsive spirit, one of those souls from whom laughter and tears suddenly flow with equal exuberance. A delicate ray of sunshine appearing after a storm could fill her with the wildest joy, just as a wilting flower might cause her to cry inconsolably, although to everyone’s surprise, her father’s gift of the Map of the Sky proved the best remedy for her tears on such occasions. Sometimes opening it and running her little hands over the marvels shown there was enough to make her face light up once more. Fortunately, the map always managed to soothe her, whether she was upset because the runt in a litter of puppies was born dead or irritated by one of her suitors greeting her in a way that obviously betrayed his waning interest. No matter what the drama of the day was, Eleanor only needed to step into the garden and look up at the night sky to become instantly aware of a distant melody, like the clamor of a fairground with its promise of unimaginable delights, which for her was the real sound of the universe pulsating behind that shadowy veil, a universe no telescope could penetrate, and of whose existence only she and her father were aware.
The day her own daughter, Catherine, turned ten, she could think of no better gift than the Map of the Sky. Sadly, Catherine had not inherited what appeared to be the family talent for dreaming. Nor was she susceptible to the stormy passions that had dominated her mother’s life: Eleanor found it incredible that she had given birth to a child in whom she recognized nothing of herself. Catherine was too matter-of-fact to want to complicate life, and Eleanor, who believed that to live intensely one must overcome torment and unhappiness, immediately considered this a defect. As she never tired of reminding her husband—that suitor whose aloofness she had so often reproached—the serene smile their daughter wore on her lips, far from being a mark of a happy disposition, betrayed a complete lack of comprehension of the meaning of happiness. However, contrary to what her mother thought, Catherine did not grow up viewing the world with indifference. Rather, it seemed to her ideal, flawless, and beyond question. Nothing appeared sufficiently awful to disturb the tranquillity of her soul or fascinating enough to make her tremble with joy. If, for example, a suitor failed to pay her the attention she thought she deserved, rather than torment herself pointlessly she simply struck him off her list without the slightest sense of resentment. You will have no difficulty understanding, then, that for Catherine her grandfather’s map was never a port in a storm or a magic charm that restored her joie de vivre. It simply confirmed that she did indeed live in the best of all possible worlds, where even the strange universe was a friendly place filled with peace and harmony.
Confident as she was, she never suspected that this feared lack of harmony would issue from her own belly. And yet it did. From the moment Emma was born, she made clear her dissatisfaction with the world and its inhabitants, for if one of them leaned over her cradle to contemplate the innocence concentrated in that tiny creature, he or she was surprised to find a pair of fiery eyes threatening to scorch them. Her face purple with rage, the girl would cry if her food was colder or hotter than usual, if she was left alone for too long, or if she was cradled half-heartedly. There seemed to be no pleasing her. And on the few occasions when she did not cry, it was even worse, for she would gaze about her with unnerving solemnity. Emma relaxed only when she fell asleep, and during that brief respite her mother would watch over her, admiring the delicate, exotic beauty of a daughter who had become the first inconvenience in her life she could not turn her back on.
When Emma was ten, Catherine passed the Map of the Sky down to her daughter, as her own mother had done before her. She secretly hoped the drawing would have some effect upon Emma, preferably reconciling her to the world she lived in. Clearly nothing around her, nothing she could see or possess, was capable of satisfying her, but perhaps that map with its wonders and miracles would show her that the universe was far more perfect and beautiful than her disappointing surroundings might suggest. And the fact is, at first it seemed to work, for Emma would not only spend hours gazing excitedly at the map but would not be parted from it either: she would put it on the table at mealtimes, take it with her when she went to the park with her governess, hide it under her pillow when she went to sleep.
As Emma grew older, she began to understand the hushed conversations for which she had hitherto assumed adults used a special language. She was just twelve when she found out about Great-Grandfather Locke’s hoax. One evening, when a headache prevented her from sleeping, she wandered down to the sitting room and through a crack in the door overheard her mother reminiscing about it to her father. She almost fainted with shock and had to prop herself up against the wall as she listened to the tale of how the tall, distinguished gentleman whose portrait stood at the top of the stairs had deceived a whole country with his invention of a Moon inhabited by unicorns, beavers, bison, and even bat men soaring majestically through its skies, a Moon that had proved completely false in the face of the disappointing reality. When the conversation was over, Emma returned to her room, where she picked up the map and, giving it one last bitter glance, eyes brimming with tears, buried it at the bottom of a drawer. She knew now that the map was false, that the universe was no more idyllic than the Moon had been. It was all a lie, another fabrication by her great-grandfather. Through her affection for him as the author of the map, Emma had become aware of a hint of mischief in his eyes that belied his apparent severity, but now she had discovered he was laughing at her, just as he had at her mother and her grandmother and at the whole country. She curled up in bed like a gazelle pierced by an arrow. She could expect nothing more from life now apart from disappointment. The world around her was so dreadfully dull, crude, and imperfect, and there was nothing beyond that could redeem it.
