Up The Line

56.

At the villa I found Metaxas and said, “What’s the name of Leo Ducas’ wife?”

“Pulcheria.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Three weeks ago, when we went to that party.”

“No,” I said. “You’re suffering from Transit Displacement, and so am I. Leo Ducas is married to someone named Euprepia, and has two children by her, and a third on the way. And Pulcheria is the wife of a tavern-keeper named Heracles Photis.”

“Have you gone spotty potty?” Metaxas asked.

“The past has been changed. I don’t know how it happened, but there’s been a change, right in my own ancestry, don’t you see, and Pulcheria’s no longer my ancestress, and God knows if I even exist any more. If I’m not descended from Leo Ducas and Pulcheria, then who am I descended from, and—”

“When did you find all this out?”

“Just now. I went to look for Pulcheria, and — Christ, Metaxas, what am I going to do?”

“Maybe there’s been a mistake,” he said calmly.

“No. No. Ask your own servants. They don’t undergo Transit Displacement. Ask them if they’ve ever heard of a Pulcheria Ducas. They haven’t. Ask them the name of Leo Ducas’ wife. Or go into town and see for yourself. There’s been a change in the past, don’t you see, and everything’s different, and — Christ, Metaxas! Christ!”

He took hold of my wrists and said in a very quiet tone, “Tell me all about this from the beginning, Jud.”

But I had no chance to. For just then big black Sam came rushing into the hall, whooping and screaming.

“We found him! God damn, but we found him!”

“Who?” Metaxas said.

“Who?” I said simultaneously.

“Who?”Sam repeated. “Who the hell do you think? Sauerabend. Conrad F. X. Sauerabend himself!”

“You found him?” I said, limp with relief. “Where? When? How?”

“Right here in 1105,” said Sam. “This morning, Melamed and I were in the marketplace, just checking around a little, and we showed the picture, and sure enough, some peddler of pig’s feet recognized him. Sauerabend’s been living in Constantinople for the past five or six years, running a tavern down near the water. He goes under the name of Heracles Photis—”

“No!” I bellowed. “No, you black nigger bastard, no, no, no, no, no! It isn’t true!”

And I launched myself at him in blind fury.

And I drove my fists into his belly, and sent him reeling backward toward the wall.

And he looked at me strangely, and caught his breath, and came toward me and picked me up and dropped me. And picked me up and dropped me. And picked me up a third time, but Metaxas made him put me down.

Sam said gently, “It’s true that I am a black nigger bastard, but was it really necessary to say so that loudly?”

Metaxas said, “Give him some wine, somebody. I think he’s going off his head.”

I said, seizing control of myself somehow, “Sam, I didn’t mean to call you names, but it absolutely cannot be the case that Conrad Sauerabend is living under the name of Heracles Photis.”

“Why not?”

“Because — because—”

“I saw him myself,” Sam said. “I had wine in his tavern no more than five hours ago. He’s big and fat and red-faced, and thinks a great deal of himself. And he’s got this little hot-ass Byzantine wife, maybe sixteen, seventeen years old, who waits on table in the place, and waves her boobies at the customers, and I bet sells her tail in the upstairs rooms—”

“All right,” I said in a dead man’s voice. “You win. The wife’s name is Pulcheria.”

Metaxas made a choking sound.

Sam said, “I didn’t ask about her name.”

“She’s seventeen years old, and she comes from the Botaniates family,” I went on, “which is one of the important Byzantine families, and only Buddha knows what she’s doing married to Heracles Photis Conrad Sauerabend. And the past has been changed, Sam, because up until a few weeks ago on my now-time basis she was the wife of Leo Ducas and lived in a palace near the imperial palace, and it happened that I was having a love affair with her, and it also happens that until the past got changed she and Leo Ducas were my great-great-multi-great-grandparents, and it seems to have happened that a very stinking coincidence has taken place, which I don’t comprehend the details of at all, except that I’m probably a nonperson now and there’s no such individual as Pulcheria Ducas. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go into a quiet corner and cut my throat.”

“This isn’t happening,” said Sam. “This is all a bad dream.”