Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

“Ah, yes, here it is,” he said, going to his desk and picking up a sheaf of unimportant figures. “I need a copy of these by tonight. It’s — it’s very important. I’m going to meet some people in my apartment, and I’ve promised them a set of these figures.” He glanced at her, forcing a casual smile to his face. “Could you bring them up yourself? It would save a great deal of time.”

“Why, yes, yes, of course,” Miss Stevens said. She was slightly perplexed by his manner. He seemed strained and excited. For an instant she wondered if she were being wise. And then she laughed at herself. She was no child. And this was the twentieth century. A firm “No!” was a girl’s best defense.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Caesar said, breathing rapidly. “Now, I must be going. I’ll expect you around seven. Can you have the copies made by then?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” Caesar picked up his hat, smiled at her, and hurried from the office...

Kay went out to her desk and began the work. She had been clattering away for perhaps ten minutes when the outer door opened, and Al Marshall strolled in, looking casual and handsome in a well-worn tweed suit.

“Say, you do like to type,” he murmured, perching on the edge of her desk.

They hadn’t spoken since their last encounter, and had only nodded rather ceremoniously to each other when they happened to meet in the building.

“We seem to have been through this once before,” she said. Her tone was friendly enough; she would meet him half-way, she decided, if he made any conciliatory overtures.

“Well, let’s run through the whole script then,” he said, smiling. “The last time I asked you to have a drink with me. Now, right on cue, I’ll try again: How about having a drink with me tonight?”

Kay shrugged helplessly. “The script hasn’t changed,” she said. “I’ve got this work to turn out for Mr. Simon' tonight.”

“I see,” he said. He wasn’t smiling any more. “Delivering it to his hotel, I presume?”

“I didn’t take it to his hotel,” she said exasperatedly. “I took it to a hotel where he was meeting someone. I gave it to him in the lobby and took a chaste streetcar to my apartment.”

“And you’re taking this work to a hotel, also?”

She hesitated. “No, I’m taking it to his apartment,” she said.

“I’ll say the script hasn’t changed,” he said. He looked puzzled and angry. “Aren’t you afraid of not getting it by the Hays Office?”

“Oh, stop it!” she said. “It’s my business, and my life. What right have you to presume that I’m steeped in sin because I deliver some work to Mr. Simon’s apartment?”

“Because I don’t like him,” Marshall said.

“You’ve got a fixation about him. He’s no wolf, for Heaven’s sake.”

“I’d be happier if he were. He’s something else, something I can’t describe, but it’s unpleasant and frightening. I wish to hell you’d stop this seeing him after hours.”

“I don’t see him,” Kay cried. “You’re building this in your imagination. What difference does it make to you, anyway?”

Marshal rubbed his chin, and for an instant he seemed unsure of himself, and vulnerable. Then he shrugged, and said casually, “It doesn’t make any difference to me, of course. See you around.”

He nodded and walked out of the office.

Kay stared after his tall figure, then went back to her work. The first time, she thought, he made me angry and unhappy. This time it was different. She wasn’t angry at all; she was just unhappy.

Caesar was pacing the floor of his living room when the front doorbell rang. He hurried to the door and opened it.

“Ah, come in Miss Stevens,” he said. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

Kay handed him the neatly typed copies of the figures. “It wasn’t too hard a job,” she said. “I’m glad I made it here on time.”

“You did, with time to spare. Please come in a moment, won’t you?”

“I really think I’d better run along.”

“Now, I won’t hear of that.” Caesar forced a bluff, avuncular tone into his voice. “I’m going to give you a cup of tea, at least. You’ve been perfectly grand about doing this extra work.” He glanced at his watch. “My friends won’t be here for five or ten minutes. Please come in.”

“All right.” She smiled at him and entered the living room. It seemed important to him, she thought, and she didn’t want to appear rude. She glanced around with interest. There were pictures of the Roman Colosseum on the walls, and other pictures of the Forum, the baths of Nero, and prints of early Roman scenes. The mantle and tables were adorned with fragments of ancient sculpture, green, misshapen and, Miss Stevens thought, rather ugly mementoes of the period.

“You’re interested in Roman culture?” she said.

“Yes, it’s a minor hobby of mine.” He smiled. “Here, please sit down. When your parents call you Caesar, as mine did with me, you’re just about forced to become a Latin scholar. Not that I’m a scholar, by any means,” he added, still smiling. “Just an amateur, a pure amateur.”

Miss Stevens sat down, crossing her legs. Caesar bustled about bringing her a cup of tea. He took a glass of sherry for himself, and sat down facing her, conscious of the sudden drumming of his heart. Calmly, calmly, he told himself. Everything you’ve wanted is within reach.

“Now, Miss Stevens,” he began, but no other words occurred to him, and he stared at her with his mouth hanging open.

“Yes?” she said.

“Well...” He coughed and took a small sip of his drink. Then he plunged on, his voice nearly strangled with anxiety. “You’ve always thought of me as an ordinary man, I daresay, Miss Stevens. And quite rightly. I was an ordinary man. You thought that I was an ordinary man, didn’t you?”

“I never thought very much about it one way or the other, to be truthful,” Miss Stevens said. She was at a loss for anything else to say. He was looking at her so oddly, so beseechingly, that she felt sorry for him. “After all, I’m just your secretary.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Caesar said, waving his hand vaguely in the air. “I was an ordinary man, Miss Stevens. But I am not any longer.”

“No?”

“No.” He leaned toward her breathing hard. “Do you remember the man who came in seven weeks ago with the absurd story of having invented a time machine?”

“Yes, I remember. Why?”

Caesar lowered his voice impressively. “That man did invent a time machine, Miss Stevens. I backed him financially, and the project is a success. We have already tested it.” He swelled his chest. “I went a hundred years into the past last week. To the New York of one hundred years ago.”

Kay smiled doubtfully. “How nice,” she murmured.

“You think I’m imagining things, eh?” He laughed at her feeble denials. “I don’t blame you, my dear. It sounds incredible, of course. But the simple fact is that a time machine does exist. It is mine, to do with as I please.”

Miss Stevens glanced hastily at her watch. “Really, I think I’d better be running along.”

“But I haven’t finished.”

“I know, but it’s rather late. I’ve had no dinner, you see—”

“This will take only a few more minutes. Do you wonder what I am going to do with my time machine?”

“Well, naturally, I’m curious,” she said, straight-faced.

“I am returning to ancient Rome,” Caesar said, and with the words he stood erect and threw his arms wide in a joyous, triumphant gesture. “To Rome, the city that has always been the home of my soul. I have longed through all my dreary life to know her better, to feel her dark, cruel pulse beating in tune with my own, but always my dreams were mocked by the immense, unknowable barrier of time. But we have crossed that barrier, Miss Stevens, and ahead of me I can see Rome shining in glory, waiting for me to call her my home, my very soul.”