Luke Williams: The Echo Chamber

‘Abraham-Louis. What was it that French fellow said? Breguet makes a watch that never goes wrong for twenty years, and yet this wretched machine, the body we live with, goes wrong and brings aches and pains at least once a week. ’ The stranger broke off the conversation and turned towards the window. A shadow fell over his face, as if the train had entered a tunnel. He gave the impression that he wanted to be alone. He stretched his arms out towards the ceiling in a curious way.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when the 10 o’clock to King’s Cross approached Berwick. It was quiet in the compartment. But as the train curved past the town and over the Royal Border Bridge, with its high arches of black and earth-coloured brick, a soft whimpering could be heard. Berwick receded out of sight, and the train resumed its passage through the countryside. Sun-bleached fields stretched as far as the horizon.

When the stranger spoke again the shadow had lifted from his face.

‘Let me tell you about Breguet. He was the greatest of all the eighteenth-century watchmakers! He cut a striking figure — tall, round face, scar under his left eye, bald as an egg-timer. From the age of fifteen Breguet studied with the famous watchmakers Berthoud and Lépine. But perhaps you know this already? No? I’ll go on.

‘By the time the French Revolution had begun, he had made his name with a number of important horological advances. He’d also joined the Jacobins. Following the beheading of Louis XVI, he was forced to escape from France. When he returned in 1795, he found that the Revolutionaries had started time all over again …’

‘That’s impossible,’ interrupted the student.

‘Not at all. The Revolutionaries threw out the Gregorian system and replaced it with the calendrier républicain . They proclaimed 1792 as year one of the new calendar. Weeks were ten days long, with three weeks per month. Days were divided into ten hours, each of a hundred minutes, and every minute contained a hundred seconds.’

‘Time,’ interrupted the student, pompously, ‘is one straight line extending without end.’

‘Don’t believe that blockhead Locke. Where was I? … ah … the Revolution. French watchmakers produced clocks with ten hours. Not Breguet. He continued to make clocks according to the Gregorian system, which was re-established in 1806. He went on to invent the first carriage clock, the montre à tacte , which made it possible to tell the time by touch, the tourbillon regulator, and the finest military pedometers. Although he continued to labour into his antique years, Breguet lost the power of hearing. But he was never morose, which is the usual result of this malady.

‘Your pocket watch is in good condition,’ the stranger said, scrutinizing its face, ‘although the minute hand is slightly rusty.’

The stranger took out a hip-flask and offered it to the student, who refused.

‘I’m deviating. I realize I haven’t answered your questions. When I entered the compartment I immediately noticed you were studying at Oxford. I knew I would have to speak to you about an important matter. You see, I have something for you … I have something that I wish for you to pass on. The person who should receive this article lives in Oxford. What is it? A letter!’

The train was belching clouds of black smoke. The wheels chattered unceasingly against the track. The stranger produced a packet of cigarettes, and the student accepted one.

‘Before I entrust you with this letter, I ought to tell you about the situation in which I find myself. I’ve told no one before. I’ve had no reason to until now. But I need your help. You must promise on your honour that you won’t tell a soul what I am about to say.’ The stranger gave the student a searching look.

‘That depends upon what you tell me. I can’t promise when I know nothing about you.’

‘I give my word,’ said the stranger. ‘Nothing of what I say will cause you harm or adversely affect you in any way.’ The student hesitated. He took quick puffs from his cigarette. The train charged through a wooded incline, and light and shade fell on his face. The student folded his newspaper and placed it by his feet. And then the train emerged from the copse and sunlight bleached the compartment. The stranger offered the student another cigarette.

‘I promise,’ the student said, taking it and putting it between his lips.

The stranger opened a suitcase, from which he produced a folder in a dark grey binding. He pushed it towards the student. Inside were more than a dozen passports, issued in several countries. Each was marked with a different name: Thomas Mudge, George Graham, Joseph Winnerl, Taqî ad-Dîn, Julien Le Roy, Edward Prior, Ulysse Nardin and several more. The student, his head tilted in curiosity, looked at the stranger, who went on blowing smoke from his mouth for a while.

‘As you have guessed, I’m trying to mask my true identity. I’m wanted for murder. The charge is false, of course. Nevertheless, should the law catch up with me, it is the hangman’s noose, or the madhouse, I’m told. But they never will. Once the warrant for my arrest had been issued, you see, I decided to flee. Not only is this the surest way to evade capture — the police really are a dull bunch! — but if I were to go into hiding, cooped up in some attic or basement under the stair, I’d become wolf-mad. So, I decided that I would remain constantly on the move, under a hundred different guises, taking one train after another — the Orient Express, the Trans-Siberian railway, the Flying Scotsman, the Indian-Pacific. Oh, how I love to travel on the Iron Horse!’ The stranger, beating out a rhythm on the seat, broke into song.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows the houses and cattle.

‘By train I can run much faster than a fox or a hare and beat a carrier pigeon for a hundred miles. I feel as if the mountains and forests of all countries are advancing on me in the compartment. Even now, I can smell the German linden trees; the South Sea’s breakers are rolling against my door!’

The stranger inched forward and gripped the edge of his seat.

‘Travelling by train enables me to fend off the two great fears of my life — loneliness and crowds. I want either companionship or solitude. The train solves this problem because it permits one privacy, if one desires, or the company of strangers. The intimacy of travelling in a compartment allows me to strike up a conversation. Alternatively, when a mood of melancholy draws me in, I can retreat into the echoes of the train, which are very distinct, and whilst traversing the corridors one seems distant from all communication with the world.

‘Consequently, I have disguises to suit these opposing moods. Today, for example, I have chosen to be an English gentleman. This is because I’m in a talkative mood. Other times I might put on a pinstripe and a Homburg and become an American industrialist burying his head in his papers. In the first suitcase, the round one, I pack my clothes, together with various travelling papers. The second holds a range of timing devices. The third holds my accessories — jewellery, moustaches, toupees, wigs, kohls, spectacles of all kinds, false eyelashes, padding, tweezers and so forth. Oh, the battles I have with railway porters to keep the luggage by my side. English and Indian officials cause the biggest fuss, you know.

‘Enough! Let us go to the dining car. I’d be honoured if you would be my guest for lunch. I will tell you what I know about the events leading up to my being charged with murder. Nothing but the truth. And in what can one believe if not the truth?’