The Kettledrum Stroke
The Kettledrum Stroke
The tip of the baton trembled as if it were shivering. The timpanist watched the trembling with keen eyes. Then the tip of the baton shot decisively upward, and the timpanist struck the B-flat timpani — the timpani with its deep, melodic sound in B major — with all his might. The audience gasped.
Alfie pulled Julia close into his embrace. He had to hold her tight, because the The Kettledrum Stroke would sweep over her like a blizzard.
"Julia, I have to confide my biggest secret to you, because we don’t want our friendship to be built on big lies and omissions — which are really lies, too. This is very difficult for me, because I’ve sworn an oath never to reveal this secret. Do you understand my dilemma?” Julia’s fingertips traced circles on the non-pacemaker. “No, actually, I’m completely lost. You want to confide a secret to me, but you’ve sworn never to reveal it. If I’m understanding this correctly, I have no right to want to know your secret, and it would probably be better if you kept it to yourself. But you know Sophocles’ dilemma: ‘Once you’ve lifted a corner of the veil, you have to find out which Callipyge is hidden beneath it’ — in other words, which beautiful ass is hiding underneath. “There’s no ‘undo’ button,” the old peeping Tom should have added; once you’ve peeked under the corner of the veil, you can’t undo it or make it as if you’d never seen it. I know now that you have another secret — perhaps bigger than any of the others. I can no longer pretend I don’t know.” Her fingertips glided down from his chest to his navel and stopped there; they were not allowed to go any further. She let her flat hand rest on his navel and held her fingertips back, just millimeters from the proud head of Bacchus, despite the temptation.
Alfie sighed deeply, just like Atlas, who had to carry the globe on his shoulders.
"Julia, please listen to me carefully and let me finish what I have to say. My secret is that I'm a time traveler. I set out from the year 2932 to track down the historical documents destroyed in the fire — you already know the rest. My name really is Alfred von dem Steine, born in 2,891. I really am from Huntington Heights near Chicago, and I really am a curator at the National Library. You already know everything else; every single detail I’ve revealed to you so far is true. And yes, as curator, I’m responsible for the period from 1968 to 2038. And this device isn’t a pacemaker — it’s a monitoring device used by a committee to oversee every move a time traveler makes, and it’s, so to speak, the counterpart to the machine that lets me travel back and forth — or be recalled in a tenth of a second if I screw up. Time travel is incredibly risky; only a very few are granted this privilege, and only when absolutely necessary. Time travel is kept secret from the public. In return, I can use the monitoring device to establish contact with, for example, an artificial intelligence. The powder — your cure — comes from the year 2932, and in 2025, it’s still a long way from being discovered. — That’s the gist of it, Julia.” Alfie stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.
That — yes, that — was the big, smashing drum roll.
Julia had stared at him in disbelief and punched him in the chest. “Yuck, Alfie, we promised each other we wouldn’t pave our way with lies!” Alfie looked at her calmly and seriously. “Every word is true, every single one,” he said with absolute conviction, “everything I’ve told you so far is true. Every single one. I’ve kept a lot from you because a lot of it embarrasses me — mostly sexual stuff — and because you might then think I’m some kind of pervert. And I didn’t want that. I’m much more sexually experienced than you, and those are exactly the embarrassing situations I wanted to spare myself and us. Getting straight to the point would have driven a wedge between us, so I kept my mouth shut to avoid lying to you, dear Julia.” He gently wrapped his arm around Julia’s shoulders and pulled her very carefully toward him. “Every word is true, Julia. I’m not lying to you; I’m just breaking my oath, and I think the committee is going to rein me in, demote me, and drag me before a court of law any second now.” Julia looked at him in horror.
"Time travel is physically impossible at all — thousands of brilliant minds have already figured that out," Julia snorted angrily and fell silent, tears rolling down her cheeks. "And I thought we could be friends — real, true friends. But not in a loony bin. Not if you think I’m some completely dim-witted chick you can pull a story like that on, spout such nonsense.” She pulled away from him. Alfie remained dead serious. “Every word is true, Julia — no madhouse, no tall tales, and certainly no psychedelic mushrooms I might have smoked. It’s all true, but it’s hard to believe the truth when you’re in the wrong time continuum. Galileo would have stared at you in disbelief if you’d shown him your cell phone, which lets you talk to your cousin in Stratford, Australia — 12,000 kilometers from here. Think about it — are you as skeptical as Galileo?”
