“But, Grinstead, this painting is seventy years old—probably nearer eighty! You’re not being serious—I mean…What do you mean?”
“I mean that I knew her, and that for a short time we were lovers. She was the most remarkable woman I shall ever know.”
“What, later than this, when she was old? Is that what you mean? Oh, come on, man! For God’s sake, I know we’ve drunk a fair amount—”
“It wasn’t fair at all. It was disgusting, Horley. I don’t know why you don’t pour the whole cellar into the gutter and start again. Who’s your wine chap?”
“Lepson—but…”
Horley lowered his jaw and blinked hard, as if trying to widen his eyes. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and scratched hard.
“What’s the matter?” said Grinstead.
“Itching. Driving me mad.”
Horley had been trying not to scratch for some minutes now, but he couldn’t hold off anymore. He blinked again. He was conscious of not being as conscious as he would like to be.
“Sorry, Grinstead,” he said. “I’m…I don’t know what to say.”
“Never mind. Don’t say anything. I’ve known this picture for half my life; I’m most grateful to you, Horley, I am really.”
“You knew about it, then?”
“I saw Skipton painting it.”
“And the monkey, and so on?”
“Yes, I knew that story. I’ve heard it a dozen times, and all incorrectly. I met Marisa van Zee in Skipton’s studio when she was eighteen and I was about five years older. I recognized something about her that you could never imagine.”
“What was that?”
“She came from another world.”
The electric fire gave a click as the switched-off bar reluctantly adjusted to its new temperature. The soft roaring and popping of the gas fire was the only other sound, though Horley thought he could hear his own heart beating. The itching was growing intolerable.
“You’re being metaphorical, of course,” he said. “About knowing her, and so on. I mean, you know, eighty years—you must be about my age, and I’m not…I’m afraid I’m not following you at all. What did you say? Another world?”
“There are many worlds, Horley, many universes, an infinity of them, and none of them knows about any of the others. Except that at very rare intervals, a breach appears between one world and another. A little crack. Things slip through. Once you become attuned to it, you can spot things that don’t come from here. There’s a different sort of light that seems to play on them. That little pottery elephant on the shelf over there—I suppose you were told that was Assyrian, were you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Well, it’s not. It comes from another world. I couldn’t tell you which one, I can just see that it does.”
“I see…,” Horley said. “And you met the young woman because of Skipton?” he went on carefully. He was feeling short of breath, as if he’d been running.
“Because I was working for old Garnier. Bertrand, the dealer, not his brother, François. I had to call on Skipton about some small matter, and there she was. Instantaneous. I knew she was from another world, and she knew that I knew it.”
“Another world…Yes, of course. How had she come here, to this world? On a flying saucer?”
Grinstead looked at him, and Horley flinched.
“I’m being serious,” Grinstead said. “Don’t push it.”
“No, no…I’m not, really I’m not. I’m, I’m, I’m, I just, it’s, it’s all unfamiliar. You must see that?”
“Yes, I do see that. Perfectly reasonable point. Well, in theory, all these worlds are mutually unreachable. The physics wouldn’t allow things to be otherwise. In practice, the whole structure…leaks. Things get picked up and put down on a windowsill, for example, that opens just once, just briefly, into another world; someone passing by takes a fancy to it, and off it goes, never to be seen again. Your little pottery elephant, Marisa van Zee, here a blackbird, there a bus timetable….A small boy has an imaginary friend—they play together for hours—whisper secrets, swear eternal love, pretend to be king and queen….But she’s not imaginary, she comes through that tumbled bit of wall behind the greenhouse, and one day he finds that someone’s mended it, and she’s lost for ever. Or that house you saw from the train window, that little glimpse of the perfect dwelling, and you make the same journey over and over and you never see it again. Well, that’s what’s happening: an infinity of worlds, and a thousand and one little leaks in the fabric.”
“And these other worlds—are they all the same as this one?”
“No. Some of them are just like this one, except for one detail. Imagine a world just like this, for example, but where every human being has an animal spirit accompanying them. A sort of visual spirit guide, animal totem, that sort of thing. Part of their own selves, but separate. For example.”
Horley looked at the picture, and then mopped his brow. “I’m not sure that I can. Imagine it. How long did you…?”
“How long did we have together? Less than a month. There were things she didn’t want to tell me. I had an impression of high politics, of important negotiations, diplomatic secrets, but I respected her discretion. Meanwhile, Skipton was painting this.”
Horley was scratching again, and breathing hard.
“But, Grinstead,” he said, “this was eighty years ago, and you’re not even fifty. I still can’t get a sense of where you’re sort of standing in all this. Are you talking about yourself, or about someone else? Is this fiction?”
“It’s true. It happened to me. Time passes differently in different worlds. It might be eighty years ago in one perspective, but things don’t always line up neatly.”
“So…” Horley was waving a hand loosely in the air, as if trying to catch a drifting mote of dust. “So you and, and Marisa came from the same world?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, course not. Grinstead, what…” Horley was trying to remember how this evening had come about. He must have invited Grinstead, since they were sitting in his college; but how did he know the man in the first place? It had completely slipped his mind. “I think I must be drunk,” he said with great clarity.
“You were going to unpack the monkey.”
“Oh God, yes, the monkey….Better get the little brute out of his box. Stay there.”
Horley got up, tottered slightly, and pulled a wooden box out from under the table. It was formidably fastened with nails and heavy metal tape.
“Those nails are rusty,” said Grinstead. “Be careful how you take them out.”
Horley was rummaging in a drawer behind his desk.
“Here we are,” he said, and held up a pair of pliers.
“You need something better than that. A proper nail-pull—”
“No, these are fine. Opened dozens of boxes.”
He worked the nose of the pliers under the metal tape, slipping several times, and tried to lever it up, without success. Then he attacked a nailhead, without managing to grip it once.
“Screwdriver,” he said. “In the drawer, Grinstead, would you mind?”
Grinstead put his glass down on the floor and went to look in the drawer. There was one screwdriver, whose head was worn and rounded. Horley took it and jammed it hard under the tape, levering upward, so hard that the blade of the screwdriver bent. Grinstead sat back down to watch. Horley next tried to stab the blade of the screwdriver under the lid, and missed several times, but finally managed to lever it up. The wood splintered, but only at that spot. Horley stood up to take off his jacket. He was sweating, and there seemed to be a rash on his face.