THE FOLLOWING JOURNAL IS BEQUEATHED TO MISS OLIVIA J. PLAMODON.
September 2nd 2015
“Please forgive my intrusion, but is this the residence of Madame Boulevont? The gentleman stood silhouetted in the doorway, rain spearing down onto his bowler. He was shaped like a paper clip, I noticed, with wiry arms and leg and a head tilted curiously to one side. He eyed me with restless anticipation.
“Madame Boulevent?” He repeated, eyes fixed.
My thoughts hit a solid wall. I had indeed heard correctly, and I was indeed face-to-face with the name I had tried so hard to forget. My name. I felt limp, and eased against the entranceway.
“Madame Boulevent?” I said. “I am afraid you must have the wrong house. Never have I heard the name before. Goodnight, Sir.” I quickly shoved the door away from me, but as it twisted on its hinge, the man’s boot wedged between, preventing it from closing.
“I need Madame Boulevent.” He repeated. Through the crack, a thin beam of light slipped in, and I glimpsed a determined fire in his eye. I knew that fire. I knew that eye. And yes, he needed Madame Boulevent.
September 3rd 2015
I have never really understood people, or the world, or why anything should matter at all. Simply wandering the streets of Paris, eyeing the disorienting bustle of lost crowds, straying to every dusted corner of the city, my thoughts curl in a sort of vulnerable defense, terrified at my lack of understanding of the people and things around me. Who are they? Is that young woman following me? Is that the same license plate I saw seventeen minutes ago? Do I know the driver? I swear I’ve seen him once before.
This fear has grown with time itself, as I have come to realize that I am safe nowhere. Anyone could be a spy. Anyone could know—
“Madame Boulevent?” The gentleman asked, sitting, legs crossed on my father’s leather armchair. I nodded. He sipped his tea, and looked up.
“Where is the ring?”
I sat up straight and fast, eyes bearing into his soul.
“Monsieur Jalviere. Surely you don’t think I am willing to hand over my mother’s greatest treasure to a man known only for his loathsome ability to lie to the face of a friend, steal the identities of innocent people, and of course—apologies for the delayed thought–a wonderful capacity for murder and infamy. No Monsieur. Think again. Actually, sorry, I mustn’t remind you of your deficit–the thinking one, I mean.”
He surprised me with a silent nod of the head, and surprised me further when he rose from the chair, making his way to the door. He placed the bowler back on his head.
“Please excuse me.” he mumbled, “Have a pleasant evening.”
He opened the door to leave, but halfway down the steps, I remembered something.
“Monsieur. I do have one thought.”
He stopped and turned.
“The letters.” I said. “Do you have the letters?”. A tiny smirk creased his face. It seemed that he had been waiting for those words all along.
“Interesting question….Interesting answer.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, Madame Boulevent, you will never know about the letters, just as I will never know about the ring. After all, secrets are seldom made to be shared. Mostly.”
Never will I forget that moment, as Jalviere stood in the rain, and I watched him, waiting, hoping desperately, pathetically that my worst enemy return and remove from my possession my last sacrosanct item. What a dunce I was back then, believing for even a fraction of a second that Jalviere needed me. No. I wanted him to need me. But that was only deceit unto myself. I needed to invest in a fallacy. The real world was too much.
328 C.E: Day 1
Someday, when you are older, Miss Olivia, I will tell you exactly how I happened to land in India during its Golden Age, and how I met your Grandpapa during my travels. Oh, what a beautiful man he was. I wonder if you remember him? He loved you dearly, and every Friday night you came for dinner at the old flat, and he sat on the floor with you, playing marbles.
My dear Olivia, I know how interested you are in all this time travel business. That’s why I have left this diary to you and not your brother. I can imagine how desperate you are to understand the nature of the magic, but I made an agreement with Monsieur Jalviere, and as I mentioned before; the man is mad in the head; a complete lunatic, and breaking a deal with him normally ends one way: blood.
I will tell you a few things though, but you must promise not to tell your maman or anyone else: I am not coming back to Paris. I will not be returning to the so called, “modern day”. I am happy here. The happiest I have ever been, and I am learning the truth we historians have often craved to understand. I am on a mission, Olivia, and in the body of this Indian peasant woman, I can release myself in public without fearful thoughts of capture. I have regained my identity. I can live.
You mustn’t worry about me, Olivia, I am perfectly healthy and functioning. We can communicate through this diary. It withstands the dust and ashes of time, and will travel through centuries without losing a smudge of ink.
By the way, I thought some more about what you said, and no, none of us are immortal, but our words can be, as long as we use them properly.
328 C.E: Day 2
This morning, after lifting myself from my new bed in my new body, I steered over to the window. I was, for a moment dazed–disoriented. In front of me, suspended across a fire-smudged sky, the sun hovered as a perfectly circular orb. “This is India.” I said to the window, that was fully aware that this was India. I stood there, amazed, repeating again in that dopey voice, “India. I’m in Gupta India.”
