In The Library Ch. 20

I find that I have not forgotten everything. As I walk around this city, I recognise some places but not others. There is newness in certain buildings that I have clearly never seen before, but there is oldness as well that I do recognise, a shop here and a bordello there, cafes and restaurants, civic buildings.

But there are also older buildings that have obviously been a part of this city for many years, but for some reason these sit as if in a fog, even on the brightest days. So I conclude that the fog is in my mind and in my memories. If I am the Alex Cain that Edisson wrote about in his journal, and as the mad woman by the lake would rant, then (if the tale of the time accelerator is true) those memory losses are surely evidence of that truth in me. That I have flashed from the past in an instant, and this is some future place, and I have forgotten.

I have been here a month now, and I have determined that indeed I am in 1925, and this is a strange and distant place for me. The moving pictures that were but a novelty in the time that I came from (for I have resolved that I must be Alex Cain and have travelled through time) are now plentiful in the cinema houses around the city. Aeroplanes regularly fly overhead, their piston engines beating a throb of sound into the sky, and their silver wings glinting under the sun.

Motor cars are long and luxurious, and there is a thing called streamlining that is full of scientific principles. Voices fill rooms, transmitted through the air by radio waves, which must have the same science as the etheric waves that I have travelled upon. And it is a strange and fantastic world.

But I remain a young man, while those who have lived their years are much older now. Surely they will recognise me, for I will be a memory in their minds, but I do not know how I would recognise them. Although I have read the names of Thom Edisson and Alexandra Cain, I have no image of them in my head, so they are strangers to me. Yet I live each day with flashes of deja vu as I make my way about this city, and it is a strangeness.

And I have a sense of someone following me. And there are strange birds in this city, more than I have ever seen.

I am learning to enjoy the new jazz music, and have discovered a club called the "Peacock Club". I have started to frequent it most nights, for I find the strange rhythms and singing instruments hold an entrancement over my mind, and the place exerts a strong pull on me. I do not know why. The owner is a wealthy woman, but she is a very private person and I do not know her name and I have not seen her. People seldom do, I have heard, and an appearance is a special occasion, not to be missed, as her voice is that of a strange broken angel.

One evening I arrive and there are new posters placed in the windows and on the walls, announcing a special act. And there is a swirl of large cars arriving in the forecourt of the club, wheels crunching on gravel, with doors closing and exhausts panting in the night air. Ahead of me I see a big black limousine arrive and stop, its body work low slung, black windows curtained and private, a chauffeur uniformed and attentive. And I see a young man step from the car and look around, before stepping up the stairs to the front entrance. And his walk and bearing are curiously familiar, although I see just the back of his head.

And there is a strange feeling in my head, some strange shimmering thing, and my brain is at once sharp and at the same time, curiously numb. The ground sways, or is that my balance?

And there in front of me, partly hidden by the young man who has arrived before me, there is an elegant woman, older than all the others in the room, but silver haired, proud and poised, beautifully dressed in a peacock green dress. Something tugs at my brain, but I am blank and formless as to any meaning there. She speaks to the young man with familiarity and a warm smile on her face. I cannot see his reaction, but he follows her to a long flight of stairs.

She is an older woman, but elegant. As she takes the man's hand, she looks over her shoulder and slowly moves her eyes around the room as if looking for something or someone. And I am startled when her gaze holds to me and stops there, and a slight smile curves to her lip. And her eyes open just a fraction, and I cannot tell if she makes a small nod of her head or some other movement, but it is as if she has acknowledged me.

There are several flights of stairs up to a higher gallery, and I climb one of them. At the end of a corridor I see the edge of a door close on a shimmer of green gown and a fall of silver hair, and the woman and her young man are gone. Beside me there is a brass handled door, slightly ajar and a flicker of light beyond. A slightly open door is an intrigue, and I am intrigued, so I step through.