Julia's mind slowly began to race. "And how do you overcome the space-time paradox, Alfie?" Alfie said very calmly, "I honestly have no idea how this works technically — not even the theory. I have no idea how our scientists are able to create the Einstein-Rosen bridge, but it’s what made intergalactic space travel possible for us. That’s how we were able to make contact with a dying galactic race — the originators of the UFO phenomena. Time travel emerged, so to speak, as a byproduct — the best-kept secret in my world. Perhaps only a handful of scientists and engineers understand how it all works. But I’m here — proof to me that time travel is possible. I traveled to the year 2932 in one-tenth of a second to obtain the cure for you that my AI there knew about. Although it took me several days there to acquire it, I returned in the very same second I had left. No magic, no hocus-pocus — just time travel."
Julia rested her head on his chest. "My head is spinning, Alfie. Have I gone crazy, believing such a tall tale? I have no idea what the Einstein-Rosen bridge is supposed to be — we haven’t heard a word about it in class. But whatever it is, you seem to believe it exists.” Alfie said, “The way this bridge is explained to us is that it’s like a worm biting and boring a straight tunnel through an apple — the shortest distance from A to B — hence the colloquial term ‘wormhole.’” Julia looked up at him skeptically. “Tell me everything you know about Marie Antoinette!” Alfie seemed to think for a tenth of a second.
"Maria Marie-Antoinette, born Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna of Austria-Lorraine, was born in Vienna on November 2, 1755, as the 15th child of Empress Maria Theresa. She was executed by the revolutionaries in Paris on October 16, 1793, nine months after her husband, Louis Capet, who had also been executed by guillotine. Even while strapped to the execution block, she was completely stripped of her clothes by the executioner’s assistants and sexually abused by them multiple times in front of the jeering mob — the worst form of dishonor, yet ordered by the Revolutionary Council. As the wife of Louis XVI, she was Queen of France and Navarre from May 10, 1774, to August 10, 1792; since September 4, 1791, she had held the title “Queen of the French.” Contrary to popular belief, she had numerous secret love affairs, which today would be described as “quickies.” Toward the end of her short life, she had only one serious and noteworthy affair with the Swedish diplomat and military officer Hans Axel von Fersen, who attempted to free her from captivity in September 1793, but the attempt failed miserably...."
Julia interrupted him. “And you got all that from your AI in the future?” Alfie nodded. “Yes, using the communicator. But I don’t keep a constant connection, because the AI has to report all my requests to the committee.” Julia said that two years ago, during her senior year of high school, she’d written a term paper on the queen that included that information, “but I couldn’t have quoted it off the top of my head like that. That was an impressive demonstration, Alfie. No, I don’t think you or I are crazy, so no mental hospital for now. But encountering a flesh-and-blood time traveler — that’s some pretty wild stuff. Yvonne is going to be absolutely thrilled!”
Alfie stared at her. “You mustn’t talk to anyone about this, not even Yvonne. That would be the end of me — or at least the end of my mission. You hold my life — or at least my time here with you — in your hands. Be smart and keep quiet, even if it’s very hard. The committee would send me back immediately and put me on trial. Please don’t do that to me. It’s actually surprising that they haven’t intervened yet — there must be a reason for it. Maybe they’re taking their time, or maybe they’ve been keeping a close eye on you and trust you. Unlikely, but possible. But that must be the case, since they haven’t transferred me back yet. So let’s continue to act as naturally and inconspicuously as possible.” Julia’s fingertips twitched curiously and inappropriately. “The committee — they’re not your friends, are they, Alfie?” He shook his head. “Good heavens, no. They scrutinize my every move with a critical and sullen eye. No, by God, they’re no friends, but they hold the thread of my life in their hands. They can let me be, or transfer me back in a thousandth of a second, or simply strand me here and throw away the key.”