From the bedroom I gazed out at the village. In the distance, human sounds gradually leaked back into the street after a night of animalic chatter. At the edge of a twisted serpentine road, boxed wooden houses with thatched roofs dotted the landscape. Dirt-stained infants were carried in mothers’ arms, and young children sprinted across streets, racing to their Ashrams.
After fumbling around in a rather pathetic manner, I finally dressed myself in a dhoti. Contemplating with only a vague sense of anger what Jalviere could have possibly meant by “you will know where to go once you get there”, I left the hut. Holding my head up with supposed purpose, I walked forward in no direction in particular.
Olivia, I must quickly point out that when Monsieur Jalviere says something, like “you will know where to go once you get there”, you should listen. However, if he says something like, “when hungry, ask a merchant if there’s a good place where you can grab some breakfast”, DO NOT BY ANY MEANS abide. Time Spies occasionally emerge throughout various points in history, and if you follow Jalviere’s directions, your cover will be blown. Breakfast is an unknown concept in the Gupta Empire.
I have always adored your gutsy rebellious side, Olivia, but trust me on this one–if you ignore my advice you will be in deep, deep…how do you say en Anglais?
I continued down the street, dragging my soles across the ground, and kicking up dust. I marvelled at the advanced technology of the road I stood upon. It was hard-packed dirt and brick, raised high–maybe a few feet above the sides of the ground– allowing water to seep over the sides during rainy seasons. I bent down and scooped some of the dirt into my bag. As I neared the end of the road I spotted a handful of workers arduously picking at the dirt and bricks. One man gasped in pain as another accidentally bashed his hand with a tool. I watched adrenalin surge through his body as fury flashed across his unattractive façade. He screamed (in Sanskrit), “Sanjay! What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?!!! Every time we are put on the job together, I come home with a million bloody bruises!! How did Chandragupta even give you this job! The nepotistic fiend! You measure like a bloody fool! You act like a bloody fool! And you work like a bloody fool! And what is this I smell?” he wailed, tugging at his coworker’s stained dhoti, “A BLOODY STINKING FOOL!!!!”. Sensing the atmosphere burn up with rage, I quickly turned to go back home. I would find Jalviere tomorrow.
328 C.E: Day 3
The next day, on my way around the street’s bend, I caught sight of a looming iron pillar. I wandered over. Etched into the beautiful metal were intricate engravings. An old man in a shawl inspected the fascinatingly precise design, and muttered words under his breath. His eyebrows melted down beneath the shadowy folds of his wrinkles, and his eyes glowed with intense curiosity.
“No rust. No rust. None. Not a bit. After all these years.” He muttered, “How? I–It’s not possible–”
“Monsieur Jalviere.” I said, “I wondered if I might find you here.” I smiled. “The iron does not rust for the technology is so developed. I thought you realised that the Guptas were the best metallurgists the world has known. So often, you trick people into thinking that you know all. That is almost more of a lie than calling you nice or charming. Somehow people occasionally trick themselves into that belief, too. Never will I understand them.”
Jalviere once again ignored my attempts at insult, and reached into a bag. He pulled out a frayed papyrus sheet. Beautiful Sanskrit characters covered the page.
“Kalidasa wrote this.” Jalviere said. “One of his friends “found it by accident”—in the poet’s house, I assume.” He passed it to me. I put it in my bag, and tried my best to glare at the man who had somehow brought back the excitement that had faded from my life for the last 59 years.
328 C.E: Day 4
When I returned to the ramshackle hut that night, I sat on my bed, and took the papyrus from my bag.
My mind rippled uncomfortably as I scanned the page. The Sanskrit words somehow rearranged smoothly in my mind, flashing into understandable phrases.
Look to this day, for it is life,
The very life of life.
In its brief course lie all the verities and realities of your existence;
The bliss of growth; the glory of action; the splendor of beauty.
For yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision.
But today well lived makes every yesterday,
a dream of happiness,
and every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore, to this day;
Such is the salutation to the dawn.
Oh Olivia, I can’t tell you how much my grandpapa Jacques-Paul adored that poem. Sometimes, when I stayed at his country house near Toulouse, he would read me those words, and I would fall asleep listening. Once, when I was just a bit younger than you, he told me this; Kalidasa was the best poet of all time; a master of language and thought, but who he was exactly, we will never know. We aren’t sure where in India he lived, and what exactly his life was like. But for his words, we wouldn’t realise he existed at all.
328 C.E: Day 5
A day later, I smiled and handed the papyrus back to Jalviere. “This is what they meant by impressive Gupta achievements in poetry.” He tucked it into his bag, and glanced up.”Who knows” he said with a sense of childish wonder that almost made you forget his sinful side. “We might just find an original copy of Mahabarata if we’re lucky.”
An idea occurred to him.
“I want to show you something. Follow me.”
