(no subject)
The year is 1923. I am watching Eulalie pull up her stockings through a crack in the door of the ladies' room at the visitors' center at Bicester Airfield. This is where Eulalie thinks I work. It is a tidy lie, I am at least acquainted with most of the men here, if not precisely friendly. Most of them treat me with the polite detachment that one is meant to give a ranking officer, and I get the impression that Eulalie finds this all quite amusing.
The Royal Navy has changed considerably since I was a child. There are now sailors whose jobs are to sit in rooms heavy with humidity and analyze things. I wonder if, back then, things would have been different if we analyzed instead of acting. Would the monarchy have ever been restored? Would Sir Isaac have drunk quicksilver and killed for life eternal? Would I even be still alive, if Avialle had been as prone to melancholy then as now?
The year is 1927 and I am patting Lucky on the back as though he were a friend. The Cold War is over, the Kaiser is dead, gunned down in the street by his own man. It is a miracle. The people will never know the truth, I say this with the certitude that comes with hindsight. Tomorrow, Lucky and I will be on the cover of the Times, laughing and shaking hands. The headline will say something absurd, like "EUROPE SAVED." Of course, the line seemed less ridiculous before most of the world fell in nuclear winter and biological warfare. And even that was before half of London fell into the sea.
The year is 1934 and I am standing in a hospital delivery room holding what they tell me is my son. I would not need any kind of special insight to know he isn't, at least not in the biological sense. The truth is printed on Eulalie's face as plainly as if it were typed on a page. The answer is written in my DNA. Still, a flood of human, irrational hope floods my head like warm rain. I kiss my wife. I hold my son.
It is 1943 and my son is having his ninth birthday party. There are children everywhere, laughing, running. I have to stop one boy from throwing my watch across the room. It's sort of beautiful, seeing the potential in every young face. This one will become a scholar, this one a priest. Eulalie is starting to look older than I do. I wonder if she's started to notice.
The Royal Navy has changed considerably since I was a child. There are now sailors whose jobs are to sit in rooms heavy with humidity and analyze things. I wonder if, back then, things would have been different if we analyzed instead of acting. Would the monarchy have ever been restored? Would Sir Isaac have drunk quicksilver and killed for life eternal? Would I even be still alive, if Avialle had been as prone to melancholy then as now?
The year is 1927 and I am patting Lucky on the back as though he were a friend. The Cold War is over, the Kaiser is dead, gunned down in the street by his own man. It is a miracle. The people will never know the truth, I say this with the certitude that comes with hindsight. Tomorrow, Lucky and I will be on the cover of the Times, laughing and shaking hands. The headline will say something absurd, like "EUROPE SAVED." Of course, the line seemed less ridiculous before most of the world fell in nuclear winter and biological warfare. And even that was before half of London fell into the sea.
The year is 1934 and I am standing in a hospital delivery room holding what they tell me is my son. I would not need any kind of special insight to know he isn't, at least not in the biological sense. The truth is printed on Eulalie's face as plainly as if it were typed on a page. The answer is written in my DNA. Still, a flood of human, irrational hope floods my head like warm rain. I kiss my wife. I hold my son.
It is 1943 and my son is having his ninth birthday party. There are children everywhere, laughing, running. I have to stop one boy from throwing my watch across the room. It's sort of beautiful, seeing the potential in every young face. This one will become a scholar, this one a priest. Eulalie is starting to look older than I do. I wonder if she's started to notice.