The flicker of light is from a series of candles sputtering in holders along the wall. At the end of this corridor (which is a strange parallel to the one I have just stepped from, but why would a building be made like that?) at the end there is a small alcove, shrouded in long curtains and with a central chair, sumptuous and comfortable. And it is on a strange rotating dias, and as I take my place in the chair, I see that there is a range of mirrors or glass panels evenly spaced around the hexagonal wall. And the chair can rotate to each of these windows and latch into place there.

And then I see that each of the windows is indeed a small opening to another room, but hidden from that room by a series of mirrors and tunnels of glass. The room is for a central observer to observe, like an astronomer might gaze upon separate planets with cleverly constructed optics and telescopes. And I look into each of the windows, but there is darkness beyond in all but one room. In that one room; and I do not know how far it is in truth from where I sit, for there is no sound, only silence here; in that one room I see a silent shimmer of movement.

She is draped elegantly on a couch, both long legs long across the lap of the young man. Her body leans against his, her long silver hair a skein of fine silk falling across her neck and shoulders, a silken fall like water. He brushes the soft fall of her hair away from her neck and touches his lips to her throat, his fingers a gentle caress on her neck. Their heads turn towards each other, and their lips met, her hands now caressing the back of his head, slow, running her fingers through his hair, slow.

And in the astronomer's chair my pulse was quickening with the slowness of this watching. The woman was slow and relaxed, her hands gentling the young man as if he was an eager horse, and she the whisperer to tame him. I was watching a mature woman's patience calm and bewitch a younger man's haste; and I desired that I was him, that I, who was now forgetful and scattered in the void, could be taught.

Her fingers undid the buttons on his shirt, and she peeled the cloth down his ams and away from his torso, dropping the cloth to the floor. And then she was crouching on the floor in front of him, her long green dress falling between her legs, her elegant hands undoing buckles, belts and buttons, and making him all naked.

For a moment the woman was quite still, holding his balls in one hand and his shaft in her other hand, and then she bowed her head to the centre of him and placed a single kiss on his rising shaft. And it was as if there was a worship there. And then this beautiful woman stood, and led her young man, his prick in her hand, to a bed. I rotated my chair to the next window, to see them there.

She lay gracefully on the bed, her long green dress falling loose about her body, a simple belt about her waist. He was naked beside her and undid the buttons over her breasts, and peeled the cloth from her back. Her skin was pale, and her breasts were sheathed in a simple cloth band, which the young man undid, slowly and as if in a trance.

She arched her back with the pleasure of it, and hishands went to her waist and lifted her body up and against his chest, her arms falling away as if in a swoon.

And her back arched and her nipples stood proud, and his mouth was upon them. Her torso was slender, thin even, the ribs to be counted, her belly hollowed. She wore a garter belt on her hips, slender straps black to her stockings, the black lines a contrast to her pale skin. She wore a pair of silk knickers, which were ivory coloured with tiny buttons down the sides.

The young man eased her green silk dress away from her body and it became a split of cloth like the wings of some brilliant butterfly, her pale body long and beautiful. His fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons of the silken cloth hiding the centre of her, and then her mound was there to be seen, her hair fine and silvery blonde, delicate curls at the base of her belly.

Her inner lips were like a small fan of wings, her fine soft hair with a few drops of dew, glistening. And just at the top of her thigh there was a small blaze of deep purple and brown, a birthmark maybe. And the shadow of that sight reminded me of some small thing, but it was fleeting and then gone, and I did not know what it was.

Then I saw her hands pull on his cock, her lips and hot mouth bobbing down onto the length of him. He in turn had his mouth and tongue deep into her sex and I could see that they were rich and hot for each other and each gave the other such pleasure.

And his arms were around her now, his hands kneading the tight cheeks of her ass and pulling her hot cunt onto his face. She pushed against his face and bucked, her open sex a silent scream of pleasure, and I could see that her body was shuddering, her body fucking down onto his. Her hands grappled at the sheets with soft grabs at nothingness, just grasping at the empty sheets with the fullness of her pleasure.

