Matteus has disappeared inside. He said he was only going to be a moment, but ten minutes pass before the door opens again.
It’s Phil. He wanders over to the car and, as I wind down the window, leans in to shake my hand.
‘Hey, Otto, how are you? You wanna come in for some coffee?’
He hasn’t changed since the other night, and looks as if he could easily have slept in his clothes. His hair’s uncombed, and he’s yet to shave, but his smile is welcoming.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sounds good.’
It feels strange, just leaving the car there, unlocked, at the roadside, but that’s very much of this age, too. Crime happens, sure, but you can still leave things unlocked, mostly.
We go inside, where I’m surprised to find a pleasant, Greek-looking young woman, with long dark hair and a nice, warm smile. This, it turns out, is Kleo, Phil’s wife, and that surprises me a little because I didn’t see Phil as a ladies’ man, let alone married.
Kleo sits me down and pours me coffee, and, while Phil talks about Bach and the art films he’s been to see recently at the Cinema Guild down on Telegraph Avenue, she potters about the kitchen, humming to herself.
Phil, it seems, has the whole of the
Matthew Passion
on record. He goes out of the room, and returns a moment later, with what looks like a huge black box-file, which I realise holds twenty heavy black discs – each about ten inches in circumference. Gramophone records, it appears, 78s. They can only store about three minutes on each side of the thick black wax discs, and I look to Matteus in amazement before handing one of them back to Phil.
‘Cutting-edge,’ I say, but Phil doesn’t seem to hear me.
‘Listen to the quality of that,’ he says, referring to the disc that’s playing. ‘Mind, in the future, it’ll be a lot better. They’ll have little gaseous pills, which you’ll pop in a tiny glass bowl, and there’ll be the whole of Bach on that pill. Every last little thing he wrote. And you’ll be able to talk to the glass and ask it for your favourite, and it’ll play it by resonating the air and—’
‘
Phi-il
…’ Kleo says, with a pleasant, sing-song intonation. ‘Be kind to our guests. They’re probably not into all that stuff of yours.’
‘No?’ Phil looks to me.
‘There’ll be new technologies, sure,’ I say, nodding and smiling back at him. ‘After all, it’s the machines’ turn now.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Phil asks, suddenly very serious.
‘To evolve,’ I say. ‘That’s what the war was about, in one sense. Rapid technological evolution. Why, technologically we probably advanced about three or four decades in the space of a mere five years.’
Phil nods thoughtfully, taking it all in, then he turns abruptly and looks to Kleo.
‘Matt’s talking about taking a trip, Kleo. Out to Nevada. Him and Otto. They want to know if I’ll go along with them.’
It’s the first I’ve heard of this, and I look to Matteus.
‘That’s right,’ Matteus says, giving me an ‘I know what I’m doing’ look before turning back to Phil and Kleo. ‘It’ll take three days there and back.’
Kleo smiles. ‘S’okay with me. You want me to pack a bag for you, Phil?’
‘Would you?’
‘Sure. I’ll go and see my folks while you’re away. It’s been a while.’
Phil turns, looks to Matteus, then to me. ‘Then that’s that. When are we off?’
We’re heading east on 120, high up, on the very roof of the world, it seems. Big Oak Flat is behind us, Yosemite up ahead, ten minutes’ drive at most. It’s late afternoon and the sun is low, shining in through the back window. Phil has been asleep the last hour or so, snoring loudly in the back.
Matteus is driving, one hand resting lazily on the wheel as we climb the slow gradient through this magnificent country. We’re heading into wild country and the sky is a pure and beautiful blue. The road is empty, like we’re in the only car in all creation.
The radio plays softly. Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby, Al Martino, Sinatra and Guy Mitchell. The popular music of the time, cloying, romantic, but unintrusive. It washes over us as the miles pass.
Matteus glances at the fuel gauge, then looks at me. ‘It’s low. We’ll need to stop for gas again.’
‘This thing
drinks
petrol.’
‘Yes, but she runs beautifully, don’t you think? Besides, it’s only money.’
That irks me. As a
Reisende
I find it irritating that Matteus uses Time to make such cheap gains.
‘Is it true what you said? That you
gamble
?’
Matteus grins, oblivious of my disapproval. ‘If you can call it that. I mean, why not?’
‘You shouldn’t. It might draw attention.’