As time went by, she began to look upon New York as a dirty, noisy city full of injustices and ugliness. It was too hot in summer, and its harsh winters were unbearable. She despised the poor, crammed together in their tiny hovels, brutalized by hardship, yet she also hated her own class, their lives constricted by silly, rigid social customs. She found artists vain and selfish, and intellectuals bored her. She had no female friends worthy of that name, for she could not tolerate tedious discussions about dresses, balls, and suitors, and she thought men were the simplest, easiest to manipulate creatures on the planet. She was bored with staying at home and bored with strolling in Central Park. She despised hypocrisy, could not stand sentimentality, and felt constricted by her corsets. Nothing was to her liking. Her life was an absurd pretense. Still, a person can grow accustomed to anything, and Emma was no exception. And as the years passed, she gradually resigned herself to this humdrum reality, and like a fairy-tale princess in her lofty tower, she awaited some extraordinary miracle that would at last bring joy to her lifeless soul, or simply someone who would make her laugh. In the meantime, oblivious to her woes, nature took its course, and the promise of her youthful beauty flowered dramatically, undiminished by the permanent grimace of distaste on her lips. However, it will scarcely surprise you that by the age of twenty-one, when many of her peers were either betrothed or wed, Emma had still not met the man capable of convincing her that the Creator’s mind was not on other things during the six days it took Him to make the world. And there were times when she could not help remembering with sadness the years when the Map of the Sky had given her a comforting glimmer of hope. That was no longer possible since she had discovered her great-grandfather’s hoax. Still, to her surprise, Emma was unable to think badly of him. On the contrary, as she grew older her admiration for him increased, with the predictable result that during the tumultuous years of her adolescence, Great-Grandfather Locke became the only type of man for whom she could feel anything at all. Someone audacious, imaginative, and intelligent, who was so superior to all others he could dupe them, and enjoy himself in the process. Encouraged by the inexorable optimism of youth, Emma would imagine her great-grandfather’s stern face dissolving into laughter each time one of his hilarious reports shook the world, and that thought would in turn soften her demeanor by making her smile. However, the fact is Emma did not know any man equal to him, and as the dust of the years settled over her heart, the Map of the Sky lay discarded at the bottom of a drawer.
• • •
ON THE MORNING THAT concerns us, while searching for something in her desk, Emma came across the roll of paper that had once inspired her many childish fancies. She thought of putting it away again but instead held it in her hand and gazed at it with great affection. The bitterness toward her great-grandfather that had compelled her to bury the map at the bottom of that drawer nine years before had vanished, and although she was aware that it was only a silly drawing, it was still a thing of beauty, and so she untied the ribbon, smiling to herself as she recalled the absurd excitement she used to feel when doing so in the past. Then she stretched the roll out on the desk, contemplating it with that nostalgia adults feel for the things that made them happy as children, and it saddened her that time had made her immune to its effects.
The Map of the Sky, which it is perhaps time to describe, was an illustration of the universe framed by a border decorated with ornate arabesques. It showed a dark blue surface with light blue flecks, more like the ocean than the sky. At its center was the sun, a flaming ball with streaks of fire spurting from various places along its edge. Surrounding the golden orb was a spray of mushroom-shaped nebulae, celestial bodies that gave off silvery wisps of light, and stars that glinted as though made up of tiny diamonds. Several painted balloons, their baskets filled with people, floated amid the sprinkling of planets. The space travelers were dressed in very thick overcoats, and most wore scarves over their mouths and held on to their hats so as not to lose them to a cosmic gust of wind. Each basket was fitted with a tiny rudder and a telescope, and hanging from their sides, amid the trunks and suitcases, were cages of mice. The travelers would let these out whenever they landed on a planet to make sure the air there was breathable. Some of the balloons appeared to be fleeing from what looked like swarms of giant wasps; however, the drawing gave an overall impression of peaceful coexistence, as evinced in one of Emma’s favorite scenes in the bottom right-hand corner. This depicted some passengers in one balloon doffing their hats to a small procession of creatures from another planet riding on what looked like orange-colored herons. But for their pointed ears and long forked tails, the creatures were not so different from men.
