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.
I am back inside the outbuilding, in the barn-like garage at the end of Matteus’ garden, looking around me at the junk piled up on every side. It’s the evening
before
that first evening I was here, and I’ve jumped in now to prevent that whole chain of events from ever happening. I’m here to stop Matteus from ever inviting Phil and Greg over, and thus to stop me meeting them and all that followed. Because if I jumped in later – on the same evening – I would be duplicating myself, breaking rules, and I’ve decided I’ve done enough of that to last me several lifetimes.
This time I don’t hurry. This time I have a good look around, poking among the boxes and beneath the covers to see just what Matteus has there. And then I hear it. The owl. Climbing the ladder at the back of the building, I slowly, carefully put my head over the straw-strewn edge and look.
There it is, small and grey and downy in its nest, its head tucked in, its eyes closed. I watch, and after a moment it makes a small movement, a slight ruffling of its feathers. Yet it seems to be asleep. I could reach out and touch it, only I know that owls can be fierce when disturbed.
I climb back down and, picking up the container I’ve brought with me, go outside, beneath the clear Californian sky. If anything, it’s a better evening even than the one I remember, the air cleaner, fresher, and as I walk over to the porch, I hear the sound of music drifting out from inside the house. Mahler. His second, the ‘Resurrection’. It’s the finale of the third movement – the scherzo –
In ruhig fliessender Bewegung
.
I open the back door quietly and slip inside, the music increasing in volume as I step through, trumpets blaring, kettle drum pounding. Typical Mahler.
As I step into the doorway, Matteus looks up from the armchair, shocked to see me there. He puts down his Scotch and stands, reaching out to turn the music down, and then – and only then – his face breaks into a broad grin.
‘Otto? Otto Behr?’
I put down the container and reach out to shake his hand. ‘Hecht sent me,’ I say. ‘I’m here to help you.’
So far it’s much as we did before, but now I change things, before he can establish a pattern.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I’ve been here before. This is my second time through.’
‘Second …?’ He blinks with surprise, then nods, understanding.
‘First things first. I want you to phone Phil. Tell him tonight’s off, that your cousin just arrived in town. Tell him you’ll pop over in the morning, that you’ve a gift for him.’
He opens his mouth, making to query all of that, but I quickly interrupt.
‘The place in Nevada. We know what it is. And we’ve got some other stuff, from a house the other side of Berkeley. Stuff we found in a drawer. A map, some pendants, other stuff. I’ll explain it all later. But we need to make a trip to see the place again. We need to get inside.’
He nods. ‘So what’s been happening? What’s the news from Four-Oh?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I say. ‘All kinds of weird shit.’
Because that isn’t why I’m here. Not directly, anyway. I’m here to get Hecht what he wants and then get out of here, double quick. Because there’s a woman waiting for me back in the thirteenth century, and five young girls, and …