‘Only if I get caught. And that’s not likely. I never place a bet twice in the same place.’
‘What do you use?’
He smiles. ‘The form guide for ’53.’
‘What if someone should find that?’
Matteus pats the small bulge in his shirt pocket. ‘Always keep it here.’
I’m silent a moment, then: ‘Where exactly are we heading?’
‘Mineral County.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Over the border.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me about this before?’
He glances at me, surprised. ‘I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you were here. To make this trip.’
Which makes me thoughtful.
‘Otto?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Why are you so sad?’
I look to him; see how he’s looking at me. ‘Am I?’
‘Sure. Never seen a man look sadder. Like you lost something, or some
one
.’
He’s quiet a moment, then. ‘D’you want to talk?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you do …’
For a while he just drives. Then, seeing a gas station up ahead, he slows and pulls over to the right, gliding up to the pumps.
It’s twilight now, and as the attendant comes across, I find myself thinking about Katerina once again, and the girls. While I’m here no time is actually passing. Not where they are. I could be ‘away’ for years and not a second would have passed back there in Cherdiechnost. Theoretically I could jump back the instant after I jumped out. Only I know somehow that that just isn’t going to happen. Why? No reason. Just a feeling. But so strong a feeling that it makes me wince.
Matteus looks to me, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I think I need to use the bathroom,’ I say, climbing out, even as the blond-haired attendant smiles a howdy at Matteus and begins to unscrew the petrol cap.
I pee, then come back, standing there across from the car, looking past its sleek golden form at the sun-bathed mountains in the distance, the red-streaked clouds and the blacktop, which stretches away for miles in either direction, the view unhindered. There are mountains up ahead. It’s a landscape of exposed soil and rock, and at any other time I might be moved by its raw beauty, only –
America … what the fuck are we doing in America?
I can’t see any kind of connection. Hecht has sent me here to exile. I’m sure of that now, a captive – like Matteus – to trivia and this lesser kind of reality.
Matteus is talking to the attendant about the car, telling him where he bought it and a little of its history. As I walk up, the guy turns and smiles at me. He’s tall, blond, a regular storm trooper, if ever I saw one. Unmistakably so.
Whose side were
you
on? And just how did you get hold of an American passport? What deals did you have to make?
As we drive away, Matteus chuckles, and I ask him why.
‘Our friend back there … he could easily pass for a German. He has the look.’
‘He has …’
Matteus is quiet for a time, then, like I’ve asked a question, he says. ‘You want to know, don’t you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Why I chose
this
car and not some other.’
I shrug. In truth, it makes no difference whatsoever, but I ask anyway: ‘So why did you?’
‘I almost bought something else. A ’48 Lincoln Cabriolet. The Lincoln’s a beautiful car, more expensive than this and a convertible, and before that I was going to buy a Cadillac, an Eldorado, that’s another beauty, especially in a pure white trim. Only, well, this was the one. It had everything. Those others, they’re good cars, fast, reliable,
powerful
cars, only … this is the one I knew they’d talk about, the one that’d make people ask questions.’
‘And that’s
good
?’
‘Well, it ain’t bad.’
‘You know what I’d buy if I had the money?’ Phil chimes in, surprising us both by the fact that he’s awake. ‘I’d have bought a ’51 Mercury Kustom Carson. Kustom with a K, that is. Most beautiful car I’ve ever seen. The kind of car a movie star might drive. The one I saw was blue. An ethereal blue, with a pure white top and white wheels.’
Matteus is nodding slowly. ‘Beautiful car, I agree, but it’s the rarity of the Tucker that sold me. That and the story behind it. Hey … anyone know what kind of engine drives this beauty?’
Neither Phil nor I know, so Matteus carries on. ‘It’s a converted six-cylinder helicopter engine, that’s what! Ex-army surplus. The original was air-cooled, but Preston Tucker adapted it, made it water-cooled. That’s what gives it its oomph. One hundred and sixty-five horsepower … that’s seventy-five horsepower more than a Chevvy!’
Phil whistles, impressed, but I haven’t a clue what Matteus is going on about. Nor do I care, really, only it is a very comfortable car, and of all the means of transport I’ve used across the centuries, this is one of the most stylish.
‘So,’ Phil says after a moment, ‘what
is
this place we’re going out to see?’