She then pushed him back onto the bed and sat astride his hardness. And she stroked her hands down her slender ribbed frame, caressing her own small breasts as her hands flowed past, and with a look of intense concentration she ran her fingers to her cunt lips and spread them. She lifted her sex away from his long prick and then lowered herself, slow inch by slow inch until the two of them were one joined thing. Slowly she began to ride him, her cunt wet upon him like a kiss. They started a long, slow fuck; and my own prick was hard and in my hand with the silent sight of them.

I watched for about five minutes, my own prick a hardness in my slow hand, gently stroking and teasing the plum coloured head of my shaft. And then they were in their ecstasy together, their bodies silently arching their heads away from each other but their groins hard onto the other's.

As they finished, I could see their mouths talking but could hear no words, they were silent words, unheard to my ears. Then she ushered him from the room, and she wrapped the peacock green dress about her.

As she did so there was a movement in the corridor behind me, and a voice murmured, "oh, have I missed them do it, my mother and that young man?" And then the girl, for it was a young woman's voice, realised that I was in the chair, which had its back to the entrance. "But who are you, who has taken my spying chair? What do you do here?"

I quickly hid my prick in the folds of my trousers and urged it to soften, but there was a ridge of hardness there, the visions were so strong. "I confess, I have taken your chair and swivelled it between these two windows, that I may see the lovely woman there, and her young man."

This girl must know the purpose of the rooms and this spy chamber, so there is little point in pretending. "But did you say she was your mother, that you expected to see?"

And I stood to welcome this visitor, for I supposed I had stolen her chair. And as I turned to her, I recognised the young woman who was featured in the posters for the special show tonight. Her skin was white as alabaster, her lips scarlet, her eyes dark and her hair midnight black, cut in the short bob that was favoured by the most famous cinema actresses of the day. She was about the same age as me, from what I could tell, but the girls of 1925 could surprise me - some were older than I might think and some were younger.

She was dressed in a figure hugging white gown, with cleverly cut black side panels that were shaped inwards at the waist and shaped outwards at her breasts and hips, which had the effect of shaping her spectacular figure even more like an hourglass. Her breasts were round and high, a deep cleavage separating those full curves, her belly was softly rounded and smooth under the clinging cloth, and her hips and ass wonderfully rounded. She gazed up at me, her eyes steady and compelling.

"Yes, my mother. She commands the young man, and entices him. But who, sir, are you? You could be a brother to my mother's boy. Are you his twin?"

"No, I am a single son, but I am new to this place and have come a long way, and do not know anyone in this city." I could not tell this beautiful girl that I had no memory of my mother, nor the strangeness in time that brought me here. "But who is the young man, that you say is my double? I do not know him."

"Nor I, I do not know him. But my mother does, and has seduced him, even though he is so young for her. He must be the same age as you and I, I think." And she turned away. "But I must prepare, we are performing tonight, my mother and I. Go down to the theatre, and I shall meet you after the show."

So I made my way to the room below and took a seat by the bar. I looked around, and saw a reflection of myself in the mirror on the wall. And there was a strange shift and shimmer in the glass, and the dizziness I had felt earlier was upon me, and that oddness in my head. I looked again, and realised that it was not a mirror, but a clear window dividing one part of the room from another. And I saw a movement as someone walked away from the room divide, but I did not see his face.

But the stage was being cleared and set up for a pair of vocalists, two microphones out the front, with only the piano player, drummer and upright bass player remaining on stage. "Ladies and gentleman, please welcome the Diva of the new jazz age, Alexandra..." And with a round of applause, the magnificent silver haired woman sashayed onto the stage, slinking seductively across the floor.

Her voice was smokey, her delivery world weary, just perfect for the material. Alexandra sang four or five songs, before stopping to announce, "tonight is a special occasion for me. I've just spent some time with a dear boy, an old friend, and one long missed. And now I would like to introduce my daughter, for her first time on stage. Please welcome my dearest girl..."

And the beautiful creature who I had been talking to just twenty minutes before, in the curious viewing room, appeared on the stage, her curves accentuated by the white and black gown.

"...Grace!"

