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“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. But you may occasionally ask for time-travel-related favors, and if they are harmless, I’ll try to oblige.”

“Like—what kind of favors?”

“Well, for example, if you wanted to send a message to someone who has died, I could do that. It’s one of my specialties.” Alba says this soothingly; Celia is about to object, but Lucinda nods. That clinched the deal, I think.

Beck catches my eye. “Let’s go upstairs,” she says. “We can talk some more over lunch.”

Later, when Celia and Lucinda have gone, I ask Older Alba who Lucinda wanted to communicate with. “That’s between me and her,” Alba says.

“But you could really do it? You weren’t—”

“Tricking her? No. I got the messages where Lucinda wanted them to go, and brought back messages in return. It’s got nothing to do with any of us,” Alba adds. “I made sure Lucinda had everything we could give her.” Alba seems low-spirited, heavy.

“Are you all right?” I ask her.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Sometimes it’s weird, visiting the before-times.”

“Before what?”

“Before everything.” Alba and I are sitting next to each other on the sofa and she leans over and puts her arm around me. I wait for her to continue, but she just shakes her head, and I know better than to ask again.

Wild Thing Variations

Tuesday, July 17, 2018 (Beck is 42, Oliver is 57)

Beck: It’s already too warm this morning. I arrive at the Yellow House with some groceries, some cash, a high-volume document scanner and my 360 VR camera. Clare and I come here together occasionally, to stock the kitchen, tidy up, and replenish the clean towels and sheets. For the last few years, I’ve dropped by now and then on my own, on the off chance that I’d find Alba’s friend here, the one who can open the closet in the music room. So far I haven’t had any luck, but I’ve been building a library of images of the Yellow House, since Alba had no objection to that. Isadora finds it puzzling that we are archiving an ordinary house so thoroughly; I told her that it’s a house museum, like Dennis Severs’ House, or the Edward Gorey House. I haven’t told her that this is Alba’s house.

I bring the bags of groceries into the kitchen along with the camera. There’s no point in bringing the scanner inside unless I can get the closet open. It’s stifling in here. I open the kitchen window to catch a breeze and begin to unpack the bags. The house is dusty and silent. I wonder if I should install a motion-activated camera to increase my chances of connecting with Alba’s friend? No, too intrusive. Still, it’s tempting. I’m getting tired of striking out. Once the groceries are put away, I go upstairs to Alba’s bedroom to hide the cash in the tin under the floorboards. Then I wander into her music room to stare at the locked closet. Maybe I should just call a locksmith?

“Would you like me to open that for you?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. There’s a man sitting in the wingback chair. He must have been sitting there silently all this time, listening to me barging around the house. He is a thin, middle-aged Chinese man with long white hair. He has dark eyes, a wide mouth in a long face, a shadow of a mustache. He is sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his large, bony hands clasped over his knee. He is elegantly dressed in a beige linen suit that seems warm for this weather, but his feet are bare. On the small table beside him are a score and a half-full glass of beer. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Beck,” he says. His voice is soothing, his accent English. “Would you like a beer? It’s a little early, but I fancied something cold.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” I reply. “Have we met before?”

“Perhaps not?” he says. “My name is Oliver Thornton-Yang. I’m the other person who sometimes lives here.”

“Are you a time traveler?”

“Yes. I’m also a pianist, and Alba has asked me to assist you in archiving her music. I’m to give you access to the written scores, and she’s also tasked me with making some recordings to give to Isadora.”

I am so shocked to hear him mention Isadora that I don’t answer right away. He extricates himself from the chair, says he’ll be right back and goes downstairs. I see things I should have noticed before: the windows in this room are open; there’s a quiet fan oscillating in a corner; there are several piles of file folders stacked on the floor next to the wingback chair, some of them open, as though Oliver has been consulting them. He reappears bearing a small tray with two bottles of beer, another glass, and the bag of potato chips I just bought, and places it on the piano bench. “Do you mind if we have some of these? It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten crisps. Thank you for bringing such nice groceries. Thank you for all the groceries, over the years.” He smiles, and I trust him. Alba trusts him; I can, too.

“No problem,” I say. The bottle of beer gasps as he opens it. He pours, hands it to me. The cold is a relief. “Um, how do we begin?”

“At the beginning, if we can find it,” Oliver says. He writes something on the corner of a file folder, tears it off, offers it to me. It says 130698. “That’s for this lock.”

“Does it mean anything?” I ask. I always want numbers to mean something.

“Not to you. Alba might recognize it, if she’s old enough.” He shows me how to dial the combination. Inside the closet, there’s a four-drawer filing cabinet. In each drawer there are numerous folders. Oliver selects one, opens it. “This is a good example. It’s an early piece, for solo violin. There are three versions. Alba would probably tell us we only need to preserve the last one, but Isadora will want everything, so we scan everything.” The first few sheets of staff paper are covered in Alba’s very expressive notation, in pencil that has smeared as though it’s been vigorously erased and re-erased. The last version is a fair copy, in ink.

“How do you know what Isadora wants?” I ask him. I don’t mean to sound annoyed, but I do.

“She’s a curator. She’ll at least want to see it all.” Oliver puts the folder back in its place. “I’ve been acquainted with Isadora for forty-four years. I first met her in 2041; she first met me in 2013. We’re old friends.”

“How could you meet her at all, in any year? She’s never mentioned meeting you.”

“Children can be a bit secretive with their parents if they think they’re going to get in trouble. Alba never mentioned me to her mother, as far as I know.”