Julia's eyes remained fixed on Bacchus's little head. "And everything you told me about sex — is it all true?" Alfie smiled subtly. “I haven’t told you a single lie about that, though I did keep some embarrassing details to myself; but I actually did keep the most important thing from you. For nearly half a century, an insidious virus has been rampant among us. It infects almost exclusively the female body — apparently because it needs their hormonal balance to survive — and is transmitted only through sexual intercourse, or sometimes to female embryos or through blood donations. Women are therefore not allowed to donate blood. And the virus is absolutely fatal to men; its symptoms resemble those of the Ebola virus. Every possible — and even impossible — measure has been taken, but the virus is a master of camouflage, so that while a serum is effective in the short term, it really only lasts a short time — not even 24 hours. So now we stand on the brink; sexual intercourse means certain death for men.
Children are conceived exclusively in fertility clinics, under the strictest hygiene precautions, using Mom’s egg and Dad’s semen. A humiliating, shameful procedure — at least it was for me. While the mom’s gynecologist carefully retrieves a few eggs, you lie next to her and the young nursing assistant collects your semen with her gloved hand. These are usually Asian girls, because American ones aren’t willing to do handjobs to strangers. She takes a break and waits with a cheeky grin until Mom has gotten you ready again. Then she keeps going, stopping only when you have not a single drop of semen left. And your wife watches in disbelief, right until the end. I’ve died a thousand deaths. So my sisters and I were conceived in a clinical vial, just like my children. I’ve never been physically intimate with a girl or a woman — not even with my wife.” Alfie swallowed; he’d stayed as close to the truth as he possibly could.
Julia’s eyes widened. “Good heavens! That must have terrible consequences for society. I know what life is like without sex; I think you become peculiar and eccentric — at least, that’s how I see myself a little bit. Although, of course, I have experienced physical intimacy and continue to do so. On the other hand, I’m gradually beginning to understand how and why your mom took you into her bed — to prevent you from becoming a godless fellow, a bizarrely twisted oddball. And now your little machines make sense, too, because you’re not allowed to have real sex.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe it. Here I am lying in bed next to a real time traveler, casually chatting about sex and non-sex, instead of trying to fathom the incomprehensible nature of the wormhole. You must think very little of me, Alfie. Although I assure you that, after Yvonne, you’re only the second person with whom I’ve ever chatted so casually about sex.”
Julia ignored the beeping of her smartwatch; work and school were the last things on her mind right now. Her thoughts revolved around Alfie, the time traveler, and the incomprehensible. “I understand your main task better now. You’re collecting all the documents here from the period starting in 1968, and you’ve set up 4 scanners at Pálffygasse that tirelessly scan everything day and night. When you’re done, you’ll set off on your journey home with perhaps a dozen hard drives in your backpack and then set them up again at the National Library just as they were before — or perhaps a little improved. “What madness, all of this!” she exclaimed, burying her face in his armpit, for tears were streaming from her eyes once again.
Julia opened her eyes. She had to get her bearings; she was lying in the crook of Alfie’s arm, and he had been watching her sleep. She must have dozed off, and that showed just how comfortable she already felt with him — even though they hadn’t gotten any closer physically than simply lying skin-to-skin. Yes, she admitted to herself, she’d been hoping a little bit before that she’d have sex with Alfie. But then came the bombshell — Alfie wasn’t just any American on a tour of Europe; no, he was from the future. 2932. Julia’s eyes wandered over his body, lingering on the sleeping Bacchus, on the sleeping Dionysus, who hid his little head under the hood. No girl, no woman had ever had sex with him. He lived in an abstruse, confusing time, where people didn’t have direct sex, where children were created in fertility clinics after the man had been milked dry like a dairy cow, and where sexual release was provided by “little machines.”
A shiver ran down Julia’s spine. No, she didn’t want to live in an era like that. It would be a time when her grandfather wouldn’t awaken her sexuality, when gods and goddesses would stare into the yawning void of the universe and not waste a single thought on seducing and ruining even a single human child. She wouldn’t be writing her thesis on the unbridled sex lives of the ancient gods, but perhaps a treatise on the proper care of exotic houseplants or the mating croaks of toads at full moon. No, it would be an absolute, absurd catastrophe — really!