-ooo OOO ooo-

"Goodnight, Mother, thank you so much for tonight, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to sing with you. We will be a hit, you and I."

Grace had instructed me to wait outside the stage door while she made her farewells, and I sensed that she wanted to keep me hidden from her mother. Perhaps she felt that one young man, my mysterious doppelganger, was enough for her mother; and I wondered if there was some competition between mother and daughter, some driven thing, that might drive them apart.

Whatever it was, Grace was certainly an enticement for me, and there was some strange presence about Alexandra her mother that I could not place but gave me an unease. Something kept tugging from the depths of my mind but I could not grapple with it. It was an intangible thing, as if some knowledge was just beyond my reach. But my mind was already struggling with the idea of the timeshift, and I could not fathom any other strangeness.

Grace, on the other hand, was a beautiful and most tangible thing. And if she wanted to use me to achieve a victory over her mother of some sort, I would not complain. She took me by the hand, and we walked down a moonlight path. Her arm was linked through mine in a simple gesture, and every now and then she rested her head against my shoulder. We made small talk, but I did not tell her much, for fear of my own confusion. But she seemed content.

We made our way to her small apartment, which was set below a clock tower built tall above one of the university buildings. The room was small and comfortable, and in the centre of one wall she showed me a door that opened onto a circular dove cote, locked with a solid padlock, the key in a box on a shelf. The door was the only entrance for people, but all around the walls there was a circle of small openings, and doves and pigeons came and went through these holes, their wings clattering on the air, a beat of sound.

"I love the birds," she said, "I love their freedom and the way they come and go on the wind."

As she spoke I realised that my hand was clutching against my chest, as if I was holding something close there. But my hands were empty and I shook my head at the strangeness of my own clutching. My mind was thickened and dizzy. "I must lie down, my head is not right," I said, collapsing onto her bed.

She lay beside me, stroking my hair in a gentle comforting gesture, and soon my thinking became clearer, my head less blurred. I turned to her and caressed her pale cheek with my hand, my fingers soft and gentle on her skin. She gazed at me with her dark eyes, and her lips were red and the tip of her tongue licked over them, to moisten them. And I held her still, and kissed her on those full red lips, and she let me do that.

Her face was delicate and pale, her black hair framing it was midnight black, a short bob cut tight around her neck. She was still wearing her performance dress, its panels of black and white echoing her own flesh and hair. About her neck there was a fine gold chain and a locket. I touched my finger to it and my mind twisted with some shimmer of memory, but I could not grab it.

"My mother gave me this locket when I was just a young girl," said Grace, "she said it was the most precious thing that a child of hers could ever have."

And the dark eyed Grace opened the small locket, and there on one half was a broken glass but nothing behind, and on the other half a tiny faded picture of a child, a babe. "But who is the baby?" I asked. The picture was faded and tiny, and there were no clear features.

"My mother has not told me everything," replied the girl, "but I think that he might be a tiny brother of mine, that my mother had when she was just a girl, but she had to give him up as a child of her sin." Grace touched my cheek with her finger, gently. "My mother sometimes weeps late at night, and when she dreams she will cry out a name. Alex, she will cry, Alex. It breaks my heart, but she does not tell."

Alex? Alexandra? I had read of the connections between the woman and the young man from Edisson's journal, but surely this cannot be me, I have no memory of Alexandra's face and this girl Grace is a stranger to me. A coincidence then, no more than that, a strangeness.

But Grace is no strangeness, she is voluptuous and warm on the bed beside me, and her lips are red and full, and sweet to taste. And her finger idly flicks apart one of the buttons on my shirt, and her eyes flash a challenge to me, her lips smiling. And I meet her challenge by undoing one of the pearl buttons on her gown, and the deep shadow between her high round breasts is longer now, and deeper.

Our hands toy in each other's hair, our fingers a caress, and the fingers of our other hands entwine.

We are slow and playful together, learning the look of our faces, our eyes. Our noses touch, and we are soft and slow. There is no hurry here, and we have a slow greeting of each other.