As she studied the map, Emma could not help comparing the magical feeling of excitement she had experienced as a child to her present sensations, dampened by disappointment, which in her case had preempted reason. For magic had been torn from her life in too abrupt and untimely a manner, instead of slowly fading with the years. And yet, she said to herself in a sudden flash of insight, wasn’t that what growing up was all about? A progressive blindness to the evidence of magic dotted about the world, which only children and dreamers are able to glimpse.
With a wistful smile, Emma rolled up the map and placed it back in the desk drawer. She could not throw it away, for she had to hand it down to her own daughter when she reached the appropriate age. So dictated the absurd family tradition, which Emma had sworn to respect even though for her it was an empty gesture, for she was convinced she would never have any offspring: she was not and never would be in love, and therefore a man could scarcely inseminate her unless, like spores, his seed was carried to her on the wind.
XV
THIS IS THE LAST DAY YOU SERVE IN THIS HOUSE, Emma thought, as her latest maid tugged violently on the laces of her bodice. How could such a scrawny girl possess the strength of an ox? She had not been there long enough for Emma to learn her name, but that did not matter now. She would ask her mother to dismiss whatever her name was without further ado. When the maid had finished dressing her, Emma thanked her with a smile, ordered her to make the bed, and went down to breakfast. Her mother was already waiting for her on the porch, where breakfast had been laid out that morning owing to the clement weather. A light breeze, gentle as a puppy, teased the shutters, the flowers on the table, and her mother’s hair, which she had still not gathered into her usual bun.
“I want you to dismiss the new maid,” Emma said.
“What, again, child?” her mother protested. “Give her a chance. She came highly recommended by the Kunises.”
“Even so, she has the manners of a heathen; she almost suffocated me lacing up my bodice!” Emma declared, sitting down at the table.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” her mother exclaimed. “I expect that once you get used to her—”
“I never wish to see her again!” Emma cut in.
“Very well, my child,” her mother conceded with a sigh. “I shall dismiss Daisy.”
“Daisy, what a name for that brute,” muttered Emma, sipping her orange juice.
During breakfast, the maids paraded in front of Emma the customary array of gifts sent by her suitors every morning: Robert Cullen’s offering was an exquisite emerald choker; Gilbert Hardy’s, a beautiful cameo brooch made of sculpted pearl; Ayrton Coleman had bought her two tickets to the theater and a dozen cream doughnuts; and Walter Musgrove had bade her good morning with his usual bouquet of wild irises. Emma’s mother watched her nod halfheartedly as she was shown each gift; her daughter already had all those things, she thought. The only child of one of New York’s wealthiest families, she was not easily impressed with gifts. Her suitors were therefore forced to use their ingenuity. Yet none seemed able to please this young woman, who lived in one of the few town houses in New York that boasted a ballroom, preceded by an endless series of elegant rooms filled with artworks.
“Oh, Emma,” sighed her mother. “What does a man have to do to win your heart? I really wish I knew, so that I could instruct some of them. You know how much I’d love to have a granddaughter.”
“Yes, Mother,” Emma replied wearily, “you’ve been saying the same thing every single day since I turned twenty.”
Her mother fell silent for a few moments and gazed sadly up at the sky.
“A little girl running about would bring the place alive, don’t you agree, darling?” she said presently, renewing her attack wistfully.
Emma snorted.
“Why are you so sure it would be a little girl?” she asked.
“I’m not, Emma. How could I be?” her mother parried. “I simply wish for a girl. Naturally, it is for God to decide the sex of his creatures.”
“If you say so . . .”
Emma understood perfectly well why her mother had said this. Hitherto, only women had inherited the Map of the Sky: first Grandma Eleanor, then Emma’s mother, Catherine, and after her, Emma. It was as if the selfsame drawing had mysteriously inclined the embryo that would receive it toward the female sex. So that if one day Emma were to fall in love, an event she considered very unlikely, she would naturally give birth to a girl. After which her womb would mysteriously dry up, as had happened to her grandmother and her mother, who following the birth of their first child and notwithstanding their respective husbands’ vigorous efforts, had been unable to repeat the miracle.