‘It’s a research facility,’ Matteus says, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. ‘Belongs to a private company. A big pharmaceuticals firm.’
I’m surprised, but Phil just nods. ‘So what’s your interest in it?’ he asks, leaning forward over the back of my seat. ‘You work for their rivals?’
Matteus laughs. ‘You could say that.’
‘And you’re checking them out?’
‘Right.’
I want to take Matteus aside and ask him what he’s doing, only now is not the time. But I’m convinced of one thing now: sleeper agents aren’t reliable. Being alone in hostile territory for such a length of time isn’t a good thing. They develop quirks, eccentricities. Risk-taking eccentricities. Like the gambling.
The miles pass. The light fades and an intense darkness swallows up the world, the triple headlights of the Tucker cutting a broad, crisp swathe of light ahead of us as the blacktop vanishes beneath our wheels. This is wild, open country with little else other than mountain and tree and rock. A wilderness, hostile to man.
There’s hardly any traffic on the highway. In fact, we’ve probably not passed more than two or three hundred cars in the whole of the journey east.
An innocent time
, I think.
Everything open, up for grabs
.
Before the crowded, overpopulated years. The years of misery and suffering. The years of unchecked genetic experimentation. Before it all went wrong.
‘How much longer?’ I ask.
Matteus glances at the milometer. ‘We’re about fifty miles from the border now so … another fifty on top of that?’
‘Which gets us where?’ Phil asks.
‘Hawthorne.’
‘Hawthorne, eh?’ Phil says. ‘Same as your friend Abendsen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nice name. I should use it sometime. It’s the hardest thing, you know, names.’
‘Yeah?’ But I can hear that Matteus is only half interested.
‘Yeah,’ Phil carries on, oblivious. ‘Give your characters the right names and they take on a life of their own. Give them something wrong – something that doesn’t fit – and …’
‘Phil?’
‘Yeah, Matt?’
‘You ever handled a gun?’
I blink with surprise, then turn to look at Phil. He’s suddenly got a strange look on his face. As well he might, because he’s alone in a car with two guys, miles from anywhere, and we’re talking about guns.
‘No … why?’
‘I just asked, is all. There’ll be guards, you see.’ Matteus pauses, then says, ‘Just in case.’
‘I don’t need a gun,’ Phil says, and there’s an edge to his voice.
Matteus turns and grins at him. ‘Hey! Only kidding!’
Phil’s face wrinkles with relief. He grins back at Matteus. ‘You fucker …’
‘Hey, ain’t I?’
And so we sail on through the night, the dark, sculpted wilderness of Yosemite surrounding us, the radio playing quietly, Hawthorne, Nevada getting closer by the minute.
We book in at a motel on the edge of town, one room with a big double and a single. Matteus and I share the double. Phil wants to talk some more, but Matteus is tired after the drive and I’m not feeling much like talking, so while Matteus and I get some sleep, Phil puts the radio on low and lies there on top of the blankets, fully clothed, stretched out, his hands behind his head.
That’s how I find him when I wake, just after dawn. Matteus isn’t there, and when I ask, Phil gestures with his head towards the door.
‘He went out, half an hour back. Said he was going to try and find a map.’
‘Right …’
But that too disturbs me. It all seems so casual. So unprepared. And bringing Phil along – what’s that about?
I walk through to the bathroom and begin to wash at the sink. As I do, I hear the volume of the radio go up a notch or two. There’s a snatch of some corny Country and Western song, and then Phil changes the station. A man’s voice drifts from the next room.
‘… unlike most yew-fologists takes a sceptical viewpoint. He argues that …’
I turn, looking back at Phil. ‘Yew-fologist?’
‘UFOs,’ Phil says, turning the radio down. ‘Unidentified Flying Objects. Country’s nuts about ’em. There’s aliens in the skies and reds under the bed!’
I smile. ‘Reds … like in Russians?’
‘That’s right.’ Then, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. ‘You been away somewhere?’
‘You could say that.’ I sluice my face, then grab the towel and wipe myself dry. ‘I’ve been in Europe. Observing the reconstruction.’
‘All right … I wondered about the accent.’
‘So these ufologists … what exactly do they do?’
‘Spread rumours. Frighten people. Scare the living shit out of them, to tell the truth. As if some advanced alien race would be interested in us!’