“He’d have to agree to that,” said Cashel. “But he’d say, ‘Fifteen thousand dollars a year is too much.’ “
“My Mr. X is no such cheapjack higgler,” I said. “But let us assume that I let myself be beaten down to twelve thousand five hundred a year.”
“Very well,” said Cashel grudgingly—he was careful with money even in fantasy. “But the five years of time would have to be handed over on the spot.”
“Just what I was coming to. Mr. X and I reach an agreement. The whole five years’ pay is to be in advance—and on the nail, you know?”
“Of course,” said Cashel.
“Tax-free,” I said.
“Ye-es, yes. Tax-free.”
“Fine.” Seeing Cashel writing on the back of a menu, I said, “Making a note of this, little man? I’ll be damned if it doesn’t cost you!”
“I was doing figures,” he said. “Five years at twelve and a half makes sixty-two thousand, five hundred.”
“I daresay it does. And this sum of money I secure before I deliver. Very well. Then I say to my Mr. X, “Thank you, sir, and good day to you. It has been a pleasure doing business with you. I hope you enjoyed the time I sold you.’ Mr. X says, ‘What do you mean?’ I reply, ‘You purchased five consecutive years of my time. I have sold you exactly two and a half years forward and two and a half years back!’ So saying, I walk out with my satchel of money.”
Cashel blinked and said, “Coffee?”
“Yes, and another brandy. A neat story, I flatter myself?”
“It couldn’t work quite like that,” said Cashel. “Two and a half years forward and two and a half years back wouldn’t leave you in exactly the same place at the same time of day.”
“Why not?”
“Because time bends, the same way light does. There’s no such thing as ‘instantaneous’—as yet. Also, the universe moves, as you must know. There’d have to be a few hours and a few miles of difference. As for the gimmick about time forward and time back, it isn’t as clever as you might think. Consider: Your Mr. X would be richer by two and a half years of foresight and two and a half years of hindsight—to say nothing of the time itself. He’d get a good sixty-two thousand dollars’ worth.”
“Sixty-two thousand, five hundred,” I said.
“All right.”
“Now do I get fifty dollars on account of this fine story?”
“I can’t, Ira,” said Cashel, “but I wish you’d drink this brandy for me. It makes me sleepy...No, on policy, I can’t advance on a story.” He sounded slightly tipsy. “But I certainly would like to buy five years of the time a man with a brain like yours fritters away.”
“Right!” I said, bored now that I had had my fun. “Sixty-two thousand, five hundred dollars on the nail, and it’s yours—two and a half forward, two and a half back.”
“You really would sell it, I think,” Cashel murmured. He was making calculations on the menu, and looking at his watch—one of those complicated stop watches studded with incomprehensible winders, such as artillerymen use.
“Like a shot!” I replied, helping myself to his brandy.
“It’s fascinating, really,” said Cashel. He took out a little ivory slide rule and made further calculations. “As it would turn out,” he said brightly, “there’d actually be a discrepancy of about twenty-one hours, in going from here to June, 1965, and back. So you wouldn’t be able to get the money until about noon tomorrow.”
“Free of tax, mind,” I said, playing the owl like Cashel, but making a grotesquerie of it. “Of course, this mustn’t shorten my life in any way, you understand.”
“Of course not, Ira. It’s simply a matter of your unused time—you don’t even miss it.”
“Do I sign a contract?” I asked.
“No, we just shake hands on it.”
“Before we do, let’s go back to the question of money,” I said. “Sixty-odd thousand tomorrow is very nice to contemplate. How about something on account?”
His face fell. Then he sighed and said, “There you go! But assuming that I make this deal with you, I can’t talk thousands, Ira—you know that. I think you said it was fifty you wanted?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “For five years of the time a man of talent fritters away? Fifty dollars?” I pretended to be indignant. “Why, I’d want five hundred at least, and spot cash. Two and a half years forward, two and a half years back—and I couldn’t be on the same spot, since a pendulum doesn’t swing exactly along the same line, or however it is you work it out. You don’t catch me with an offer like that, little man. Give me five hundred and another brandy, and it’s a deal.”
“I haven’t got it,” he said.
“Come on,” I said, like a pushcart peddler. “Four hundred.”
“I tell you I haven’t got it!”
The game was about worn out. “How much have you got? A hundred and fifty?” I asked, waiting for the inevitable “I never carry more than I can afford to lose, so I haven’t got anything.”
To my surprise he looked in his wallet and said, “All the ready cash I have in the world is a hundred and twenty dollars, Ira.”
“I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I can’t possibly sell time like mine at less than thirty dollars a year, you know. Give me the hundred and twenty, then, but you can only have two years forward and two years back. One has one’s pride, damn it all!”
Cashel amazed me by saying, “Oh, very well.” He gave me the one hundred twenty dollars, and we shook hands. “You’ve got more in your wallet,” I said, bending forward to look.
“Only a few dollars I need for expenses,” he said.
“What a skinflint you are!” I cried. “I offer you over sixty-two thousand dollars’ worth of my precious time for a hundred and fifty, and you beat me down another thirty!” But I put the money in my pocket, thinking, This is the easiest bit of cash I ever bullied anybody out of. “And what about that brandy?” I demanded.
“If you’re sure you haven’t had enough already.”
“And you’ve got to have one too.”
“Yes, we must seal the bargain.”
So we drank for the last time, and he signed the bill and darted away. I remained and had more brandy, until the bartender said if I didn’t mind he’d rather not serve me again just now.
I must have left then and made my zigzag way down to the village from the Crepuscule, but I could not recall how. I recollected vaguely the smoky interior of the Café Verlaine, an old haunt of mine, and my penetrating voice crying, “Drinks are on me! The impossible is achieved! I have put the bite on Mourne Cashel!”
And so to my distasteful awakening this morning, and my confusion.
The coffeepot was empty now, and the brandy was gone. I decided to visit the Cafe Verlaine again for a late breakfast.
“Well, well, well!” said Lonergan, the bartender. “Look who’s here! Champagne Charlie!”
“I can’t get the taste of the vile stuff out of my mouth,” I said. “Give me a double cognac and a cup of coffee.”
“Oh, come,” said Lonergan. “It wasn’t Veuve Cliquot, but it couldn’t have been as bad as all that.”
“How many bottles did I buy, may I ask?”
“Let me see,” he said, scratching his head. “It was six or seven bottles, I believe. ‘I have put the bite on Mourne Cashel!’ says you. And, man, you made an evening of it! Here, have this one on the house, Mr. Noxon. Mourne Cashel, and you’d put the bite on him, you said. Ah, that was a sad business, a sad business, with Mourne Cashel!” He shook his big Irish head. “What do you think of it all?”