Alfie’s hand glided lightly, like a feather, from her shoulder down her upper arm, along her forearm, and all the way to her fingertips. “You’re a beautiful girl, Julia, a beautiful young woman. Brittle bone disease hasn’t disfigured your body; you can’t see any traces of those old fractures at all anymore. I see your beautiful, proud body and hardly think about your illness — not in this intimate moment.” Had she been thinking out loud? “You’re writing your thesis on the ancient gods because you’re exploring their sexuality — and your own — in it; am I right, or am I mistaken?” Alfie looked at her with a smile; he clearly really wanted to know.
"Yes, you may be right, at least in part," she said thoughtfully. "Even back when my grandfather used to read me the legends from those thick books and gently introduced me to my sexuality, it became clear to me that the gods had emerged from a bewildering tangle of incest, patricide, and infanticide — that it was a wild jumble of bodies, heads, genitals, and limbs, enough to make one dizzy. But my grandfather had it all figured out, and he patiently guided me to that era when the gods inhabited Mount Olympus and when incest, intrigues, and deceit went hand in hand, without much murder. This was the golden age, when sex took place mainly between gods and goddesses. When the goddesses were pushed into a secluded corner like ordinary maids.
But then came the era of decline, when the gods discovered the small, mortal humans who left the theater stage after no more than 60 or 70 years and crumbled to dust. The dams burst; girls, young men, and respectable wives became pawns in this hellish tournament. The end? Gods and goddesses killed one another and vanished behind the scenes. Humans took the stage; screaming wildly, they chased girls and women and bashed each other’s heads in, and they roared at the sun or the moon that they were now the gods! — Yes, from the moment my grandfather guided me with a knowing hand into my sexuality, I began to draft my thesis, and I’ve been shaping it ever since, right up to today, when I must put it down on paper. You’re absolutely right; without that starting point, I wouldn’t be who I am today, and I’d probably be writing a completely different thesis — about exotic plants or the love-crazed croaking of toads during a new moon.”
Alfie said he’d love to read the manuscript — after all, it was her work and her world of ideas. Julia said there was only a rough draft with lots of blank spaces and notes on what still needed to be added; she’d be embarrassed. Nevertheless, she later gave him a USB drive with her manuscript. Two days later, he brought her a sheet with corrections — pointing out mistakes or major errors she’d made — as well as suggestions on which notes still needed to be added. Yes, he had read through everything right away and then used his AI to help, but that was okay, Julia said. “I had originally agreed with Yvonne that she would proofread my work. But now I’m glad you’re reading it — you’re great at it.” Alfie smiled. “I’ve written a total of eight dissertations for my doctoral programs, and I’ve proofread my own children’s papers. And as a faculty advisor, I read my students’ papers week after week. So I have quite a bit of experience in this area.”
July and August blanketed the city with a scorching heat wave from the Sahara. Every day at noon, they drove to the pond to see their little flock of birds. By then, it had already become a routine for them to lie naked on the bed in Julia’s apartment afterward, skin-to-skin, and discuss everything under the sun. Julia didn’t want to know what wars would be fought in the future or how the political powers of nations and continents would develop; she simply wasn’t interested in any of that. She was far more interested in everyday life — how people lived, worked, and made love under the yoke of the virus. How, specifically, they dealt with sexuality. And whether they remembered the ancient gods of Olympus.
Julia’s specialist had sent a sample of her healing powder to a renowned laboratory. The lab director was tearing his hair out. Yes, it was clearly recognizable as being mRNA-based, but that was all. Sequencing yielded no useful results; they couldn’t decipher what genetic code was being carried, the lab director lamented, calling it gibberish of a completely incomprehensible composition. A mixture of Chinese and Romani. The doctor could only confirm to Julia that it wasn’t toxic and did indeed contain a highly complex genetic code carried by an mRNA strand. Julia dutifully took the healing powder every day, just as instructed. And after 25–30 days, the doctor was able to confirm that her body was indeed producing that special collagen again — in tiny amounts, but still.
So Julia regained hope that one day she might overcome brittle bone disease, just as Alfie had said.
Julia, lying alone on her bed, smiled as she ran her hand over the gentle curves that led from her firm breasts down to her stomach, to her belly button, and then on. Hope gave her a sense of purpose, a good reason to enjoy her life, her daydreams about Alfie, and her overflowing libido to the fullest.
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