We wound back along the sun-soaked path, and eventually arrived at another ramshackle hut. We were at the far end of the village now. Jalviere knocked on the door, and after a moment or two, a man with a twisted beard and dark eyes emerged. At his side was a young girl, about five or six years old, peering up cautiously. They examined us for a moment, and after careful consideration he ushered us in.
Turning to Jalviere, he inquired in Sanskrit, “I take it you would like for me to show her Chaturanga?”
Jalviere nodded. “I would be grateful.”
The old man inched his way to a corner of the room, and leaned over to pick something up. He returned a second later, carrying a small wooden case. He laid it out upon a bench, and on closer inspection I realised that the case was not a case at all, but some sort of game. An eight by eight checkered platform rested under the feet of sixteen or so smoothly carved pieces, neatly arranged in groups of four, at the edges of the board.
“Chaturanga” said Jalviere. “Perhaps the greatest game in history. Four players compete using four pieces each. The characters are arranged in Ashtapada—you know, the military formation. The word Chaturanga means “four limbs, or parts”, isn’t that right Dharmaketu?”
Dharmaketu gave a grunt. Jalviere translated it to “yes”, and looked over at me.
“Remind you of anything?” he asked.
“Chess.” I said, shocked.
Jalviere smiled and waved to Dharmaketu, but Dharmaketu’s eye had turned. Jalviere reached out quickly and pocketed a smooth wooden piece from the board.
“Thank you for your time”, came the pleasant words of Jalviere. “We have come for all we needed. I hope to see you soon, sir.”
We turned to the door, and left the hut, breathing nervous excitement into the air.
328 C.E: Day 6
Olivia my dear, something troubling has happened. Please don’t worry yourself, but I seem to have come down with quite a nasty illness. I’m sure I will be just fine—it’s probably only something I ate. I am currently resting in the house; lying lethargically across this uncomfortable bed, and waiting for the return of Monsieur Jalviere. He is supposedly bringing a doctor. I should be sleeping, but my mind won’t let me.
Soon they will arrive, so I must tell you something quickly: Earlier today, I witnessed an incredible historical accomplishment! Brahmagupta, a famous mathematician publicly announced the concept of zero! He is gradually persuading people that zero truly is a number, and he is also making progress with his theories about “negative numbers”, although he refers to it as “debt”.
Anyway, my eyelids are slowly sinking down, and I should at least attempt sleep if I wish to be up and active tomorrow. Goodnight, my dear. I miss you, and reflect fondly upon our days together. Give my regards to your brother and remind him that his shaggy hair WILL NOT act in his favour during school interviews. He needs to look clean and tidy. It seems such a shame to let those locks run wild and messy, he could be such a handsome young lad if he tried.
Much love, my dear—
328 C.E: Day 7
Olivia–sweet child—I am afraid I have become more than slightly ill. I am sweating beyond what I previously thought myself capable, and my lungs are lifting and straining with every painful breath. I am in agony.
This is more than “just something I ate”. I am dying.
The doctor says I have been poisoned, which, I might add, is slightly ironic due to his willingness to infect my body with mercury. When I expressed my alarm, he seemed offended for a moment, and proceeded to state in stale tones of condescension and pith, “Do not question the medicinal approach, lady. My scientific knowledge extends farther than you are aware.”(Along, with your modesty, I thought to myself).
He rambled on, “I am experienced not only with flu’s and poisons—I have also had much experience with the smallpox. In fact, we recently developed a vaccine up at the hospital. My colleagues and myself are devout studiers of the Shushruta Samhita” he exclaimed proudly. “Possibly the most detailed text on surgery and medicine, ever written…our scientific knowledge is at its zenith in this day and age…now lie still and stop trembling like that…” After a long pretentious and slightly desperate soliloquy, and after I lost patience and relayed flatly that I wouldn’t refuse an overdose of mercury if he was so determined to continue his lecture, the “doctor” eventually shut his mouth.
I was, to say the least, grateful.
Enough of that, though…the doctor tells me I have at least a few hours. All will be fine. So much for sleek, fine-tuned words, my time is almost out, and I am afraid I have failed you, child. Yes, I have failed you. I am sorry. Really I am.
Olivia, you mustn’t panic, dear. After all, I’m not too bothered by the whole dying thing. I never have been. I guess it’s a slight shame, but at least I have accomplished what I needed to. Now, you MUST remember this; there is a fine line between genius and insanity. However, Jalviere doesn’t so much as distinguish the line. You keep him close, dear. You will keep him under control. I know you will.
This diary you shall hide– perhaps in that cupboard that belonged to my brother—you know, the one that holds the ancient figurines and such. I have now added your great-great grandmother’s letters that I got from Jalviere. The cupboard is up in my attic, next to the old harpsichord that I have left for you in my will.
Take care of this book, child. Never let anyone take it from you. The world falls to pieces without these crumpled pages.
Time is everything. Time is—-
